Chapter 40
Evie
Five Weeks Later
“Idon’t know why I’m even bothering,” Grandma says, sounding more dejected than ever as she struggles through yet another leg raise. My heart sinks when she swears under her breath.
I’m very worried about her.
For the past month, I’ve watched her struggle through her physical therapy sessions. Her fall has had as much of an emotional impact on her as the physical. Some days, she doesn’t have the desire or motivation to keep fighting.
I don’t blame her. After all, the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. Much like Grandma refused to accept help in the home, for a long time I refused to accept that I needed to start taking better care of myself, and I’m reaping the consequences.
Now that I am working toward that goal, I wish I had taken the steps to do so sooner.
Better late than never, though, right? I’ve started seeing a therapist, and I have an appointment scheduled with Brandon’s neurologist friend next month.
And after meeting up with the pastor’s wife, Merilyn, for that long overdue coffee and heart-to-heart, I started attending church regularly and going to Adam’s weekly Bible studies.
Abi and I have gotten much closer as well, and she referred me to a church group for bereaved mothers after I confided in her about my miscarriage.
Her friendship has been such an unexpected blessing.
“Grandma, we’ve been through this before,” I remind her gently. “Baby steps. You’re doing great. Just a couple more weeks of building up your strength with the walker, and you’ll be walking on your own in no time.”
She grimaces down at the walker she’s holding on to for support. “We all know your dad is just going to ship me off to Sunny Days as soon as I’m better.”
“Sunny Days is hardly a prison,” Francine remarks as she appears in the living room doorway, balancing a tray of coffees on her open palm.
She sets it down on the coffee table and takes the seat next to me on the couch.
“It’s the area’s most luxurious assisted living facility.
My mom lives there and she loves it. In fact, she said she wished she’d made the transition sooner. ”
“Well, I’m not your mother, Francine,” Grandma fires back.
Francine and I share a loaded glance. Grandma’s been a little . . . feistier than usual.
Swallowing, I scooch forward on the couch.
“Grandma, I used to work there. It’s a great place.
” I hate the words as they leave my lips; I feel like a filthy traitor.
I always vowed to support Grandma in her pursuit of independent living.
But if last month’s fall demonstrated anything, it’s that she needs more help than I can give her.
“It’s basically a resort for older adults, complete with a private spa, state-of-the-art gym, and tons of community programs.”
“Not you, too, Evie,” Grandma grumbles.
I hang my head. “I’m sorry.”
Grandma stares out the windows as snow gently falls from the February sky. “How will I fit all my belongings into a one-bedroom apartment?”
You won’t. You’ll have to downsize. I’ve already started getting rid of some things myself . . .
“And what about my neighbors and friends?” Grandma continues, despairing. “My whole life is here.”
The grief in her voice is unmistakable. She’s mourning.
“None of that will go away,” I plead, taking her hand in mine.
I lower her onto the nearest recliner and crouch down in front of her.
“No one is locking you up and throwing away the key, Grandma. You’ll be able to come and go as you please.
You could even opt for a two-bedroom apartment, if you really wanted to, so you can have guests.
You’ll still be able to go to church and host your Bible studies and do whatever else you want. I promise.”
She shakes her head. “I wish I’d died when I fell down those steps.”
“Grandma!” I gasp, horrified. “Don’t talk like that!” I look to Francine for back up. Francine sets her coffee aside, drawing closer to us on the couch.
“What?” Grandma defends. “At least then I’d be with Jesus, and I wouldn’t be a burden to you or anyone else.” A tear slips down her cheek.
“You have never been a burden to me!” I cry, devastated that this is how she feels. “You are the cornerstone of this family.”
She only shakes her head.
“Maggie,” Francine hedges, reaching out to grasp her other hand. “Remember that God is always in control. This trial you’re going through is not without its purpose.”
“And what purpose might that be?” Grandma retorts cynically, airing my exact thoughts.
Francine hesitates. “I’m not sure,” she murmurs, stroking Grandma’s hand with her thumb. When she speaks again, her voice is softer than velvet but more convincing than a stone-cold fact. “But I do know what the Bible says. And it says God is working all things together for our good and His glory.”
“It sure doesn’t feel like it.”
Tell me about it.
I rise from my crouch. Hearing Grandma talk like this is excruciating; it’s just so unlike her.
