Chapter 2 Lucy’s Game #2
I stand and leave along with everyone else, as we all clear our plates.
We look like four phantoms as we go back and forth from the living room to the kitchen.
Minutes later, my mother places the cake, with its yellow coating of lemons, in the middle of the table and sticks candles in it.
Is anyone else thinking right now how Lucy will never turn thirty, forty, or fifty?
She’ll be forever young in our memories, and I ask myself if, when I’m my grandfather’s age, I’ll find it weird to think of my older sister as that blond girl who died a few days before her twenty-fifth birthday.
He blows hard and the candles go out.
“Did you make a wish, Grandpa?”
“I did.” He grabs the plate his daughter passes to him and sinks a fork into the gummy cake. Then he brings it to his lips and adds pensively: “Actually, I’ve got something to tell you all about that wish. I’m going to Florida.”
“What?” Mom looks at him with incredulity.
It might seem trivial, but if I try and think back, I don’t remember a single time Grandpa ever slept away from home. Nor do I know what’s so great about Florida.
“A friend invited me to spend some time down there. I think I could use the change of air. Plus, we’re going to do some fishing. I’ve always wanted to learn how to fish.”
“What friend, Dad?”
“McGregor, we knew each other in the service.”
“With everything that’s happened, I’m not sure now’s the time to set off on an adventure. The doctor says your heart’s weak, and your cholesterol is high…”
Grandpa eats a spoonful of cake and swallows with such effort, you’d think he just downed a mouthful of screws. He takes a deep breath and then utters the longest phrase I’ve ever heard him say in his entire life.
“Rosa, honey, if not now, when? Look at me. I’m almost eighty years old and it’s been decades since anything interesting has happened to me.
I spent half my life crying over losing your mother and the rest of it suffering over Lucy’s illness.
I tried to be a pillar for this family, but open your eyes: She’s gone, and the best tribute we can pay her is to keep going. ”
Grandpa downs another spoonful. Mom’s eyes fill with tears and she gets up from the table brusquely.
Dad excuses himself not long after with an almost inaudible murmur and follows her.
I hear muffled voices before the slamming door indicates that they’ve left.
The birthday boy and I say nothing, but we understand each other.
“Looks like it’s just us two.”
“You going to eat your piece of cake?”
“Yeah,” I respond. “By the way, I think the Florida plan’s a good one, even if I can’t imagine you fishing. You know the worms are still alive after you stick the hook in them? I saw it in a documentary.”
Grandpa smiles softly and then sighs. He looks tired as he watches me in silence eating spoonful after spoonful of cake.
I consider myself a brilliant emotional surgeon, and often I use the scalpel of my mind to open the hearts of those around me and see what’s inside, but Grandpa Henry’s a tough nut to crack.
Maybe he’s got a heart of stone and I need a drill to get through it, I’ve thought more than once.
It’s not easy to know what he’s thinking when his eyes go dark and he turns absent and seems like he’s a million miles away.
He’s had a hard life, and his soul has shriveled in all those hours in the workshop before he retired, carving furniture and other wooden knickknacks.
The day Lucy left us, it was like a stone wall fell between him and the rest of the world.
My grandfather had always been the island I could row to when I felt myself adrift, but all of a sudden, he looked old to me and more taciturn than ever.
Until today.
We go on hanging out, but as time passes, I can tell he’s nervous. This attitude isn’t typical of him. His fingers are drumming on the table and he looks away when I try to meet eyes with him.
“What is it? You worried about the trip?”
“No.”
“You knew Mom was going to react like that,” I insist, because it’s no secret that Rosie has spent the past four months in bed or in front of a TV, not knowing what to do after her daughter’s death.
She can’t imagine the world can keep turning, unmindful of her grief.
“But you’ve been taking care of us for years, and I think it’s time you do whatever you feel like doing. ”
“Greta…”
“You’ll need to buy a bathing suit.”
“I need to give you something.”
“You’re not thinking of giving us our inheritance before you go to Florida, are you? Because I know these weeks have been rough, but soon enough I’ll get a job that will last more than just a few days…”
“It’s from Lucy,” he tells me in a hoarse tone.
I don’t move. Grandpa leaves the living room while I follow him with my eyes, and he comes back a few minutes later holding a box wrapped in soft golden paper with a fluffy bow with what looks like a purple envelope with something written on it, but I can’t read it because he hands me another violet-colored envelope that says Greta, and before I can guess what it means, I’m tearing at the paper with shaking hands and a pounding heart.
“I’ll leave you alone,” Grandpa says.
My mouth is so dry that I can’t respond before he leaves the room.
And there, along with the remains of the lemon cake and the scent of wax from the birthday candles, I meet my sister again.
Well, not her. Not her flesh or her bones at least. But there’s no doubt that this sloping cursive is hers, painfully hers, and I struggle to read it because my eyes are blurry from the tears.
There’s no right way to start this letter. I’ve tried the usual “if you’re reading this, I’m dead.” I’ve tried being funny or deep, but that’s stupid. Everything sounds so forced. So you’ll just have to take this as it is, little Greta.
I’ve always liked to call you that. I think it’s because of that absurd fantasy where I get to act like a big sister and you seek me out with my experience for advice about boys or friendship or school or your preoccupations.
Imagine, I could have used phrases like “I’ll let you use this eyeliner when you’re fifteen” or things like that, but we both know that never happened.
In reality, you’ve been a step ahead of me, no matter what age we are.
That’s why I allow myself to keep calling you little.
At least it’s something. And I guess that explains too why you’re holding this letter in your hands.
Turns out I’m ready to say goodbye to the world but not to you.
There are still too many things I’d have liked to tell you or experience by your side.
I wish we could have gone on growing up together, but I realize the end is near.
The curious thing is that the days feel longer and more monotonous trapped in this bed.
And I think a lot. I think too much because I’ve got nothing else to do, apart from effortlessly winning each time someone decides to keep me company and grabs a deck of cards or opens a board game.
So one day I had the brilliant idea: Why don’t I make up my own game?
A unique, completely different one that would allow me to live on, in a way, when I’m no longer here.
And I did it. I did it for you.
The Map of Longing.
I was so lucky to have Grandpa to help with it. If he’s given you the box, that means he finally thinks it’s the right time and he’s decided to take that trip to Florida he’s been putting off for years. Please, give him a kiss from me and tell him I love him and I hope he enjoys every minute of it.
Little Greta, it was a long time ago when you saved me. Now it’s my turn to do something for you. No breaking the rules—we already know each other by now. Follow each and every one of the game’s instructions.
And listen to Will.
Love,
Lucy
I blink several times. I’m still shaken. I go back to the beginning to read it slower, savoring every word and pausing at the periods and commas. But when I get to the end, I’m still just as confused.
Because, just to start with, who the hell is Will?