Chapter 12 Evie
Evie
Gran’s bedroom smells like lavender and old paper and the faint medicinal sweetness of the hand lotion I keep buying because it’s the only one she’ll tolerate.
She’s half-sitting in bed when I come in, hair flattened on one side, eyes bright in that way that means she’s awake but not necessarily here.
“Morning,” I say gently.
She stares at me for a beat, then her face relaxes. “Oh. There you are.”
“I’m right here,” I tell her, because I’ve learned that reassurance is a tool, not a feeling.
She frowns at the window. “It’s still dark.”
“It’s morning,” I say. “Fog makes everything look dark this time of year.”
That earns me a small, suspicious hum, like she’s filing it under possible.
I cross to her dresser and pick up the pill organizer. Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday—bright plastic boxes that try to make time behave. I shake out the morning dose into my palm and grab the water glass I left by her bed last night.
“Okay,” I say, upbeat the way nurses are upbeat. “Meds first. Then breakfast.”
Her mouth tightens immediately. “I don’t need those.”
“Yes, you do.”
She narrows her eyes like I’ve challenged her authority. “You’re very bossy.”
“I’m efficient,” I correct, because it’s safer to joke than to beg.
She huffs. “Your mother never talked to me like this.”
“I’m not my mother,” I say, and it comes out too sharp. I soften fast. “I’m Evie.”
She blinks.
For a terrifying second, her gaze goes distant, like she’s looking for me on a shelf where I used to be.
Then she finds me again. “Evie,” she repeats, relieved. “That’s right.”
My throat tightens anyway.
I sit on the edge of her bed and hold out the pills. “C’mon. We do this every day.”
She looks at them like I’m offering poison. I wait her out.
Finally she takes them, one at a time, with exaggerated suffering. When she’s done, she hands the cup back and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand like she’s just survived a war.
“There,” she says, proud. “Happy?”
“Thrilled. I’ll make breakfast. Come out when you’re ready.”
I head for the kitchen, because if I don’t move quickly, the day gets away from me. I crack eggs into a bowl, put a pan on the stove, start the coffee. Routine. Anchors.
The house is quiet in that hollow way it’s been since her good days ended… quiet the way a room is quiet after everyone you love has left it. Then her footsteps shuffle in behind me, slow and careful.
I turn and find her in the doorway in her robe, one hand braced on the frame. She looks smaller than she used to. Some days she looks like herself. Some days she looks like a stranger wearing her face. Today, she looks… oddly alert.
Her eyes flick over the counters. The stove. The mixing bowl.
Then she says, clear as a bell, “Is Kaia coming for pancakes?”
My hands still mid-motion. For a second I can’t even breathe.
She hasn’t said Kaia’s name in years. Not once since the dementia got bad. Not once since I learned how to lock my heart like a deadbolt.
Hearing Kaia’s name from Gran’s lips is unsettling.
“What?” I manage, because I’m brilliant.
Gran’s brows knit, impatient with my stupidity. “Kaia. Your friend.” She squints at me like I’m being dramatic for no reason. “She likes pancakes. You always make a fuss. Didn’t you say she’d eat syrup with a spoon if you let her?”
My eyes sting so fast it’s like someone threw salt in them.
Because I remember.
I remember a Saturday morning years ago—sunlight pouring in, no fog, no pills.
Gran stands at the stove in a floral apron, humming while she flips pancakes like it's an art form. Teenage me on a stool, hair still damp from a shower, arguing with Kaia across the counter.
“You can’t just drink the syrup,” I say, scandalized.
Kaia grins, all teeth and teasing. “Watch me.”
Gran laughs—full-bodied, healthy, real—and swats Kaia’s shoulder with a dish towel. “Don’t tease my girl,” she says. “Eat your food.”
Kaia ducks her head, but the mischievous smile lingers. “Okay, okay.”
And then, softer, to me, Kaia whispers, “Your grandma likes me. That means I’m basically family.”
I blink hard, and the kitchen wobbles. The memory is so clear that it hurts.
Gran is still watching, waiting for an answer as if she expects it to be simple.
“No,” I say, and my voice comes out too thin. I clear it. Try again. “No, Gran. Kaia’s not coming.”
Gran’s face falls, just slightly. “Oh.”
Then, like a wave washing it away, her expression resets. She glances toward the window. “It’s foggy.”
“Yeah,” I whisper.
She shifts her weight, restless. “We should make pancakes anyway.”
My hands tighten on the spatula until my knuckles hurt.
“Okay,” I say, because I can give her pancakes. I can give her syrup and warmth and something easy. I can’t give her time back.
As the eggs cook, I turn to the cabinet and pull down the pancake mix we keep for weekends and bad mornings. Behind me, Gran wanders to the table and sits. I measure the mix into a bowl, add milk, stir. My vision blurs and I blink again, furious with myself.