She’s usually so . . . well, happy. Optimistic.
Hopeful. But her uncharacteristic pessimism—and the fact that she feels like a burden—reminds me of all the times I felt like a useless burden growing up, especially after Dad shipped me off to that psychiatric hospital. Sometimes I still feel that way.
Like I’m . . . hard to love.
And to think that Grandma’s relationship with Jesus is so much stronger than mine, and she still feels like a nuisance to her loved ones.
If that’s the case, what hope is there for someone like me?
No matter how many Bible studies or church services I attend, I can’t seem to shake this idea that God isn’t listening to my prayers and doesn’t care about my problems.
Or Grandma’s.
Frankly, I’d like to blame God for Grandma’s predicament, but I don’t see the point.
God is on His throne, and He’ll do whatever He wants, regardless of how we mere mortals feel about it—just like Francine implied.
So instead, I turn my fury on my own father, the person who’s heartlessly snatching away the last piece of Grandma’s sense of autonomy—and her hope for the future along with it.
I stomp in the direction of the front door.
“Where are you going?” Francine calls, trailing behind me.
I grab my coat from the hook and shrug it on. “Out.”
“Out where?”
“For a drive.”
She steps in front of the door. “But it’s snowing!”
“I know.” I give her a quick, reassuring hug, then turn her by the shoulder and gently push her back in Grandma’s direction. “But I have a bone to pick with my father.”
***
“This is your fault.” The force of my accusation could shatter glass.
Slamming the door of Francine’s Volvo, I storm up Grandma’s driveway toward my father.
He’s on the front porch, barking orders at the movers he hired to box up and transport all of our belongings.
When he sees the look on my face, he must know I’m out for blood because he dismisses the movers, then gestures for me to step inside.
Bouncing up the porch steps, I stride past him, buzzing with adrenaline. Inside the house, I face him and cross my arms. A mover approaches us, but Dad lifts his hand, and the guy looks between us before slinking off.
“What, Evie?”
“Don’t ‘what, Evie’ me!” I shout. “Grandma is practically suicidal over this move, Dad! You can’t do this to her. She’s not ready.”
He frowns. “We all agreed that this is what’s best, Evie,” he says slowly. “Even you.”
He’s right, of course, and that makes me even more upset. We had a family meeting about it not that long ago, and the consensus was that Grandma couldn’t live independently anymore. At least, not without a live-in caregiver to look after her around the clock while she’s recovering.
Unfortunately, that can’t be me. Not in my condition.
The more I think about that meeting, the more it irritates me. Grandma wasn’t present, and she had every right to be. She should have been present.
I am the biggest traitor that ever lived.
Really, I’m mad at myself. Not my father.
The wind in my sails dies. I slump over slightly, mentally and emotionally exhausted. Between working full-time, helping Jamie and Rebecka out with my nieces, and assisting Grandma with her physical therapy, it’s been a long, tiring month for me—and I’m worn out.
Dad gently guides me to the couch. We sit down, and he wraps his arm around me, rubbing my arm as I lean into him.
“Sorry,” I mutter into his shirt, sniffling. “I just hate that this is happening. I feel so . . .”
“Helpless?”
“Yeah.”
He scratches his salt and pepper beard. “Me, too. But I know your Grandma better than anyone. She won’t like the change at first, but she’ll come around.”
I look around the sparse living area. The pictures on the walls have been taken down and packed away, and most of the furniture has been removed. “What makes you so sure?”
He shrugs. “She’s my mom.”
Frowning, I pull away, my heart hardening at the mention of mothers. I dust my jeans as I stand. “Well, let’s hope you’re right. She’s miserable.”
“For now,” he says, watching me retreat. “But joy comes in the morning.”
That popular biblical phrase—the one Francine repeats constantly like a broken record—piques my curiosity. I face him. “Did you cheat on Mom with Francine?”
I’ve always suspected.
He reels back, shocked by the suggestion. “Of course not!”
I eye him closely. “Are you sure?”
His jaw hardens. “Positive. Where is this coming from, Evie?”
I purse my lips, embarrassed. All this time, I assumed Dad ditched Mom for Francine, seeing as Francine is a stable, well-adjusted adult. Not to mention they got together shortly after Mom left.