My frantic expression catches her attention. “Sir? Are you alright? Can I help you find someone?”
My gaze swings around the room, but I don’t see a map or directory. “I’m here for Angus Murray,” I rush out. “My gran said they were in room 1235, but I don’t know which way that is.” What’s left of my Scottish accent tends to creep out in moments of panic, but with the way she’s eyeing me, I don’t think she’s clocked that I’m from here.
The woman shifts some paperwork and checks a chart printed with names and room numbers. The system seems archaic. I shifton my feet and look around again, as if Gran will pop out and lead the way.
“Aye, that’s right. You’ll want to take this first left and then a right. Head down that hall, and toward the end you’ll find the room on the left-hand side.”
“Thank you,” I say over my shoulder as I bolt away without a second glance.
Left. Right. The sound of my feet slapping against the tiles echoes in the quiet space. Down the hall. 1235 on the left.
Murrayis written on a small board beside the door. I made it. I’m here. I drag my damp palms down the legs of my pants, then knock lightly as I push open the door. I don’t make it more than a foot inside before a grey-haired pixie of a woman engulfs me, trapping my arms firmly at my sides.
Gran.
Everything in me softens. Relaxes in her presence. Clicks into place.
“Jameson.” She breathes my full name against my chest. She’s always been tiny, but she feels smaller than ever as I let her hold me.
“Gran,” I say, and my voice nearly breaks on the word. All the emotion and strain and unknowns combine like a tidal wave held at bay by a dam that just broke. There’s nothing left to hold it back as they slam into me. My breath shudders out and she pulls back to look at me, studying me as the first tear I’ve cried in years rolls down my cheek.
She swipes it away with the gentleness of a matriarch who’s seen it all and then some. “I’ve missed you, lad.”
“I’ve missed you too. Is… is he… did I make it?” I peer around the corner of the room and lose the battle with my composure. Grandad’s chest rises and falls in sleep, and my neck cranes back in relief. Another tear—and then another—streaks down my face. It’s only now that I register the soft beeping of the monitors, the tell-tale signs that he’s alright. He’s still here with us.
“Now now, m’eudail. Come sit down. We should talk.”
The soft smile on her lips bolsters my spirits, as does the use of her favorite endearment for me.My darling. Maybe it’s not as bad as they thought. Maybe it’s not as bad asIthought.
I have no idea what to do, but she does. She always has. So, I let her lead me to the couch on the other side of the room.
We’re barely seated when she speaks, and the words cut through me like a knife. “He’s dying, Jameson.”
The terror I experienced at the reception desk swells again. “Are they sure?” I croak, clutching my chest as the pain from that blow lances through me.
“Yes, my boy, they’re sure. It’s his heart. He has some time, but not a lot.” Her eyes glisten behind her glasses but her voice is firm, steady. Nothing like my own.
“How much time?” I can’t look at her. I want to, but the guilt of not being here is a presence I can’t ignore. I should have kept in better touch, continued to visit, made more of an effort.
“Months. A year at most, and that’s if we’re very lucky,” she says, and I finally lift my head, but she isn’t looking at me. Her eyes are on Grandad, and there’s a wistfulness in her voice that breaks my heart and heals it all at once. “He and I have already been so very lucky, maybe we will be given a wee bit more.”
They have been lucky. They’ve had an incredible life together; they deserve as much time as they can get.
“What can I do?” I ask, at a loss.
She brings her gaze back to me, full of resolve, and lifts a hand to my cheek. “You can stay.”
“Stay?” My voice warbles. In Scotland? For how long? The questions run rampant in the moment it takes for her to continue.
She nods, shoulders back and chin lifted in determination. “He was going to ask you himself, but I figured I’d beat him to it. That way, when he wakes up, you can just tell him yes.” Her confidence is almost enough to make me speak the word on the spot. “He’s missed you. I’ve missed you. You’ve been gone too long, and we want you here.”
Never one to beat around the bush, my Gran.
I pinch the bridge of my nose, staving off the fresh deluge of guilt. “But I can’t just stay. I have a life in Tahoe, work—”
“You can write from anywhere, Jameson, so don’t give me that,” she scolds, and I feel like a boy again. She’s not wrong, and being between contracts with my publisher means I’m even less tied to my work than usual. Add in the burnout I’ve been battling and…
“I can, you’re right, but—”
