Page 29 of Lovingly Restored

I hold it out. “I’m starting my own business with a few friends.”

Mr. Umber lifts the card up, sliding his glasses down from his forehead. He nods his approval. “Looks sharp. Can I hold onto this?”

“It’s all yours.”

That wasn’t so hard. Truthfulness was a relief.

The swing has a new lease on life, but the reveal is bittersweet without my grandfather. Sanding and painting took a few days, fresh chains replace the rusty ones, and a new cushion covers the seat. It’s a beautiful March day, but as I lean against the wobbling porch railings, all I see is another project waiting for me. I’m waiting for Ashlyn to bring Mummo out. Something about reapplying lipstick. I comb my hands through my hair, still a bit damp from my shower. We found an old photo in an album of Mummo and I sitting on the swing when I was a pre-teen with legs and ears too big for my body, and we thought we’d recreate it today. I even found a shirt in a similar shade of blue to the one I wore in the original. I don’t know how many more photos I’ll take with her. It’s getting hard to swallow when the door swings open and Mummo steps gingerly over the threshold. Ashlyn is by her side, both of their house slippers shuffling on the rough porch planks. I cover my smirk with my fist. Without a doubt, she is the oldest twenty-six-year-old I’ve ever met, and it’s adorable. Her hair is pulled up high on her head in a long ponytail which makes me think of her smooth hair on my fingers in the shop. Her leggings cling in all the right places. We’ve barely spoken to each other the past week. Not about anything important anyhow. Instead of being adults and acknowledging our disagreement, neither of us is willing to make a truce and admit our parts in that disaster. We’re like a couple on the rocks, keeping it together for the kids, except our dependent is in her eighties.

“Okay, Mummo.” I rub my hands together. “This wasn’t at the top of your list, but I redid the swing.”

She’s silent for a beat, taking it all in, I assume.

“What do you think?” I raise my voice a bit in case she has a hard time hearing.

Ashlyn steps forward to support her elbow. “Isn’t this nice, Mrs. Lauri? The weather is getting much warmer, we can have tea out here soon.”

I hold the swing steady so Mummo can sit down safely then I ease into the seat next to her. In that old photo my head was level with hers. Now she feels small tucked against me as I hug her to my side.

Ashlyn uses to her phone to snap some photos of us. She glances up at me. “It looks amazing, Isaac. Really. You do beautiful work.”

Her genuine compliment catches me off guard. I’m grinning at the sincerity before I even realize it. “Thanks. If you’re going to do something, you do it right.”

She nods, “See. I knew you appreciated my desire to do things the right way.”

I’m deciphering what that really means and trying to ignore the way her saying the worddesiremakes me so hot when I register an odd sound. At first, I’m confused while I look for the source. Then my eyes settle on Mummo, who sounds like she has a cry caught in her throat. The keening, grief-stricken moan comes from deep within her. She hides her blue eyes with her wrinkled hands, and her slight shoulders are shaking against me. Mummo removes her hands from her eyes and looks around.

“Jakob, is that you?” she asks in a croaking voice.

My heart sinks. That’s Pappa’s name. I follow her gaze to the overgrown lawn, wondering if she sees a man that reminds her of her late husband.

“Nobody is there, Mummo, it’s only us.”

“I’m talking to my husband!” Mummo snaps, leaning away from me.

The strength of her voice floors me. How do you remind someone that their husband has been dead for years without being a complete ass? Ashlyn is outwardly unruffled, but I see the layer of sadness in her expression. I guess she sees this a lot in her line of work.

“What’s happening to her?”

Ashlyn sighs, “She’s hallucinating, likely.”

“Did I do this? With the swing?” I haven’t seen Mummo like this before.

“No, no. This can be common. Honestly, triggers that cause these reactions can pop up anywhere.” She kneels before Mummo, establishing eye contact. “Mrs. Lauri, it’s Ashlyn. I know you think you see Mr. Lauri. He’s not there, I’m so sorry.” She places her hands upon Mummo’s shoulders.

I shove my hands in my pockets, glancing at a particularly wide space between two floorboards. “I thought she’d like it.”

“Isaac.”

When I lift my eyes to meet hers, she says, “She does. She will. This isn’t your fault. You can’t tell how people will react to certain memories.”

I nod and rub at the lump in my throat. Swallowing with strep throat would be easier. Moving to help Mummo stand, I cup her elbow, but she wrenches away from my touch with surprising strength. The whole swing sways with her sudden movement.

“Don’t touch me!”

I throw my hands up to show her I mean no harm.

“I can take it from here, Isaac. Give us some space?”

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