JOSIE
I stay awake throughout most of the night, thinking about what happened and if I handled the situation right. Then it’s morning, the noise of the passing cars out on the street more frequent. It’s still dark, or maybe the clouds smother the first light.
I barely slept, but it might be a good thing, since I didn’t dream. No nightmares about being trapped in this town. Just the reality—I am.
TV sounds come from the kitchen. I search for my phone on the nightstand, then remember that it’s at the police station.
Grandma is already up—I can hear her.
Last night, when I got home from the precinct, she was already asleep, and I didn’t want to wake her up and worry her with the news. But I definitely need to tell her about what happened yesterday. Soon, she’ll find out from the newspaper.
I use the bathroom and, as I brush my teeth, study myself in the mirror. Any more crazy things happening in my life, and I will soon look worse than Grandma. Dark circles under my eyes, puffy cheeks like I’ve been crying—I need more sleep, for sure.
I put on my almost-daily outfit of a knitted sweater, jeans, and tractor boots.
I became careless about my clothes since moving to Burnville, but makeup isn’t something I’m willing to give up.
Or doing my hair. Considering I work in the food industry, I can’t wear it loose.
So I brush my bangs to one side, then pull the rest of my chestnut hair into a high ponytail, and check myself in the mirror again.
I look worse than when I left Pittsburgh, and I thought that was my all-time low.
I make my way to the kitchen.
The news is playing on the small TV set up in the corner. The smell of fried dough lingers in the air as Grandma makes pancakes on the stove.
“Morning,” I say as I pour myself coffee, add sugar and half-and-half to mellow the strong brew, and take a seat at the table.
“Morning, hon. Up early?” Grandma asks.
“You should be talking. How are you feeling?”
“As always,” she says. That’s her usual answer, though I think she would’ve pretended like everything is fine even if she were barely standing.
She looks fine. For now. However, I notice that her hands are getting a little weaker every day.
Her gait is not quite as certain. I researched it online.
Those are the signs of the decline—exhausted body and foggy brain.
It’s only a gradual downward spiral from here.
I watch Grandma like a hawk, secretly hoping that one day, the doctors will call and say that they’ve mixed up the files and nothing is wrong with her, and she is fine, and she has way more time than the stupid year or however many months they are giving her.
When she’s gone, I’ll have no one. No parents. No siblings.
The sizzling sound of oil in the frying pan pulls me out of grim thoughts as Grandma puts a new batch of batter in the pan.
I don’t know who she makes pancakes for every day.
She says Grandpa used to love them, could eat a dozen in one sitting.
Maybe she makes them to comfort herself.
I feel bad for refusing them every morning.
Grandma picks up her coffee and takes a sip. “Going to work early?”
“Yeah,” I say. “A little busy these days.”
“At least have some pancakes.”
“Grams, I don’t eat breakfast.”
“Well, maybe you should start. Breakfast is—”
“The most important meal of the day,” I finish her sentence and smile. “I know. But it’s not my thing.”
Her lips tighten as she looks at her cup and takes another sip.
I disappointed her again, I know. An A-student, a talented singer and composer, a girl who, until months ago, had a bright future. She hadn’t wanted me to come back. “Nothing to do here,” she’d said. “The world is much bigger than you think.”
I left the world behind, in Pittsburgh, friends, jobs, venues, parties. My grandma raised me. Least I could do is take care of her while she’s still around. The doctors say she doesn’t have long. I say, I got it. Though the general mood lately is that of a funeral.
“Penny for your thoughts,” Grandma says with a chuckle.
Even her chuckle seems sad lately, though she does enjoy her coffee, black and so strong that when I finish my cup, I feel as wired as if I’ve chugged several energy drinks.
I study her face. Her cheeks are sunken, or maybe I’m imagining it. Knowing that she has cancer spreading through her body, I overthink stuff, look for and notice signs that maybe are not quite there.
I’m better off not telling her about what happened last night yet. That might stir up bad memories.
“And we are back with breaking news,” the anchor on TV says. “A woman has been found in a house in Burnville, Pennsylvania. The police say she is a victim of a kidnapping, though her identity has not yet been revealed.”
My eyes widen at the TV screen.
“The house where the victim was found was being rented by a man police identified as James Derek Sickler, from California. Sickler is wanted by the Ohio police for multiple scams and by California police for extortion.”
When they show the picture of the man, my heart leaps.
I don’t know if that’s him for sure. It was so dark the night he was hit that I didn’t see his face.
But he looks like an older version of the man in the picture with my mom, the one he texted me.
If that’s him, he’s handsome, in his forties, maybe fifties.
And the picture is not a mug shot—it’s a photo of him smiling.
He doesn’t look like a man wanted for a kidnapping. He looks like a charmer.
“Any information about the man in question or his whereabouts can be submitted to the Pennsylvania State Police via the hotline number below.”
The anchor goes on when a sudden clacking sound snaps my head in Grandma’s direction. The ladle is on the counter, the pancake batter splashed everywhere. Grandma whispers something inaudible as she stares at the TV screen.
I jump up. “I got it, Grams.”
I fetch a rag from the sink and start wiping the batter off the counter, glancing at Grandma. Only now do I notice that her hands are shaking badly.
“Grams?” I look at her with worry. “Grams? What’s wrong?”
She closes her eyes and presses both her hands to her chest.
“Grams! You okay? Should I call a doctor?”
She shakes her head, her eyes still closed, brows knit together. “No,” she whispers. “No, no, no, just… I need a moment—”
As if in slow motion, I see her body tilting, and I catch her in my arms just in time. “Grams?”
Her hands clutch my shoulders as she leans into me.
“Grams, let’s take a seat. Come.” I help her to a kitchen chair, sit her down, then lower myself on my haunches next to her. “You okay? I can drive you to the doctor or the emergency room.”
She smiles weakly at me, blinking slowly. “Just got a little dizzy is all, hon.”
She sets her hand on my shoulder. Her hands have gotten thinner. Grams has never been a skinny person. She’s always had curves. But now she’s losing weight.
“I need to lie down,” she says.
The stove makes a hissing sound, and smoke starts filling up the kitchen.
“The pancakes!” I shout and run to the stove.
The pancakes are torched, smoke rising from the black pan as I pick it up and set it in the sink, then run water right over the pancakes. The smoke billowing from the searing pan turns the air hazy.
“Jesus,” I whisper, then look at Grams. She sits with her hands clasped together on top of the table, her eyes on them. Her lips are moving, though no words come out.
The news on the TV switched to the weather forecast, and now I wonder if the news is what made her spill the batter.
“Grams?” I call out.
She hunches over the table, both her hands pressing to her chest now.
“Grams?” I repeat and step closer, ducking my head to try to catch her eyes. Her lips tremble, and she’s still trying to say something.
I put my hand on her shoulder. “Grams, look at me!”
But she won’t. A wheezing sound escapes her mouth.
I dart to the living room and, thanking god for the outdated landline, pick up the house phone and dial 911.
“I think my grandmother is having a heart attack,” I blurt into the phone when the operator picks up.