35. Cucumber Sandwiches
Chapter 35
Cucumber Sandwiches
A weight presses on all of us—Grandma, Laura, and I—as we sit together in the living room two days after I move in. We’re silent and have been for the past thirty minutes. It’s the first time we’ve all been together since the night Mom...
Since Mom.
And it’s obvious. The little cucumber sandwiches I made go untouched on the antique coffee table. The tea has long since gone cold. Laura and I sit on opposite ends of the large couch. Despite our distance, we’re both underneath the same hand-woven cream blanket while Grandma sits on the regal armchair next to us. Rosie snores in her lap like the grumpy old princess she is. I wring my hands, eyes bouncing between my sister, my grandmother, the blanket, and the wall.
We need to talk. We have to decide how the hell to move forward. Make sense of what happened, but it’s still so fresh.
The grief is too raw for anyone to want to begin.
“Should we be planning Mom’s funeral?” Sometimes, I swear my brain and my mouth aren’t attached. I can always count on my blabbering to happen at the most inopportune moments. But it’s something I wanted to know.
Laura jerks as if she’s been slapped, Grandma’s hand flies to her heart as she trembles.
“No.” Laura speaks confidently, despite how my words obviously affected her.
I regard her. She’s so young, and she’s lost both of her parents in catastrophic ways. “No?” I try to be kind, to clarify what she wants.
“No,” she repeats. “It’s not time.”
I resettle on the couch, trying not to fidget. “I know you aren’t ready yet. I don’t want to do this either, but...”
I trail off as my eyes meet Grandma’s. She has unshed tears building. She hasn’t been the same since Mom.
“This isn’t some overwhelming grief moment!” Laura exclaims, her own tears betraying her. “While I realize you two still see me as a child, I’m not one. It isn’t time.”
Grandma sits straighter at that, scrutinizing Laura’s face. “How do you know?”
“What do you mean ‘how does she know?’” I practically stumble over the words. How can it not be time? What are they even talking about?
“I know.” Laura takes a deep breath, false confidence pouring off her. “Because I do.”
Maybe I’m pushing her too hard. Maybe I’m just thinking about myself again and she needs more time before we face the finality of Mom being gone.
I try to smile at her. “We can put off discussing it for another week or two.”
She rolls her eyes and stands. “Thanks, sis.”
Laura’s chest heaves for two beats—three beats— then she turns on her heel and leaves.
The front door slams behind her.
Even the house is too scared to make a noise. It ceases its normal moans and groans in her wake.
“Can you blame her?” I quietly ask.
Grandma exhales a heavy breath, finally meeting my gaze. “No. No, I don’t blame her. We are all confused, hurt, and we’re going to deal with our grief in our own ways.”
“I guess we’ll talk about the funeral in a few weeks. But what about Draven? What should we do about him, or whoever we’ve potentially pissed off by banishing him?”
Grandma’s eyes slip to the cucumber sandwiches. “One problem at a time, dear.”
“Grandma, we can’t just ignore this. There’s going to be retaliation and we can’t be unprepared like we were this time. We almost lost Noah—” my voice breaks at just the thought of him. Of the person I wish were here, who hasn’t spoken to me since he walked out. “—that way.”
I understand her hesitation, her need for a break. God, if I could lie in bed crying for the next year, I would. But I won’t risk losing any more of my family. If it’s up to me to lead the charge, then that’s what it is.
“I understand. Can we please just have a moment, wait until we can discuss the funeral with Laura? And then we will address Draven. Please?”
Her voice cracks in such an un-Grandma way over the word ‘please’ that the refusal dies on my tongue. “Okay. We’ll wait a little bit longer.”
She nods. “I’ll go make some lunch.” With that, she’s up.
I haven’t been in the living room for what feels like ages—I’ve been purposely avoiding it since I moved back in—but has really only been two months, and the family portrait still hangs.
I haven’t thought about it since I left. I don’t know why I would expect a painting to change, but it’s the same. Grandma sits in her high-backed, royal-purple armchair, with Mom and I standing behind her. Laura sits on the floor with her playful, youthful gaze.
It’s Mom I can’t look away from. The joke was always that Laura was Mom’s clone—Mom looks like just an older, brunette Laura—and that I was Dad’s. It’s not until this moment that I truly notice just how similar they appear. Same gentle waves, despite the difference in hair color itself, same golden honey-brown eyes. Even their noses are the same.
“I miss her, too,” Grandma says, quietly coming up behind me.
I wipe my face—and the tears I didn’t realize were even falling—before facing her. “Our relationship was complicated.”
“When people leave us with much left unsaid, it can feel as if we will never get closure. So, we must create that closure for ourselves, whatever that looks like for you. When your mother’s father left...” She pauses for a breath. “I wrote him a letter. I never sent it, but I said what I needed to say. That, and time, has helped.”
I smile, the only response I can give. I’m terrified that if I open my mouth, I’ll sob, and I won’t be able to stop. I’ve kept a lid on whatever shit I’ve been feeling, and I have to keep it up.
For Laura.
She needs me to be the strong one—hell, so does Grandma. I don’t have time to break down, and I won’t.
Maybe if I say it enough times, I’ll convince myself.