Chapter 36
After talking to Alex—after finally putting my memories of him to rest—a sense of acceptance settles over me.
I’m in a new phase of my old life. It could be a good thing.
Seattle is gorgeous this time of year, with the kind of weather that makes some people want to go camping and makes me want to sit at sidewalk cafés sipping icy cocktails.
It also makes me wish I could take Daniel on a bike ride here, winding through a forest trail with an evergreen canopy over our heads. But I squash that particular wish.
I finally give in to my mom’s requests and go to their house for dinner.
It’s exactly the same as ever. My mother prepares recipes from a cookbook called Nuts About Health , my dad spends the evening discussing sports with Blake, and everyone mostly pays attention to baby Adam.
He’s sitting up now, so. Very exciting stuff.
I’m used to feeling like the spare—how very Prince Harry of me—so it doesn’t bother me too much.
I’m just excited to get back to the sanctity of my apartment afterward.
As much as I love my apartment, a stray part of me wishes that I could come home to Gramps, sitting on the couch with a knowing smile and a wry remark, and Wally, thumping his tail in wild excitement.
Work drones on the way it always does. The meetings are the worst part, because now I have to sit in the same room as people, and I can’t figure out how to make or avoid eye contact at socially acceptable moments.
I do my best to quell the feeling of vague panic at the idea that I’m going to have to do this day in and day out for years and years and possibly forever.
On Wednesday, I return to my desk from an hour-long planning meeting and see that I have a missed call from Mom. There’s no voicemail, but she texted me.
Gramps in hospital. Getting latest from Trish. Will keep you updated.
The air dissolves from my lungs. The text was sent forty-eight minutes ago, and she hasn’t followed up with any details yet?
I text back as fast as I can: What’s going on? Is he ok?
When I don’t immediately see any typing bubbles, I call her. It goes to voicemail. I call two more times, but she doesn’t answer.
I try Trish: no answer, so I send her a quick text, too, begging for details.
After five and then ten minutes with no updates, I spiral.
Did Gramps have health problems? He never complained about anything, health-wise.
Was he hiding something from me? Or was this sudden and unexpected?
A heart attack or stroke? Oh my God, I should have booked him a doctor’s appointment, too, not just therapy appointments. How could I have overlooked that?
I’m sitting at my desk, struggling to get enough air, staring at my computer screen with eyes blurred from tears.
I should have asked him when was the last time he had a checkup.
No, I should never have left. Was he alone when something happened?
Was he, perhaps, crumpled on the floor for hours before someone found him and called 911?
Please, not the kitchen floor, it’s so hard and cold.
The thought of Wally sniffing around Gramps’s body, confused and whining, almost makes me sob. I muffle my cries with the palm of my hand. Everyone around me is glued to their computers, headphones on, paying no attention to anyone around them, including me and my breakdown.
The minutes tick by. I call Dad, Maeve, even Ellie. Maeve is the only one who answers, and she doesn’t know any more than I do. Turns out Mom didn’t even think to text her, so I’m the one breaking the news to her.
“But did he—was there anything wrong with him? When you were there, I mean?” Maeve sounds scared.
“I don’t know, Maeve, I don’t know! I didn’t think there was.” I’m pacing the halls now, trying to keep my trembling voice down as it climbs higher and higher.
“I’ve heard of elderly couples who die within months of each other,” Maeve continues in a whisper. “Like they can’t bear to live without each other.”
“So not helping,” I say. “Just—call me if you hear anything, okay?”
The panicky part of my brain threatens to go numb with shock.
But then there’s another part of my brain that’s fighting mad.
I should be there. I should be there helping Gramps, talking to his doctors in person, getting as much information as I can.
I should be there. What the hell am I doing here in this office building across the continent?
I call every hospital within a twenty-mile radius of Sandy Shores. They refuse to tell me anything over the phone. I call Angela, but she doesn’t answer. Is she with him? I hope she’s with him.
I’ve just opened the Alaska Airlines website to search for immediate flights to Tampa when my phone rings.
“Mom?”
“Sorry, sweetie. Hectic day,” Mom says. Her voice is not nearly as frantic as mine.
