Page 14 of Your Soul to Keep

“He was here last night, him and your mum.”

My head whipped up to look at her.

She rolled her eyes. “Ach, don’t look so bloody surprised, sure you know it’s not the first time.”

“How did they look?” I breathed.

“Just like I remember,” she murmured then met my eyes. “Happy. Your grandfather will be here, too. I want you to know, I won’t be alone when the time comes.”

My jaw dropped. I had no words. Did she know that was my biggest fear?

Her thin, veiny hand patted mine before flitting over the stitching of the quilt as she continued, “You know yourself, no one ever really leaves.”Her gaze drifted into the past.“I made this for your grandfather. Did you know that? That man knew me better than I knew myself.”

The same stories, over and over.

Any day now it would be the last time I heard them.

“He was the best, Nan,” I whispered.

Would he be here? Would he come for her?

My memories of him were stronger than those I held of my mother.

Quiet and calm, the eye of Nan’s storm.

I closed my eyes. He would be here.

Like a dog with a bone, Nan returned to her favorite topic. “You need someone who sees you.” Her knowing gaze sank clear through to my soul, the twinkle present even still. “But you’ve never been willing to take on a man who has the balls to look.”

“Oh my gosh, Nan,” I choked. “Balls?”

She smirked. “Eyeballs.”

I rolled my own eyeballs and snickered.

There was only one man who had ever really seen me.

But what did we know about life or love at our age?

Perhaps the passage of time had romanticized our connection in my memory, turning us into something we weren’t, setting every subsequent relationship against a standard that didn’t exist.

No different than anyone else, I was a mix of dark and light, hot and cold, blessed and cursed. Over the years, I learned there were few who would accept the dark with the light.

For most, it proved to be too much.

Nan’s sigh interrupted my mental musings. “Go on home and get some rest, pet. I hate seeing you in this place.”

I snorted.

“This place” was the best palliative care money could buy.

There was not a single set of scrubs to be seen. Nurses and healthcare workers blended in with the visitors, only their nametags and the stethoscopes hanging around their necks differentiating them. That and the air of peace they carried in direct contrast to those who anxiously waited to say their final goodbyes.

With its wide oak floors, antique crown molding, and warm walls adorned with paintings donated by local artists, it looked more like an upscale bed and breakfast.

I’d brought so many of her things from her bedroom at home, I could no longer bear to go in. It was as if she was already gone.

Despite its beauty, Nan was right. It was still a place of death.

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