1. Chapter One
Chapter One
Elowen Briar
Three Years Before Lise’s Passing
Grandma’s kitchen is already warm when I come in, the kind of warmth that settles into your bones instead of rushing across your skin.
Whatever keeps her happy. Late afternoon light slants through the small window across from the sink, catching on the dust motes and the steam rising from a pot on the stove.
The walls are the same soft yellow they have always been, nicked here and there from decades of chairs and elbows.
Mostly my fault. I was a rowdy child. A blue rug curls slightly at the corners near the back door.
It smells like onions, sauteed butter, and the faint sweetness of baked apples that never quite leaves her kitchen.
Grandma Lise stands at the counter, her back to me, slicing carrots with slow, deliberate care.
She wears her old blue-gray cardigan even though the kitchen is warm, sleeves pushed up to reveal her bruised wrists.
Her silver hair is twisted into a knot at the nape of her neck, with the top being covered by a headwrap adorned with a white rose design—her favorite flower.
There is a radio on the windowsill humming low, some public station playing classical music that comes and goes beneath the sounds of cooking.
I hang my coat on the hook by the door and step closer. The floorboard near the table creaks loud enough for her to hear, announcing me before I say a word. “You’re early,” she says, without turning around.
“You say that every time,” I tell her, reaching for the cutting board beside her. “And every time you’re already halfway done without me!”
She smiles at that, I can hear it in her timid voice. “You can take over the potatoes, Miss Ma’am. They’re washed.”
I do as she says, cradling their cool weight in my hands before setting them down.
I peel them slowly, the skins falling away in long strips.
Outside the living room window, the bare branches of the oak scrape against the glass when the wind shifts.
A collection of small birds cry somewhere above the house.
For a while, we work in silence, leaving only the sounds of my knife against wood, her faucet running, and the low murmurs from the radio.
It feels like a pocket of time cut out and saved just for us.
“Do you happen to remember,” Lise says suddenly, “that bedtime story I used to tell you about how the lights look in Norway?”
I glance at her. “I do remember that one. It’s actually one of my favorite stories. You always made it sound like a home away from home.”
She nods, still cutting. “It doesn’t really get super dark there because of all the lights in the sky.
Just a long, soft evening that never quite ends.
The sky turns pale purple, then these strips of different colors.
It pulls you in enough to make you feel like you could live there forever.
It sure did have a way of trying to keep you.
” Lise stifles a laugh under her sentence.
I picture it as best I can, a sky that refuses to close its eyes. “You could see it again,” I say. “If you want to, Grandma.”
She finally looks at me then, eyebrows lifting slightly. “I’m not so sure, Ella.”
Ella. Another one of her nicknames for me. I’ve lost track. Ella. Dove. Rose. Baby. Dear.
“If you can get on the plane, I will get you there,” I say. The words come out easily, like I’ve been carrying them around waiting for the right moment to tell her.
She lets out a small laugh, surprised. “You make it sound really simple, Elowen.”
“It is simple,” I insist. “Everything else we can figure out. If you want to go, I will make it happen.”
She turns back to the counter, but her movements slow. She swaps her duty at the sink for a group of tomatoes and a knife, but pauses mid-slice. When she speaks again, her voice is quieter. “I don’t know, baby,” she pauses, “that I could handle such a long trip anymore.”
The radio fades into a gentleman’s voice, something distant and unimportant, leaving me to feel the weight of her words settle between us.
I set the peeler aside and step closer. She smells like the same kitchen soap she’s used my entire life, mint from her tea, and the faint, comforting scent that is just her.
I wrap my arms around her from behind, careful, feeling the frail shape of her through the cardigan.
She stiffens for a moment, then relaxes into me, her hands resting on top of mine.
“I know,” I say softly into her shoulder. “It’s okay.”
She pats my hand once, then turns to pull me into a proper hug. Her cheek presses against my shoulder. She feels smaller than she used to, or maybe I’m just more aware now of how easily bones can be counted beneath skin at this age.
She’s been better lately, or at least that’s what I thought.
I can even see more color in her face. There are days when I’ll catch her moving without stopping to catch her breath.
The doctor says the new medication must be helping reduce the cancer cells.
We should know more when the blood work comes back.
I cling to that word, helping, even as another part of me counts time.
I wonder how many afternoons like this we have left.
How many kitchen talks? How many gossip sessions?
How many more times is she going to ask if I’m growing out my hair or if I need money for a haircut?
We pull apart and go back to our places. The pot on the stove bubbles, demanding attention. I stir it, watching the steam rise to the fan above.
“You seem to be doing well,” I say, as if that can anchor us both. “You’re stronger than you think.”
She hums, noncommittal. “Strength is a strange thing,” she says.
“It comes and goes at this age.” We work in harmony as I add the carrots to the pot.
She hands them to me, one handful at a time.
Our fingers brush, and it reminds me of how many times we’ve done this same routine throughout my life.
Thankful isn’t a strong enough word to describe how I feel about our relationship.
After a few minutes, she glances at me again, sharp and knowing.
“You’re awfully quiet, dear,” she says. “Do you have something going on in that head today? The bad thoughts can’t consume you if you give them air.
” One of her most common phrases. I no doubt have heard that at least a thousand times in my lifetime from her.
I open my mouth to deny it, the reflex already there, but the words tangle.
I focus on the rhythm of stirring, the growing circle within the pot.
“I might, but not like that.” I admit, “It’s just…
” She waits. Grandma has always been good at waiting for me to speak when I’m ready.
She leans against the counter, arms crossed loosely, giving me space to find my way.
“I’ve been thinking about moving,” I say finally.
The word moving echoes in my chest. “But, I don’t want to leave…
you.” I know deep down I could easily leave this place, but I can’t imagine leaving her behind.
Her expression doesn’t change much, but her eyes sharpen. “Somewhere specific?”
“I don’t know yet,” I say. “Maybe the West Coast. Maybe farther. I feel like I’m running behind everyone else already.”
She nods slowly. “That feeling doesn’t go away on its own.” Lise continues our routine, giving me time to formulate my thoughts. The smell of butter becomes more overwhelming by the second.
“I’m just afraid,” I continue, the words spilling now, “that if I go, something will happen to you while I’m gone.”
She reaches out and covers my hand on the spoon. Her palm is warm. “Something is always happening with me,” she says gently. “Whether you are here to see it or not. Don’t worry about…”
I swallow, cutting her off. “I don’t want to miss time with you.”
She smiles then, soft and sad all at once. “You don’t lose time by living your life,” she says. “You lose it by pretending you don’t want more, Elowen.”
The radio shifts to a new piece, strings rising and falling.
Outside, the light begins to thin, turning the window into a pale mirror.
“I used to think,” Lise says, “that staying was the same as loving. But love can stretch. I’ll love you here, the West Coast, Norway, even in my grave.
I loved your Momma, didn’t I? No matter where she went.
Even when she left us high and dry, I still loved her. ”
I look at her, really look at her, at the lines around her eyes, the steadiness still there despite everything.
The pot hums to signify it’s ready. So, we move together, practiced, ladling soup into bowls.
She sets bread on the table, thick slices with crusts that crackle when touched.
We sit, and the chairs scrape softly against the floor.
The kitchen holds us, just as it always has.
Our safe haven to speak about how we feel.
For now, this is enough for me. I’m not going anywhere. I can’t bring myself to leave her. I’ve already moved to an apartment, leaving her in this house alone. This is enough for me. This is enough.