Chapter 7
His reply is waiting for me when I wake up in the morning. I do a double take at the time stamp: He emailed me just after three in the morning his time. Gramps, what are you doing?
I read it on my phone, still tucked in bed. It requires a lot of scrolling.
Dear Mallory,
I read your letter with curiosity and delight.
You’re my second-eldest granddaughter, and I never really got to know you much.
When you were growing up, I was still working, and my work was all-consuming.
Although I do recall that you had a deep passion for a film called The Lion King .
Your dedication to this film was so apparent that I finally sat down one day and watched it with you and your sister.
I cried when the little lion cub’s father died.
I thought that was too sad for you girls to be watching.
Although when I was a young boy, we watched Bambi , so who am I to judge?
This morning, a great blue heron visited me. It perched on the balcony railing just outside my bedroom. We had a lovely chat.
A great blue heron was outside the hospital window when Lottie left me.
She loved those birds. I think it was waiting for her.
I never believed in souls. There’s no scientific proof that they exist and there never will be.
But I can’t shake my belief in Heaven. It is contradictory, I know.
My mother believed in Heaven, and that gave her comfort when my father died.
I didn’t much care what happened to him.
But I like to think that my mother is with him now, and that she is happy.
Naturally, I like to imagine Lottie is in paradise now too, with her beloved parents.
They’ll have a lot to catch up on. Perhaps the heron was her guide.
Your letter reminded me of the things I used to worry about as a young man. How will I pay the mortgage and support my family? Will I be promoted and will I get the grant I need to do my next research project?
Cherish it, Mallory. Cherish your youth and this time in your life. It seems endless now, but it’s fleeting.
Here I’ll remain, in God’s waiting room,
Affectionately yours,
Dr. Gramps
I read it a second time, impatiently wiping away the tears leaking from my eyes.
I don’t have a response. What is there to say to an email like that?
But I can’t stop thinking about it as I go about my day.
The part about the heron makes me want to sob.
Lottie had loved those birds, just like Gramps said.
So what if the heron was her visiting him or sending him a message?
Did he think of it that way? Did it bring him comfort, or just make him sad?
As the day wears on, I fixate on the deep sadness behind his words, and on the phrase “God’s waiting room.” I think I know what I have to do. I need to get Gramps a therapist.
It takes a lot of googling but I find one: Shauna Mellors.
Her office is in St. Pete, not too far from where Gramps lives.
I email Trish, asking for Gramps’s insurance information so I can schedule him an appointment.
Trish calls me instead. I’m in a meeting where I’m mostly just there to take notes, so I turn off my camera and make sure I’m muted before answering.
“Hi, Trish,” I say.
“Why are you trying to make him a therapy appointment, anyway?” Trish cuts straight to the point. She crunches on something, and I guess that it’s her lunch break.
“He sounded so sad in his email. I mean, he signed off saying he’s in God’s waiting room. Like he’s waiting to die.”
Trish lets out a sharp laugh. “That’s what they call Florida! God’s waiting room.”
“Oh. I didn’t know that.” I chew on my cuticle, my resolve flagging for a moment. But then it strengthens again. I am supposed to look after Gramps, and he’s clearly grieving. Therapy is the right move. “Still, he should talk to someone to process his feelings about losing Lottie.”
“Spoken like a true millennial,” Trish snorts. “You’re not wrong, Mal, but I don’t see him agreeing to this.”
“So can you help me? Can you ask him if he’ll try it?”
Trish pauses and I hear the rustle of paper and the slurp of a drink. “Yeah, sure, I can mention it when I drop off his groceries tomorrow.”
“Thank you! That’ll be a huge help.”
Trish’s agreement helps me feel like I’m doing the right thing. I call Shauna Mellors and explain the situation and get Gramps scheduled for his first appointment this Thursday.
The next day, my boss sends me a message.
Kat White: Hey, Mallory, how are things going with you?
This is so vague and out of the blue, I stare at the message for a full minute. Why is she asking? We don’t make small talk like this.
Mallory Rosen: Things are good, thanks. Not too busy yet this week, but that’ll change in a few days with the V2 console beta launch.
Kat White: Great. You seemed a little distracted this morning at the EngPlat meeting, so I wanted to check in. Is there anything you want to talk about?
My armpits start to sweat. Maybe I should just tell her.
Tell her what’s going on with the house and my family obligations.
But it feels wrong on so many levels: Kat is not my friend.
She’s my boss. And on top of that, I don’t want to tell her anything that might make her doubt my capability at work.
Mallory Rosen: No, everything’s fine. I probably just need another cup of coffee. Just one of those days! I’ll make sure to caffeinate better tomorrow!
She types, then stops, then types again.
Kat White: Sounds good and no worries.
I exhale hard. I’m going to have to put in some extra work this week to prove to Kat that I’m just as competent as ever.
Before I can forget, I send a quick email to Gramps telling him about the appointment I scheduled for him.
After the confessional emails we’d exchanged, I feel a twinge of awkwardness now, sending him this brief, business-like message.
But two people have pinged me in the sixty seconds it took to write the email; I really need to refocus on work.
