Chapter 3 – Chrissy #2
I tapped the brakes at a yellow light and glanced at the passenger seat. The hospice bills were still sitting there, crisp edges curling ever so slightly from where I’d clutched them too tight. The top envelope had a faint smear from my thumb, barely noticeable, but it looked like guilt.
Every month, I made it work. Pulled strings. Shifted payments. Cut corners on groceries or held off on replacing the shoes I’d worn down past the insoles. And I didn’t resent it. Not really.
But God, I was so fucking tired.
Another gust of wind rocked the car as I turned onto Main Street. I dropped a few things off at the office and clambered back into my car, headed for the hospice on Mobile Bay between Daphne and Fairhope. By the time the hospice came into view, I felt hollowed out.
Still, I was here because sometimes love looked a whole hell of a lot like pain. Sometimes it looked like showing up anyway, even when you knew you were going to get your heart broken again, and it was only a matter of time before it happened.
The hospice looked like it was trying too hard not to feel like one with its muted seafoam green walls, cheerful abstract art, and fake poinsettias on the reception counter.
All of it was curated to distract you from the truth: people came here to die.
Sometimes slowly. Sometimes all at once. But always, eventually.
I signed in with the same pen I always used, the one with the little red bow taped around the barrel. They kept a bowl of peppermint candy on the desk, too. I never took one.
The nurse behind the counter gave me a warm smile and a small nod, like she knew better than to ask how I was doing.
“She’s awake,” she said. “Sitting up. You’ve got good timing.”
I forced a smile back.
“I usually do.”
The hallway felt longer than usual, too quiet and too still.
The linoleum muffled my footsteps. Somewhere down the corridor, someone coughed and the wet, gurgling sound activated my gag reflex for half a second before I fought it back down and kept moving.
A TV murmured behind a closed door. Christmas music drifted faintly through the ceiling speakers, syrupy and slow.
I paused outside Granny Irene’s room, my heart hammering in my throat.
Even on the good days, there were no guarantees. A name remembered didn’t mean a memory held. A smile didn’t always mean she knew why she was smiling.
I pressed my palm to the doorframe and exhaled, grounding myself in the cool metal. One beat. Two. Three.
Then, I stepped inside.
She was sitting up, her thin frame propped against the pillows, her white hair combed back, smooth like it used to be. She wore a navy cardigan I’d brought her last month, buttoned wrong at the top, but otherwise neat.
Her eyes met mine the second I crossed the threshold, and they lit up.
“Well, there’s my girl.”
My throat tightened painfully, and I had to fight to swallow the lump of emotion that was trying its best to choke me to death on the spot.
“Hey, Granny Irene,” I whispered, voice already cracking. “I missed you.”
I crossed the room and wrapped her in a careful hug, then sat in the chair beside her bed, the one with the faded cushion and a little rip on the armrest that I kept meaning to stitch up for her when I had time.
Granny Irene reached for my hand like she’d been waiting all day for this, and the second our palms touched, something inside me let go.
She gave my fingers a light squeeze, like she knew I was hanging on by a thread, but wouldn’t say it out loud.
“You look tired,” she said, soft but not unkind. “Still working too hard?”
“Always,” I said, brushing my thumb over her knuckles. Her skin felt as thin as rice paper, but it was warm. Still here. Still hers.
“Tell me what you’re doing,” she said. “What kind of mess are you fixing now?”
I laughed under my breath and leaned back.
“I was mediating a divorce case today, a messy one. But my client got what she needed.”
Her eyes twinkled, proud and steady.
“Of course she did. You always were the strong one.” I ducked my head, feeling it hit my soul like sunshine: the praise, the pride, the way it landed in my chest like a balm.
She didn’t say I was smart, or pretty, or successful.
She said I was strong. She said it like it was the best thing a girl could be.
“Is there a man in the picture?” she asked, tilting her head at me like she already knew the answer.
I shook mine.
“Not yet. No one serious, anyway. I’ve dated a couple of guys over the past few years, but they both turned out to be flakes who disappeared before things could get serious.”
She sniffed and offered me a sly smile.
“Good. Most of ’em are more trouble than they’re worth. You can take care of yourself just fine.”
“Yeah,” I said. “I can.”
Her smile held for a moment longer before her gaze drifted toward the window, going unfocused.
She hummed something tuneless under her breath. Frowned. Then turned back to me with confusion clouding her eyes.
“Now, who did you say you were again?”
My breath caught. My chest ached so deep it felt like a bruise blooming behind my ribs.
“I’m just visiting,” I said quietly, brushing a hand down her arm. “I’ll come again soon.”
I kissed her cheek, rose slowly, and slipped out before I let her see me break.
At the nurse’s station, one of them stepped into my path, her expression an apologetic grimace.
“I hate to do this now,” she said, voice low. “But the payment’s late for your grandmother’s care. We’re going to need a check.”
I nodded once.
“I know. I’ll bring one by as soon as I can.”
And then I walked out into that wet, bitter wind, letting it slap me across the face like mother nature had been waiting her turn to take a swing at me, too.