Page 38 of The Alpha Dire Wolf
The shock evaporated, and I hunched forward over the steering wheel, huge sobs racking my shoulders and back. I cried and cried in the car. The empty car. Because that’s all I had now was emptiness in my life where a family should be. It was just me.
Tears stained my shirt and soaked my arms as I shook. Sweat gathered at the back of my neck, making it worse.
It was a long time before the tears stopped flowing. Grief had a mysterious way of twisting it so that seconds felt like hours, but hours could feel like seconds. And my grief had been piling up inmy heart, and now it broke through the dam, washing over me in one giant wave.
I let it go. Pouring out the loss of my grandmother, the only family I had left. I mixed it in with the loss of, well, not Caidyn per se, but a relationship. Something familiar and often comforting. Someone I would have turned to in a time like this, who had done something worse than die. He’d betrayed me.
All of it flowed through me and out, leaving wet stains on my forearms and down to my jeans as I sat there bent over. Hurting. My shoulders shook with tremendous sobs. My stomach muscles clenched until the ache was the only thing I could feel. The only thing I had left.
Pain.
All I wanted was one more day with her. One more time to open the door and call out, “Grandma, I’m here!” and listen to her sounds of happiness. One more sunny spring afternoon on the back porch, drinking tea and laughing over some nonsense or another. One more—
One more. That was all I wanted. But I couldn’t have it. It was gone, taken from me, without so much as a hint of warning. All I had were the fragments of a warning that might not even be real.
“What were you trying to tell me, Grandma?”
Knuckles rapped on the window.
“Ohmygod!” I shrieked, yanking myself toward the center of the car.
“Sylvie? Are you okay?” a distantly familiar voice asked through the rolled-up glass.
“Mr. Atkinson, you scared me half to death!” I exclaimed, popping open the door to say hello to my grandmother’s neighbor from across the street.
“I’m so sorry.” Don Atkinson bowed his head apologetically. “I was just out cutting the grass when you pulled in. When you didn’t get out of the car, I started to worry if you were okay, so I came to check. I didn’t mean to scare you.”
He backed up as I got out. In his mid-sixties with gray hair, he was the quintessential “lawn dad,” wearing a plain white T-shirt with sweat stains, beige cargo shorts and thick, clunky white New Balances that had long ago been stained green. Pulling the glasses from his face, he wiped his forehead with the back of his arm and smiled at me.
“I’m fine,” I assured him. “I just needed a moment. The past few days have been a lot.”
“I understand.” He shrugged. “I wish I could say more than just my condolences. Something that would ease your burden, perhaps. But at times like this, words don’t do much. Do they?”
“No,” I said with a half-smile, appreciating his effort nonetheless. “They don’t.”
“We’ll miss her,” he said, meaning he and his wife, Nina. “A lovely neighbor. Always had food ready for us when we went to check on her. Sometimes I wondered if she knew we were coming.”
I laughed. Donald and Nina had gone to “check” on my grandmother every Sunday evening for the past twelve years like clockwork. If my grandmother hadn’t known they were coming, it would have been a miracle. I frowned.
“She never forgot that you were coming, even lately?”
“Not even this past Sunday,” Don replied. “She was ready as ever for us. No hint that anything was wrong or that she was sick. I wish there had been. Perhaps we could have done more, helped her. We had no idea she was sick.”
“She wasn’t,” I said. “It seems she just … went.”
“It happens that way sometimes.” Don nodded as if confirming something with himself. “Now that she isn’t around, I think we’re going to have to make sure you’re doing well too. At least, for as long as you’re in town.”
“That’s very kind of you. But I’m okay.”
“There’s nothing we can do for you?”
“I don’t think so,” I said. “I’m hurting, but I’m doing okay, Mr. Atkinson.”
“Do you have food for dinner?” he asked, cocking his head sideways in question, a bead of sweat dribbling down his forehead.
“Uhh.” That was a good question. In the hubbub following the stampede and dealing with forest-man—Lincoln—I’d forgotten to go shopping for food.
“Well then, you’re coming for dinner.” Don spoke like it was a finalized deal, happy with himself.