I brush away the awkward feelings and tell myself I’m doing the right thing. Taking care of Gramps: check.
It’s only at the end of the day when I come up for air that I realize Gramps never responded.
I also got a call from the property manager, Daniel McKinnon, who left a voicemail.
I listen to his message. He says that his inspection person found a few problems that need to be addressed—some plumbing issues and a minor structural problem.
As I listen to this, I feel my blood pressure rise, especially when Daniel utters the words “maybe up to ten grand.” I’m going to need a second opinion.
I start typing a text to Trish to ask if she knows of anyone else who can take a look at the house, but before I finish the message, she sends one to me.
Listen, Dad didn’t seem crazy about the therapy idea. Maybe you should cancel it and try again some other time .
Great. On top of everything else, Gramps will probably be mad at me now. I should have just talked to him about it directly. What was I thinking?
My heart pounds and I realize that I’m gnashing my back teeth together.
I try to relax my jaw and take a deep breath.
Compartmentalize, Mal. I’ll think about the house and Gramps later.
Right now, I need to meet Carmen at Green Lake.
I suggested it in place of our usual happy hour, because I’m hoping a long walk will clear my head.
Carmen gives me a tight hug, her floral-scented hair pressing into my face. We’re both wearing black leggings and Patagonia fleece jackets. It had been a sunny day and there’s still a thread of spring warmth in the air.
“Everything with Edgar exploded in my face.” We’re walking at a quick pace. Ducks splash in the shallows of the lake, the surface of which is dotted with a few kayaks and one lone paddleboard.
“Oh no, what happened?”
“He was married .”
I grimace. “Seriously?”
“Separated from his wife, but yes. One day she just showed up at his place. Just straight up let herself in with her own key.”
“That’s awful. Did she know about you?”
“Not specifically.” Carmen glowers and picks up the pace so we’re basically power walking. “She saw me sitting on the couch and said something to Edgar about having another one already.”
I groan.
“Yeah. But this was the first I’d heard of her . So I was like, What the hell is going on? But they went and started bickering like an old married couple—which they are!”
“Forget him,” I say. “You can do so much better.”
“I’m never uttering the name Edgar again.” Carmen tosses her hair and asks what’s new with me.
You know, just inherited a cottage and a fully grown grandpa from my dead grandma… same old, same old…
“Well…” I say. My phone pings in my pocket, and I check it automatically. It’s an email from the therapist, Shauna.
Hi Mallory,
Unfortunately, cancellation within 24 hours of the appointment time incurs a $100 fee.
And from everything you told me during our call, it’s my professional opinion that Leonard would benefit greatly from counseling, if only a few sessions.
If you can encourage him to attend the appointment, it would be a win-win.
If not, you can send the money via check or PayPal.
All the best,
Dr. Mellors
“Seriously?” I mutter. Reluctantly, I open Paypal and send her the money.
Carmen glances at me. “What’s wrong?”
I pick up the pace, pumping my arms. It feels good to get the blood flowing. “Some stuff has happened…”
I fill her in on all of it.
“Let me get this straight.” Carmen pants as we zoom past a group of moms pushing strollers.
“You’re attempting to do welfare checks on your grandpa from across the country.
Don’t even get me started on scheduling him an appointment without asking him first. And you have this house that needs tenants and repairs?
And you’re just going to take this Daniel guy’s word for it without laying eyes on him or the house? ”
She raises an eyebrow at me. She’s gorgeously flushed with a glowy sheen of sweat on her cheeks. Meanwhile, I have reason to suspect that I look like an overripe tomato with frizzles of hair framing my face.
“Well, it sounds bad when you say it like that.”
Of course she’s right. I had no business making that appointment for Gramps, but I don’t know how else to help him from afar. And the house situation is a mess. I can’t spend ten grand that I don’t have to fix up a house that I haven’t even seen in years.
“You should be there,” Carmen says.
“Excuse me?” I say, even though my brain was clunking toward the same realization.
“See what’s wrong with the house. Spend time with your grandpa. Get to know him, otherwise you won’t be able to do shit.”
“You’re eloquent, as always.”
“I’m right, as always.”
I slow to a stop, breathing hard with my hands on my hips. I gaze out at the murky depths of the lake.
I can see how it will unfold: Gramps will be annoyed that I’m intruding in his life, he’ll be surly because of the therapy appointment debacle, and I’ll feel like a useless lump.
I’ll meet with the property manager, he’ll explain what’s wrong with Pebble Cottage, and I’ll just nod and accept it, because I won’t understand anything he’s saying.
And then I’ll shell out money I don’t have to pay for the repairs, because what choice do I have? I can’t let the house fall apart.
But despite this uninviting prospect, I know, deep down, that Carmen’s right.
I’m no use to anyone being all the way across the country.
The problem is, Kat won’t be thrilled about me requesting to take PTO on short notice—so I’ll have to work from Florida.
Which Kat also wouldn’t be thrilled about. So hopefully she won’t find out.
“Well, crap,” I say. “I guess I’m going to Florida.”