Of course seeing Kaia’s face plastered all over town would shake loose old memories. And now even my grandma is dragging Kaia out of the past.
I get the batter into a second pan and watch the edges bubble. The first pancake flips imperfectly.
Gran taps her fingers on the table. “You’re late,” she says, suddenly stern.
My stomach drops. “Late for what?”
“For school,” she says, matter-of-fact, as if I’m sixteen again. “You’ll miss the bell. And you’ll make that poor girl wait.”
I freeze.
“Which girl?” I ask, even though I already know.
Gran looks at me like I’m being ridiculous. “Kaia.”
My throat tightens so hard it aches. I set a pancake on a plate with hands that want to shake, coupling it with some eggs and put it in front of her.
“I’m not in school anymore,” I say gently. “And Kaia’s… she’s busy.”
Gran frowns, processing. “Busy where?”
I should lie. I should say anywhere else.
But the truth is, her face is everywhere. The town is screaming it. Even Gran can feel the shift in the air.
I keep my voice careful. “In town.”
Gran’s eyes brighten, that dangerous, hopeful brightness. “Oh.” She leans forward. “Then she can come. Tell her to come. We have plenty of pancakes, don’t we?”
My eyes burn. I turn back to the stove so she won’t see my face break.
“Eat,” I say softly. “Eat first.”
When I look back, she’s already forgotten the question.
She’s staring at the pancake like it’s a puzzle. “Is this mine?”
“Yes,” I say, swallowing the lump in my throat. “That one’s yours.”
She nods, satisfied, and starts eating with slow, careful bites.
I stand there for a moment in the quiet kitchen, listening to her chew, listening to the coffee drip, listening to my own heartbeat. I wipe my eyes with the back of my wrist like it’s just steam. Like I’m fine.
Then I rinse the bowl, sit down with my own plate and make a to-do list in my head—locks, meds, trash, laundry—anything but Kaia.
***
The day goes by like it’s trying to pretend nothing happened.
I get Gran settled with her shows and a blanket she insists she doesn’t need.
I double-check the back door chain. I leave a sticky note on the counter that says MEDS AT 6 even though I know there's at least a fifty percent chance she'll ignore it.
Then I go to the diner and put on my apron, like I can clock into a version of my life that makes sense.
And, somehow, the shift is almost normal.
Almost.
Tasha finds out about last night five minutes into clocking in, because of course she does. It’s all over the news. The media is having a field day with the photos and the idea of the famous Kaia coming back to her roots.
Tasha is scandalized. “You’re telling me Midnight Halo was here? In this diner? And I wasn’t here?!”
Gus grunts from the register. “Fryer maintenance.”
Tasha whips toward him like he’s personally ruined her life. “That was a lie, Gus!”
Gus doesn’t blink. “Yep.”
Tasha clutches her chest. “This is the betrayal of the century.”
“Go bring table two their food,” Gus says, deadpan.
“I can’t believe you deprived me of my destiny,” she moans, but she goes anyway, dragging her feet like a tragic heroine.
After that, it’s just… work. Coffee refills. Orders. Mr. Alvarez complaining about the weather. A couple tourists asking if Harbor Lights is “worth it this year” like festivals come with guarantees. The NDA on my wrist itches and I keep smiling.
Then night creeps in. The kitchen closes. Gus counts the till like he’s mad at money for existing. He leaves with a grunt that means clean up and lock up.
An hour goes by.
Tonight is supposed to be quiet. It’s past midnight. The last customers have stumbled out. I’m alone at the counter with a rag and the stubborn feeling that if I keep wiping, I can scrub the last few nights out of the place.
It’s not working.
Outside, fog presses against the windows like a curious mouth. The neon lighthouse sign buzzes, flickers, buzzes again—persistent as an old habit.
I catch myself listening for footsteps that aren’t there. For the metallic click of the back door. For a voice I told to leave.
I hate myself for that. I wipe harder.
The bell over the front door doesn’t ring. No customers. No tourists. No late-night pie emergencies.
Good.
Then—
A sound hits from outside, sharp and wrong. Not a car backfiring. Not drunks laughing. Not the ocean. A thud. A scrape. A strained shout. Then another sound.
My wrist tingles. Not the binding warning, not the “don’t talk about demons” leash. Something else. A prickle under my skin like the world is shifting a fraction sideways.
I freeze with the rag in my hand.
“Absolutely not,” I tell the empty diner.
The sound comes again, closer. Behind the building. I stare at the back door like it’s a dare.
I should stay inside. Lock it. Pretend I didn’t hear anything. I’m a waitress with an invisible NDA tattoo and a grandmother asleep at home.
I am not whatever this has turned me into.