Page 52 of Bringing Home the Bacon
“And why not? You’re a wonderful writer. When you were a little girl, you wrote book after book after book. Oh, the adventures that got left on my kitchen table every day for me to read. They were delightful. You are a delightful writer. You should keep writing.”
“Yeah, well, I tried.”
“When did you try?” Gran asks slyly.
“In college! I tried writing children’s books, but – ”
“But what?”
“The inspiration just wasn’t there anymore.” I shrug. “Besides, Gran, it’s hard to make decent money as a writer.”
“Who cares about money? Money’s not important.”
“That’s a bold statement coming from a woman whose farm is still deep in the red,” I say and instantly regret it when her features fall ever so slightly.
“Slowly but surely, we’re figuring that out, aren’t we?” she says firmly. “The Bedd family always finds a way.”
“Yeah.” I rub the tense spot gathering between my eyebrows. “We do.”
“So?” She taps the table again. “When can we expect another tale from the great Colleen Murphy Bedd?”
I sigh. “Gran, I’m better off reading books to kids, not writing them.”
“I just think if you put yourself out there again, you could?—”
My chair screeches when I abruptly rise from the table. “I appreciate your thoughts, Gran, but I don’t want to talk about this anymore.” I rinse my empty bowl and place it gently in the dishwasher.
“Alright then.” She gives up for now, but I know this won’t be the last I hear on the subject. She moves to the stove and fires up the kettle. “I, for one, would like another cuppa. To return to our earlier conversation, don’t you think chlamydia sounds like an herbal tea? It’s way too pretty a name for a sexually transmitted disease that causes painful urination.”
I have to laugh at that. “You have a point there, Gran.”
“Care to join me for a cup of chlamydia tea?” she asks innocently.
I smile. “I’d love to, but I’m suddenly feeling really tired, so I’m going to head back up to bed.”
“Alright, sweetheart. You get some rest. Growing a baby is serious work. Thanks for spending a little time with me. You know I love our kitchen chats.”
“I do too, Gran.”
So much.
“Turn the lights back out on your way up, will you?” she asks as she settles back into her seat, waiting for the water to boil.
I do as she asks, plunging the kitchen back into darkness. I stand in the doorway until my eyes adjust, and I can make out her small frame sitting at the table.
“Can I ask what this whole sitting in the dark thing is about?”
“This is what I always do when I’m waiting for one of my kids to come home,” she says, as if it’s common Bedd knowledge. “Everything is more peaceful in the dark. That’s when all the farm night noises perk up. The bugs, the frogs in the creek, the coyotes on the mountains. The critters are all a little quiet in the wintertime, but if you listen real close, you can hear them.”
I rest against the doorframe in silence and listen. Sure enough, a coyote howls from a distance.
“See?” she says proudly, then hums a little tune.
Something is different about Gran tonight. She seems dreamy? Possibly a little foggy? Maybe it’s because I lost my parents young, or perhaps it’s because my brain needs something to worry about, but all it takes is one hint that my grandmother’s mind could be failing her, and I leap into investigative mode.
“Gran.” I speak slowly. “I’ve been in my room for the past hour. And the boys don’t live here anymore…”
“I know that.” She chuckles.
