I wouldn’t normally let Gram take me on a shopping spree, but the joy she gets out of doing this for us makes it worthwhile. For an entire afternoon, she’s able to escape her painful reality. I’m just thankful something can still do that for her.
Tonight I’ll tell them about Mom’s visit. With everyone’s spirits now lifted from a successful day of shopping, the news might be accepted more easily.
On our way home from the outlets, we stop by the hospital to check on Pap.
Gram heads straight for his bed where she plants a tender kiss upon his cheek. “You know, I think your pap would be much happier if I sleep in our bed tonight. He’ll have a few choice words for me when he wakes up if I don’t get proper sleep.” She wipes the taupe lipstick stain from his face with her thumb. “Then tomorrow, I’ll bring some of your favorite books so we can take turns reading to you.” She rests her palm on his cheek, the picture of a lifetime built on love.
“And I can bring my laptop to do research on coma studies. I heard there are certain stimuli patients respond to, so I might be able to find something to help.” Dru rubs his hands together as he makes his plan, then we all head out for the evening.
Since we’ll be coming back in the morning, we pile into one car to save gas. And the drive is just as pleasant as our afternoon, with lots of laughing and storytelling.
We pull in the driveway just after seven. With plenty of sunlight still gracing the sky, I take in the floral splendor of my grandparent’s enormous yard. I have no clue what most of the names are, but they pretty much have every color of the rainbow growing—and then some.
I turn towards the house, my attention zeroing in on the old swing on the front porch. Its empty state calls to me. By the smile painted across Aunt Morgan’s face, we’re both on the same page as everyone else goes inside.
Together we sit. With her long, sinewy legs, she kicks off with a whoosh.
This faded swing brings back so many memories. As a child, I spent most of my nights out here swaying to my heart’s content. If I was upset—this was my retreat. Something about the soft squeak and rhythmic, repetitious pace back and forth always pacified me.
I kick my flip-flops off as my attention draws to the sound of a car door across the street.
Aunt Morgan’s feet make firm contact with the cement surface of the porch, bringing us to a sudden, jarring stop.
Her face turns sheet white.
Is it panic, or nausea from the motion? I can’t be sure which.
I focus my attention on a small group of people not more than fifty yards away, realizing what has her so rattled.
Oh my god. It’s Michael Russo in the flesh.
The man who left tread-marks across her heart as he sped away—as though she meant nothing.