Page 87 of Lovingly Restored

“Wow.”

The way she stood up for me is touching. It’s what a real grandmother would do. My eyes flit up to see Isaac hovering in the doorway, a styrofoam cup in each hand. Talking to him on the phone was one thing, but seeing him stand here has me torn. Duelling emotions war within me. The urge to storm out is as powerful as the one that tells me to let him envelop me in his muscular arms. I stand, the defensive part of me taking over, making the decision easy. Bending over the hospital bed, I press a long kiss to the forehead of a woman who isn’t my blood, but who cares for me an awful lot. A grandmother. A Mummo.

“Goodbye, Mummo. I love you.”

Chapter twenty-nine

Isaac

Ashlynisasightfor sore eyes after staring at the same four walls and my weakening grandmother all night. If I thought she’d smile when she saw me, I was sorely mistaken. Her arms lock across her chest, shadows of exhaustion under her eyes. She looks like she rolled out of bed with her oversized sweats and messy ponytail. I hold out a cup of cafeteria coffee, the lamest peace offering in the history of ever.

Her voice is only a whisper, “I think it’s time for me to go.”

“No, not yet.”

I don’t want to stay here alone anymore. Not for this. I’m not strong enough.

“I’ve said my goodbyes.”

She means to Mummo, but is this her last goodbye to me too? That cuts deep.

I wince at the reminder of my insults, the weight of it landing across my shoulders. I lashed out at her that evening and then watched her go. The best time for that apology was right after I said it. The second best time is now.

“Ashlyn, I’m so sorry. Please, stay.”

Her arms stay tight over her chest, and she nods slightly. I doubt it’s an acceptance, but at least she acknowledged me. Before I can continue my half-assed semblance of sorry, she rushes from the room. This time when she leaves, she doesn’t leave the door open. If there’s any hope in the whole goddamn world that I can right things after all the shit I said, I’ll have to do more than wrench open some doors. I dump the crappy coffees in the garbage and settle into the chair next to my grandmother, laying my head down on the bed next to her, memorizing the familiar scent of her perfume while tears sting my eyes.

I glare at the cold brick hearth, grief sullying the nostalgia I usually experience in my favourite place. After hanging on for weeks, Mummo passed last night. My thoughts and movements are painted with a thick coat of sadness. I came straight here from the hospital, desperately seeking a comfort that seems to have left this world when Mummo did. As I wander from room to room, numbness envelops me. If this is the way living in this house will be, my father can fucking have it.

Light streams through the window over the kitchen sink, illuminating an etching in the table’s leg. I sink down to examine it. Scratched right into the wood are the initials I.L.

What a brat.

A spark of a memory appears. Crouching beneath the table with a tool from my pappa’s shop. A boy, five or six, who thought it would be a good idea to mark his grandparents’ furniture with his name. Pappa and Mummohadto have known, but they never said anything. I run my fingers over the messy carvings of a child who was probably proud as hell of his work before he realized he screwed up. We’d shared so much at this table. Meals, stories, laughter, and tears. Keeping my dad from demolishing my home isn’t possible, but I’ll be damned if he takes the memories inside it. I rush out to the workshop, trying real fucking hard not to think about losing the building, and grab what I need. Detaching the legs off the table is easy and I carry them out to the truck in one trip. The top is a real bitch to squeeze out the back door. But it’smyfucking table, thank you very much. It has my name on it, so try to tell me otherwise. I back down the driveway and turn onto the street. My foot hovers over the gas pedal as I spot the porch swing swaying in the breeze. I throw it into park. That fucking swing is mine, too.

“Hey, next time can we not carpool?” Dean asks from the backseat of my truck. “I’m curled up like a pretzel.”

“Quit whining,” I say.

We need to find a new workshop and office space because it’s only a matter of time before my father takes a wrecking ball to it all. I insisted we all go together, cause comradery. Berg rides shotgun; Dean and Chris have the back. He needs to quit complaining. There’s plenty of space. Berg screws around with my phone until a sappy country song comes on.

“Turn that shit off, Berg.”

I’m suddenly regretting this field trip.

“Our boy is lovesick, that’s all, Papa Berg,” Chris says.

The steering wheel creaks under my grip. “I’m literally going to leave you all on the side of the road.”

Dean leans forward and wraps his big arm around my throat. “Keep driving, bitch.”

“Get off.” I wrestle out of his grip, managing to keep the truck in my lane.

“We’re all awfully sorry about Mummo,” says Berg, turning down the volume, “but Chris is right. You’re pining, but you’re not doing a damn thing to fix it.”

“What do you guys know?” I pull at the back of my neck.

“Here, give me the phone. I’ll choose something.”

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