Page 9

I had convinced Grandpa to wear overalls. It took some coaxing, but once they were on, he smiled as if I had given him something precious. He didn’t know how to operate the washer or dryer, standing in front of them as if they were puzzles missing pieces. Once dressed, he wandered the house like he was searching for something he couldn't name.

At least the nudity had stopped. Small miracles.

Most of the time, he was cheerful. During some moments, he grew quiet and watchful, with frustration leaking out sideways. The forgetfulness irritated him the most—some part of him aware that something was wrong but unable to identify it. The childlike moments were particularly confusing for me. While we sat at the table, I noticed a large scar across the top of his head that must have come from an injury, but when I asked about it, he didn’t know what I was talking about. Once things settled down, I'd get a full workup for him, but I didn’t want to disrupt him since I had only been here a couple of days.

Jace handled it better than I did.

He asked quiet questions last night about memory loss—whether it would get worse. I answered what I knew and acknowledged what I didn’t. He never pulled away. If anything, he leaned in, wanting to understand better what was going on.

I made calls late at night and during naps. Grandpa would need a caregiver on the days I worked. Mrs. Bailey, an old family friend, recommended Helen—a retired nurse, widowed, with no kids, living ten minutes away. By the time we hung up, my shoulders had relaxed an inch. Helen was coming this afternoon to meet Grandpa and assess the situation.

Outside, Jace and Grandpa were bent over the toy farm again. Grandpa explained every detail like it had great significance, and Jace listened as if it did. I stood at the sink and wrapped my hands around a mug I had forgotten to drink from. I needed to cry, but that would have to wait.

Someone had to hold everything together: a fourteen-year-old boy, a grandfather slipping further away with each passing day, and a life uprooted and replanted in soil that didn’t want me. I had only three days before I began working at the hospital, three days before Jace stepped into Kennedy High as a freshman.

I gathered hope in tiny careful pieces: a clean kitchen, fresh sheets, and Grandpa’s laughter. If I thought too hard about how far off course my life had gone, I would fold in on myself, but I didn’t have the luxury of falling apart.

This town had abandoned me once, and living here again felt like pressing on an old bruise just to see if it still hurt. It did.

But for now, the house was clean, the overalls were on, and the farm was still here. That would have to be enough. I tucked those minuscule pieces of hope into my pocket like rocks collected by a child, carrying them with me and trusting they would be enough to sustain me as more people realized I was back in town.

Eight

Cali

The water stain shaped like Alaska was still there. It stretched across the painted wood ceiling exactly where it had when I was a kid, when I’d lain awake counting knots in the boards while Grandpa promised everything looked worse in the dark. The ceiling fan ticked with every slow rotation, stirring cool morning air that carried the faint scent of old pine and laundry detergent. Somewhere down the hall, a floorboard creaked. For one blissful second, I forgot where I was. The memories flooded back: Kennedy, Grandpa, working at the hospital.

Day seven.

I lay still, staring at Alaska until my pulse slowed into something manageable. Seven days back in town. Seven days since I’d unpacked my life into the old farmhouse. Seven days since everything became real. Today was my first shift, and I was so grateful that I had been able to complete the orientation modules online. I slipped out of bed and padded down the hall. Grandpa’s door was open, which made my stomach lurch before I even saw him.

He lay asleep on top of the covers, still wearing yesterday’s overalls. One sock had disappeared sometime during the night. His silver hair pointed in every direction, and one weathered hand clutched the edge of the blanket as though someone might take it from him. Relief washed through me so fast it made my knees weak. I crossed the room and tucked the blanket over his shoulders. The man who held my world together as a child. Taught me to drive a tractor before I was old enough to reach the pedals without scooting forward. Held our little family together while my mother drifted in and out of our lives like the weather—arriving with a new boyfriend or another modeling job before disappearing again. His eyes fluttered open.

“Rose?” he whispered.

My throat tightened. “It’s Cali.”

His blue gaze sharpened for half a second. Recognition flickered there—bright, like a match catching fire. “Cal.” His mouth curved. “You’re up early.”

“I’ve got to go to work.”

He blinked. “At the hospital?”

“Yeah.” Every time he remembered something on his own, I felt like I’d won a prize at a carnival.

He nodded as if that made perfect sense. “You always were the smart one.”

I swallowed around the burn in my chest. “Go back to sleep.” His eyes drifted shut before I reached the doorway.

A hot shower chased away the last vestiges of the morning fog. I braided my thick auburn hair into a loose rope over one shoulder before pulling on my favorite dusty rose Figs and slipping into my white On Clouds.

The drive to Kennedy Community Hospital would take twelve minutes. Twelve minutes to become Nurse Practitioner Cali Walton instead of granddaughter, mother, caretaker. I grabbed my bag and headed downstairs.

Jace was already in the kitchen, sitting on the counter like it was a throne, holding a spoon halfway to his mouth and cradling a bowl of Lucky Charms.

“You’re up early,” I said.

“So are you,” he said around a mouthful of cereal.