Page 9 of The Alpha Dire Wolf
A tiny smile tugged at my lips. This was perfect.
“Great. Then you can tell me, since you’ve seen so much of her. Was she starting to, you know, lose a grip on reality?”
Desmond Crane’s eyes narrowed sharp and fast. “What are you referring to?”
“You know, like, Alzheimer’s or anything like that?” I asked, taken aback by his sudden intensity at the question.
“Helen? Absolutely not, her memory was perfect. Better than mine, I’d say.” He laughed as if it were some inside joke.
I didn’t.
“Any signs of sadness or depression?”
Crane shook his head. “No, none that I noticed. She was always happy, making jokes. Why are you asking me this, Mrs. Wilson?”
“Miss Wilson,” I corrected. “And because she seemed in great health to me, for being eighty-six. I just don’t get it. That’s all.”
“Sometimes, these things just happen at her age,” Desmond replied with a soft, sad smile. “There is no rhyme or reason. It just does. I’m a decade her junior, and I sometimes feel it in my bones. It’s hard to describe to someone in their youth. Ididn’t understand when I was young, not really. We would joke about feeling old when our body ached after a day of activity or too many drinks, but that wasn’t feeling old. Old is … different. It’s a constant. Youknowit. And perhaps your grandmother was hiding that, and she knew it was her time to go. You can’t begrudge someone of that choice.”
“I don’t,” I said. “Only the speed with which she made it. I wish I’d been able to see her one more time. To tell her I loved her, and—”
I cut myself off. I had questions I wanted to ask her, but they weren’t ones I wanted to tell a stranger. Talking about the forest that way would earn me some strange glances.
“You’d be surprised how much I understand,” Des replied, squeezing my upper arm. “I’ll be inside. If you need anything, now or later, come see us. Okay? We’ll be waiting for you.”
“I will,” I promised, wondering if I was lying or not. What interest did I have in the New Lockwood Historical Society?
Excusing myself, I ducked into the funeral home, managing to avoid anyone else. I holed up in the office Pastor Nevis was using, keeping myself isolated until the service itself began.
It was hard. Sitting there in the front row, the only living member of the family present, I couldn’t be invisible, couldn’t shrink away from the weight of all the grief in the room. Grief that I could not present. It was too new, too fresh. I was still in some stage of shock. Denial was mixing itself in, fueled in part by the letter.
I thought about that a lot during the service. Why she would send it to me at all. Why date it after her death. That prompted a new question. How could she have known it would be after her death? Everyone was saying her death was of natural causes, but how could that be if she knew the date ahead of time?
Unless, like Pastor Nevis said, she simply “let go” and passed away. Nobody seemed to think she was shy on life or zest. Quite the opposite.
Which is exactly what I told everyone when called upon to say a few words. I spoke of her rich laugh, always quick to show itself, or her unabashed love of absolutely terrible jokes—something also quick to reveal her laughter. I talked about her deep, loving care for those around her, as evidenced by the increasing size of the waistline of anyone who spent time around her. The woman had loved to cook and made sure everyone was heartily fed, even if they weren’t hungry. One didn’t say no to Helen Mary-Anne Wilson’s food.
The congregation laughed. We cried. It was exactly as she would have wanted it—reflective but not overly somber. My grandmother had lived in life, and that was what she wanted to be remembered for. And so we remembered her.
Iremembered her.
With other members of the community, we carried her coffin out to the waiting hearse to the sounds of Rick Astley’s “Never Gonna Give You Up.”There were more laughs when the familiar bass line started. That was my grandma.
“I’m going to miss you,” I said quietly, bending over the coffin after the journey to the cemetery and her grave. Everyone else was gone, having dispersed after a few more words were said. “But don’t worry. I won’t give you up. Though, I’m sorry to say, these cemetery workers are going to let you down.”
One of them heard and snickered, turning away immediately.
“Don’t be ashamed,” I said with a smile. “She would be a mix between cackling wildly and upset that she didn’t think of it herself to have mentioned in the memorial service somewhere.”
Nodding in grateful relief, the worker’s jaw still quivered as he worked on his composure.
A thousand more thoughts ran through my mind to say, but none of them had to be said then and there. I nodded to the workers and stepped back, letting them do their job.
And that was it. I said goodbye to my grandma mere hours after finding out she was gone.
“What a day,” I said to the empty air, pulling out my cellphone to check the time. “What the hell—oh you havegotto be kidding me.”
Nine missed phone calls.
