“You are always welcome, Emma. Don’t mind if I just lay here and rest my eyes for a while,” Gran answered.
“That’s fine, Gran. You need your rest.”
We sit for a moment before she says, “Tell me a story, Emma.”
“Which one?”
“You pick. Just tell me a story,” she replies as she settles into her pillow and closes her eyes.
I pull her quilt up her body and tuck it around her shoulders so she’s covered and keeps warm. I share a memory of the first time she taught me one of her family recipes at six-years-old; a simple soda bread, which was a perfect starter recipe. While it was in the oven, Gran showed me how to make fresh butter to go with it. I watched with eagerness as the bread rose and baked in the oven, and was so proud of myself when it came out perfect. Gran cheered when we shared that first slice with the freshly made butter and a cup of tea.
I feel the happiness of that moment in my smile as I finish the story and look at Gran, who is sleeping peacefully. I’m glad I got to share that memory with her.
Noticing the time, I stand and place a gentle kiss on Gran’s cheek.
“I have to go now, Gran, but I’ll be back to see you tomorrow. I love you,” I say to her. I give her one last hopeful look as I leave her room and close the door quietly behind me.
I walk out of the hospice home wondering how many more days I’ll have Gran with me. The bus ride to work gives me a chance to work through memories of my time with Gran and questions that won’t go away.
“Privet, Boris!” I call out as I walk through the door of the restaurant. I love having Boris for my boss, because I get to practice speaking Russian with him.
“Kak dela segodnya,Emma? How are you?” came his reply from the kitchen.
“I’m well. I was just visiting Gran before work,” I tell him as I put my things in the back and grab my apron.
“How is yourbabushka?” Boris asks me in his thick Russian accent. He’s wearing his black chef’s jacket today with the short sleeves. So many times I’ve seen him in a white chef’s jacket, so seeing the black was a little surprising. He only wears the black one for special occasions.
“Tired, but the nurses said she had a good night. I’m grateful for that,” I say as I go through my lunchtime checklist. “Something special happening today?” I ask him, gesturing to his jacket.
“This old thing? Marina told me she liked it so I wore it today to make her smile,” he replied. Marina is Boris’ wife, and there’s nothing he wouldn’t do for her. They’ve become surrogate grandparents to me since I’ve been in Boston.
I smile at him and softly chuckle. Making my way to the front of the restaurant, I unlock the doors and wait for our first customers to arrive.
The day passes quickly. The lunch rush was busy as usual, and when we closed for a short time between lunch and dinner service, Boris let me play around in the kitchen. He’s been teaching me Russian recipes in between shifts, kind of like how my gran would teach me Irish family recipes when I was younger. I wish Gran was able to meet Boris. I think they could be friends, especially since they both love to eat.
During the dinner rush, I notice something unusual. There’s a table in the back of the restaurant, tucked away in the corner and close to the kitchen. Tonight, a man came in and sat at the table about halfway through the dinner service. I didn’t think much of it at the time as we were busy, and he was just another customer.
What struck me as odd was that he sat there alone, just watching people. He ordered his food, and when he was finished, he just continued to sit there and watch his surroundings. Nobody joined him at any point. It was even more odd that his attention was focused solely on me. I didn’t know this man, and I certainly had no idea why he would be sitting here for most of the dinner rush just following all my movements inside the restaurant.
“Hey, Boris, do you have a minute?” I ask, stepping into the kitchen as the final guests finished up their dinners.
“What’s wrong, Emma?” Boris asks as he wipes down one of the counters.
“There’s this man sitting at the corner table near the kitchen. He’s been here most of the dinner service, and he keeps staring at me. He finished his meal hours ago, but he hasn’t left. It’s making me uncomfortable,” I tell him.
“Let me take care of it,” Boris says as he puts down the rag he was using and walks out of the kitchen. He returns a few moments later.
“There’s nobody at the corner table, Emma,” he says.
What?“There was someone there the whole night. I know there was,” I insist.
“Emma, I believe you.” Boris puts his hands on my shoulders in a reassuring gesture. “Whoever was there when you came in the kitchen, is not there anymore. If this happens again, tell me immediately.”
“I will,” I tell him. Normally, I can just shrug off weird things happening, but I’ve never had someone just sit down and stare at me all night. It’s unsettling and scary, and now I’m a little freaked out.
“Do you need me to take you home?” Boris asks.
“No. I think I’ll be alright. My apartment is not that far away,” I assure him.
