Page 6 of Breaking Through

"I heard that!" Grandpa protested in a loud voice. He and Maria had perfected a system of shouting to each other instead of showing up in the same room to speak in a softer voice. "And I'll have you know Campbell's has kept me alive for seventy-six years."

"Yes," Maria shot back, "and think how much longer you might live with real food. Though I suppose the sodium content has probably pickled you by now."

I bit back a laugh as I appeared in the living room. "Is that why you never seem to age, Grandpa? Preserved by Campbell's finest?"

"Don't you start," he grumbled, but I caught the smile he tried to hide. "Some people appreciate a classic."

"Classic like that cardigan you've had since 1982?" Maria asked innocently as she appeared in the room.

"It's vintage. Unlike some people's jokes."

He sat with a leather-bound book open in his lap—Frost's collected poems, Gran's favorite. His reading glasses had slipped down his nose, and I noticed how his wedding ring hung loose on his finger. Last week's hospital stay had stolen another few pounds he couldn't afford to lose.

The oxygen machine hummed quietly in the corner, its clear tubing snaking across the floor to where Grandpa sat. He'd tried to convince us he only needed it at night, but the blue tinge around his lips told a different story.

He marked his place with a faded bookmark—one of my childhood attempts at origami he'd kept all these years. His fingers trembled slightly.

"You're late today," Grandpa observed. His sharp brown eyes missed nothing despite the physical changes in the rest of him. "Did Parker keep you overtime?"

"No, I..." I hesitated, not ready to share my morning encounter. "I got caught up taking photos at the lake."

Maria bustled past with a glass of water and the collection of evening medications that had invaded our lives. The pills rattled in their containers like tiny maracas, keeping time with the whirring oxygen machine.

"Speaking of caught up, someone's been distracted all afternoon. Sarah from the Little Blue Bean called. She said you left something important at the coffee shop this morning."

Heat crept up my neck. "It wasn't important. Just some notes for work." I touched my bag where the morning's Polaroids nested between pages of half-finished social media posts for Parker's blog.

"Mhmm." Maria's knowing look made me wonder what Sarah had said. She straightened the framed photo on the side table—my grandparents on their fortieth anniversary, dancing in this very room.

"Well, the soup needs another hour. Clark, remember what Dr. Matthews said about moving around more?"

"Yes, yes." Grandpa sighed dramatically. "Holden, help your old grandfather up. We can walk to the kitchen together."

I offered my arm, noting how much of his weight he needed me to support. The distance to the kitchen seemed to grow longer each day, marked by the slight wheeze in his breathing that he tried to hide. The oxygen tubing dragged behind us like a reluctant pet on a leash.

The kitchen still bore Gran's touches everywhere—the hand-painted tile backsplash where she'd hidden tiny dragonflies among the flowers, the collection of mismatched teacups that held both coffee and memories, and the copper pots hanging above the island that rang like bells when you bumped them. We made it to the table, where Maria had already set out water glasses and warm rolls that smelled like childhood Sundays.

"Tell me about your day." Grandpa settled into his chair, adjusting the oxygen tube behind his ear. "And don't leave out whatever's making your eyes sparkle like your grandmother's used to when she was plotting something."

I nearly choked on my water. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Please." He waved off my denial. "I was a high school principal for thirty years. I know that look. It's the same one Belle had when discovering a new puppet design or meeting someone interesting. Remember the time she saw that Italian marionette maker at the craft fair? She talked about nothing else for weeks."

The mention of Gran's puppets made my chest tight. Puppetry was still a hobby when I had time, but I couldn't match her talents.

I glanced toward the glass cabinet in the corner where her collection of antique European marionettes still hung, waitingfor the hands that would never animate them again. Pinocchio's strings had tangled a couple of months back, and I'd never fixed them. The puppet's painted smile looked sad, as if he, too, missed Gran's gentle touch.

"It's nothing, really," I said, but my hand drifted to my bag again, where the photo burned like a secret. "Just... I might have met someone. Or not met exactly. More like saw someone."

While stirring the soup that filled the kitchen with memories of Gran's Tuesday night dinners, Maria didn't even pretend not to listen. The wooden spoon clinked against the pot in rhythm with the wall clock's ticking.

"At the lake," I continued, the words tumbling out. "He was swimming. He looked... he seemed..." I struggled to find words that wouldn't give away how thunderstruck I'd been.

"Ah." Grandpa's eyes softened, crinkling at the corners the way they did when he used to read me bedtime stories. "And did this mysterious swimmer have a name?"

"No. I mean, he barely spoke to me. Just said 'morning' and left." I pulled out my journal, hesitating before opening to the photo. "But I got this."

Grandpa studied the Polaroid, his expression thoughtful. His oxygen tube whistled softly with each breath. "Quite a composition. The mist gives it an otherworldly quality." He paused, squinting. "Wait a minute. Isn't that Wade Forrester?"

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