Hi. I was tasked with putting a Valentine’s Day card on my brother’s girlfriend’s car yesterday, and I guess I got the wrong car? I’m sorry. I understand there was a coupon in there that nobody should ever have had to lay eyes on. I hope I didn’t cause any problems with you and your S/O. —The worst wingman ever （Obviously） I laughed dryly. I folded it in half and put it in the cup holder.
The mystery Valentine’s Day card was yesterday. It was still in my glove box, I wasn’t sure what to do with it. I was thinking maybe there was a community corkboard for the building somewhere that I could tack it to? It didn’t feel right to throw it away.
I drove home. When I got inside, I shrugged off my sweater and dropped it on the arm of the couch. Then I stared around my apartment wearily.
I didn’t know this place yet. It was full of my stuff, but I hadn’t been home an entire day in the eight weeks I’d lived here. Not since they sent Grandma home on hospice. I hadn’t unpacked, I hadn’t made it my own. It was as foreign to me as the rest of my life at the moment—somewhat familiar but alien too.
I wandered around, watering neglected plants. I sifted through mail, paid a few bills. Folded a pile of laundry. Then I dropped into bed and passed out.
The next morning when I pulled back into the garage at Grandma’s complex, I left a Ziploc bag containing the Valentine’s Day card under my wiper with a short note.
It’s what I get for having the most common car in the US, I guess. Even I can’t figure out which one is mine sometimes. I don’t have a boyfriend so you’re in luck, nobody cared lol. I thought you might want the letter back.
If it was still there when I returned, I was going to look for that corkboard, but I figured it was worth a shot. Save me a trip around the building.
I came out three hours later to put Grandma’s walker in the back seat, and the Ziploc was gone, replaced with a page torn from a ceiling-fan-installation pamphlet.
Thanks. Maybe a bobblehead on the dash would help? Haha It made me smile. A little.
When I came back up, Grandma was where she always was, in the hospital bed in the middle of the living room, surrounded by flowers and draped in a colorful afghan, laughing loudly with Jillian, who was telling some dramatic story. Mom was clinking dishes in the tiny kitchen. Grandma’s sister, my great-aunt Lucy, was standing on a stool by the window, hanging crystals.
This was a good place to die. It had good energy.
Everything around my grandmother always did.
She didn’t like the sterilized hospital thing or any reminder of what was actually happening here. She’d made me drape a floral scarf over the IV stand, and I wasn’t allowed to wear scrubs. Not for this assignment. She liked things pretty and soft and comfortable. Food cooking in the kitchen, people around her. So that’s what we gave her. I wore my regular clothes. Blousy tops and flowy skirts. Jillian brought candles she’d made and Nadia Cakes cupcakes, Mom simmered pasta sauce, and we watched Grandma slowly decline.
“I’m back,” I said, clicking the door shut behind me.
Lucy pointed at the crystals. “How about this?” she said, louder than necessary. Her hearing aids were off again. “Is this in the right spot?”
Grandma turned to look. “We won’t know until the sun’s on that side.”
“WHAT?”
“I said, we won’t know until the sun’s on that side,” Grandma said, louder. “For Pete’s sake, turn your hearing aids on.”
Lucy climbed down. “I can’t hear a thing you’re saying. We probably won’t know until the sun’s on that side.”
I laughed to myself as I came over to the bed and lowered the rail. “How’s your pain?”
“Good,” Grandma said.
I arched an eyebrow. “Are you just saying that?” I asked, taking her pulse. “I know you don’t like the way the morphine feels. We can do something else.”
She waved me off with her free hand. “I’m fine.”
There was a thump against the wall from the neighboring apartment, followed by the sound of a power tool.
“What are they doing over there?” Mom asked.
“New tenants,” Grandma said. “Probably fixing it up.”
“Well, I wish they’d be quieter about it,” Mom said, wiping the counters down.
I checked Grandma’s catheter bag. Then I pulled out my stethoscope and listened to her chest. I didn’t like what I heard. I never would.
I wrapped my stethoscope around my neck, trying to keep my feelings about this off my face. “Something funny happened a couple of days ago,” I said.