“Are you still there?”
“Yeah, Mom. Still here.”
“I don’t want you to drive anywhere just yet. You’re too upset.”
Deep breath in. Steady breath out. She’d give it another minute, and maybe her hands would stop shaking, and she’d be able to breathe without that awful choking kind of feeling that clawed at her throat.
“I’ll be okay,” she said after a while. “I just need to get home.”
“Sure. Take a couple of deep breaths. And roll down the window for some air. Can you see okay? Wipe your eyes. Love you, sweetie.”
“Love you, too.”
“Call me when you get home?”
“Promise.”
A fizzing instant of static replaced her mother’s voice, then silence. She swiped at her eyes again, then put the car in gear and pointed it in the direction of home.
Nan was gone.
Nan was dead.
How could it be?
Nan had never seemed that old. She hadn’t even retired until she was eighty. She’d sold the little shop on Lakeshore Avenue that she’d opened fifty years before, and then, five years later, she’d sold her bungalow and moved into Elm Tree Manor, one of those apartment buildings for seniors that had a nurse on call and a dining room for people who didn’t feel like cooking, and so many activities and clubs and outings that she was busier than Heather most weekends.
Heather could admit that Nan had been slowing down a bit. She had stopped driving and cut back on her volunteer work, and when she picked up a cold she hadn’t been able to shake it off in a day or two like she always used to do. Until now, though, she’d always got better. Always.
A staccato beep startled her into awareness. The light had changed without her noticing. She waved in apology to the driver behind, her eyes on the road ahead, her thoughts tangled up in memories of Nan.
She turned left and parked in front of the house, but rather than go straight inside she stayed put, her hands resting on the wheel, and let her gaze drift to the gardens across the street, the sunny side where the ground was warmer and the bulbs had begun to bloom. There were snowdrops and crocuses and even some early daffodils, and she couldn’t be sure if the sight of them made her happy or sad.
Nan had been looking forward to spring. As president of the gardening committee for the Manor, she’d been in charge of the planters on the patio outside the dining room. The last time Heather had visited, Nan had shown her the annuals she’d been growing from seed. Marigolds, sweet alyssum, cosmos, and petunias, arranged in neat banks of rinsed-out yogurt pots on her living room windowsill.
What would happen to Nan’s plants? She had to make sure that someone remembered to water them.
Heather switched off the ignition, took a few deep breaths to steady herself, then braved the short walk to her front door. She only just made it to the bench in the hall before her knees gave out, her purse slipping down her arm to land on the tiled floor.
The hall was a small space, hemmed in by two doors: one to her little apartment upstairs, and the other to the main-floor apartment where Sunita and Michelle lived. The house had been divided up when her friends had first bought it, and one day they would likely want the top floor back, but for now they were happy to rent it to her for almost nothing.
“Sunita?” she called out. “Michelle?”
“Suni’s out,” came a voice from the back. “You’re stuck with me. What’s up?”
“I got a call from my mom when I was at the store.”
“And what’s up with Liz and Jim this week? Are they going on another trip?”
“No. It’s Nan. She called about Nan.”
“Is she all right? Did she have another fall?”
One deep breath. Another. “No,” Heather heard herself say. “No. She died. She’s dead.”
There was a metallic clatter, as if something had been dumped in the sink, then footsteps hastening to the front. An instant later, she was enveloped in a warm, vanilla-scented embrace. Of course. It was Saturday morning, so Michelle was baking.
“Oh, sweetie, no. Oh, that’s just awful news. Come into the kitchen. You need a cup of tea.”
“Y-you sound like Nan,” was all Heather could manage, and then she was blinded by another rush of tears.
She sat there and let Michelle peel off her coat and unlace her boots, and then, with only a little urging, lead her to the kitchen.
“Sit down. I’ll get the kettle going. Do you want a muffin?”
“No, thanks. I don’t think I can eat anything just yet.” She rested her head on the kitchen table, its vintage Formica wonderfully cool against her brow. “Where’s Sunita?” she asked without looking up.