Page 26 of Ladybirds

Numb, Sara follows. Sits on the bench. Reminds herself to breathe.

“Do you know what you want?”

Sara thinks of the springs she spent in her grandmother’s flower garden, cutting roses and making bouquets for the table. She remembers searching for ladybugs—how her grandmother would tell her to make a wish every time she found one hiding between the thorns. Sara can only think of one wish now, and it’s to remember how Oma looked on those spring days; smiling and happy with her favorite polka dot sundress and an iced tea sweating in her hand.

“A ladybug,” Sara rasps, pulling her shorts down to expose her hip. “Right here.”

Where only her eyes will see, where her father never will.

She doesn’t want to give him the opportunity to tarnish it with his opinions.

Seth doesn’t return home until the following afternoon. Sara hasn’t left her bed for anything less than pressing, and she curls deeper into her covers when he enters. The tattoo on her hip stings, a physical reminder of the pain in her heart. It pairs well with the bruising ache across her knuckles. Somehow, the pain is grounding.

She can feel him hovering at the edge of her vision; a silent shadow. She hates that he doesn’t speak when, before, that’s all he ever seemed to do. Hates that he’s decent enough to be almost human. It would be easier to suffer his taunts, to be angry, than his pitying gaze.

Refusing to look away from the dramatic grayscale of the Half Dome print framed beside her bed, she swallows down the emotion threatening to choke her. She has to ask; she has to know. “It really wasn’t you?”

A pause, then—in a voice so soft she could hate him for it—he answers. “No.”

Sara pulls the comforter over her head, but doesn’t bother stifling her tears.

He doesn’t come back. Not that day, or the day after. Sara almost thinks she’s rid of him, but can’t quite find it in her heart to believe it. Whether he’s doing it for her benefit or his own, she’s thankful for the space. For the quiet.

Ansel follows her like a shadow. If she’s in her room, she can find him at the foot of the bed; in the kitchen, on the windowsill. Sara’s not sure if it’s because he senses how deep her grief runs, or if it’s just because he’s unused to her being home so much, but Sara’s thankful for the company. Though she tries not to think too much about his new favorite spot in the living room. It’s hard enough to ignore the emptiness of the old wingback without finding her cat curled up on the cushion.

She can only afford to take a week off from school before she risks falling behind further than she can catch up. What she wants is more time to process, to mourn, but she knows she won’t get it. Life, at least her life, doesn’t cater to her needs. She drags herself out of bed, turns the shower on as hot as she can stand, and lets the steam fill her aching lungs. She stands under the spray, washing her hair with a numbness that speaks of habit more than thought. Her mind is back in the hospital room, Oma’s hands on her cheeks.

Speak to Janice.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Janice’s home is eclectic in ways that Oma’s never was—pictures and artwork lining every available wall, painted murals of flowers dancing along the door trim, the formal dining table covered in half-finished canvas instead of placemats. It should feel claustrophobic, the amount of knick-knacks is borderline hoarding, but somehow there’s an order to the chaos that makes it feel full without being suffocating.

Bifocals perched on the bridge of her nose, the attached beaded lanyard glinting in the morning light, Janice spreads documents over the surface of the kitchen table as she explains each one. Sara listens numbly, hearing the words but struggling to register them, until Janice gets to the bank statement. “The savings account was pretty much cleared out a few months ago, but the house—“

Sara interrupts, shaking her head. “Wait, what?”

That can’t be right. Oma never spoke about her finances, but she regularly gave Sara advice. Having a healthy savings was one of the topics she exhausted the most.

A rainy day fund is no good in a flood.

Janice looks down at the statement, nodding. “Her savings is empty. It looks like she withdrew the balance a few months ago. There’s still money in the checking, though.”

A few months ago.

Right before classes started.

The apartment.

Sara’s vision swims. Janice says something else, but everything is muted. Echoed. It dawns on her then, what she should have probably suspected from the start. “She knew.” Sara pins her grandmother’s oldest friend with a look, the horror in her heart growing with every trembling second. “She knew she was dying.”

Janice pauses, expressions changing so rapidly it’s like she’s on a skip reel: surprise, regret, hesitance, and, finally, resignation. “Yes.”

Sara didn’t think there was anything that could make it hurt more, but the sharp pain in her chest proves otherwise. “Why,” she wheezes, throat tight. “Why didn’t she tell me?”

How much time had she wasted? She would have come to visit more, would have taken her time to enjoy every remaining moment. Why—

“Gertie didn’t want you to worry,” Janice soothes, taking her hand. “She was adamant that you be able to enjoy your last year without this hanging over your head. She didn’t know it would be so quick. No one did. The doctors thought she would have another two years.”

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