“What’s going on, is Gramps okay?”
“Oh! Yes.” She sounds like her mind was elsewhere. How is that possible?
“‘Yes’?” I repeat, desperate for more information.
“He had a scare. His friend put him on an ambulance. They thought maybe a heart attack.”
“I knew it.” I take a deep breath. “How’s he doing now?”
“Apparently it was angina. So they’ve given him a new prescription and sent him home.”
I pause, struggling to let go of the pent-up panic. “That’s it? So it wasn’t a heart attack?”
“No, darling.”
“And he’s fine?”
“Absolutely fine.”
I pause again. “Then why didn’t you respond for the last hour?”
“I was in court,” she says simply.
“Oh my God.” I press against the bridge of my nose, my hand shaking with adrenaline. “I thought he was dead.”
“Oh no. I’m so sorry, sweetie.” She sounds distracted; I can hear someone talking to her in the background. “I’ve got to run. Sorry again!” She hangs up.
I sit there for a long minute, staring at nothing.
I have several unread messages on Slack: an engineering manager arguing about something on the monthly project schedule I sent out this morning, and a UX designer asking me to review something that I’m absolutely not the right person to ask about. A new one pops up, this one from Kat.
Kat White: Hey Mallory, thanks for speaking up in the OP meeting earlier today. Julie and I were discussing the new XR project. It aligns with one of our top Q4 goals, and it would look really great on your performance review if you were to take the lead on it. What do you think?
I stare at her message. I start to type a reply, something along the lines of “Sounds good, thanks for thinking of me!” But I can’t bring myself to type the words.
Finally, I get up and walk across the hall to her desk.
Our company doesn’t believe in private offices, but she has a large corner cubicle surrounded by windows.
Still, she’s also surrounded by co-workers clacking away on their keyboards.
“Kat, hi.”
“Hey! Good idea to come chat about the project in person. Because we can do that now, ha!” She swivels around to face me, her body language easy and open, clearly expecting me to accept her offer with boundless gratitude.
And I consider it, seriously, because it’s so ingrained in me to say, Yes, please, thank you!
Whatever it takes to keep my job. But I am quite literally unable to form the words.
“Kat…” I start slowly. “I can’t.”
“Oh?” She straightens up, blinking at me through her trendy glasses. “Because I took a look at your Jira workload and it seems like you have availability. Is there something else on your plate?”
I press my thumbs into my fingers, cracking them one by one.
“No,” I say finally. “It’s not my plate necessarily. Or not my work plate. It’s more, my life plate.” Kat just stares at me. I need to do this better. I take a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I quit.”
This does not seem to register. “Quit what?” Kat looks for all the world like she’s expecting me to say I quit smoking or something irrelevant to work.
Of course, that’s because I’m going about this all wrong, like the main character in a movie.
What people do in the real world is send a well-written email giving their two weeks’ notice.
But I can’t back out now. And weirdly, instead of feeling like an anxious, guilty mess, I suddenly feel light, like a fresh, sunny breeze is blowing right through me.
“I quit… this.”
The people around us have started poking their heads up like gophers with headphones dangling from one ear.
So they can look up for office drama but not for someone sobbing at her desk over a potentially dead grandpa.
I almost laugh, realizing that I won’t have to deal with this passive aggressive—no, aggressively passive—office culture anymore. Good riddance, gophers.
Kat pouts her lips out, like she’s confused and slightly hurt.
“Did something happen? We can schedule a meeting with HR if—”
I cut her off. “Nothing like that. It’s just me. I need to move on.”
“Did you get another offer? Because typically people give us the option to match whatever—”
“No.” She is really not getting it. “I don’t want to do this anymore. I quit.”
I think it finally sinks in. Kat’s posture crumples the slightest bit; she looks disappointed to lose me, which is oddly gratifying.
“So, your last day is two weeks from today, then?” she asks hopefully.
I shake my head, removing the badge from around my neck.
“No, Kat. It’s today.”
I leave the badge on her desk and walk away, trying my best to hold my head high as the gophers gawk openly, watching me every step of the way.