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“But maybe they can do something. Maybe the doctors can—”
“Shhhh,” she said whenever I refused to listen. “We made a promise, you and I. And what did we agree about promises?”
“Promises are meant to be kept.”
“Yes,” she said. “That’s my girl.”
On the last day, her pain was worse than ever. I tried yet again to convince her to go to the hospital, to no avail.
“Columbois coming on,” she said.
I turned on the television, and we watched the episode, or rather I watched and she closed her eyes, her hands gripping the bedsheets.
“I’m listening,” she said, her voice a mere whisper. “Be my eyes. Tell me what I need to see.”
I watched the screen and narrated the action. Columbo was interviewing a trophy wife who didn’t seem terribly distraught to learn that her millionaire husband was probably not the main suspect in a murder case. I described the restaurant they were in, the green tablecloth, the way her head moved, the way she fidgeted at the table. I told Gran when I knew Columbo was onto her, that look that showed he knew the truth before anyone else.
“Yes,” she said. “Very good. You’re learning expressions.”
Halfway through the episode, Gran became agitated. The pain was so bad that she was wincing and tears were running down her face.
“Gran? How can I help? What can I do?”
I could hear her labored breath. There was a catch to each intake, like water gurgling in a drain.
“Molly,” she said. “It’s time.”
Columbo continued his investigations in the background. He was onto the wife. The pieces were coming together. I turned the volume down.
“No, Gran. No, I can’t.”
“Yes,” she said. “You promised.”
I protested. I tried to reason. I begged her to please, please, please let me call the hospital.
She waited for my storm to pass. And when it did, she said it again.
“Make me a cup of tea. It’s time.”
I was so grateful to have instruction that I leaped to my feet. I rushed to the kitchen and had her tea ready, in her favorite cup—the one with the pretty cottage scene—in record time.
I took it back to her and set it on the bedside table. I put a pillow underneath her so she was more upright, but no matter how gently I touched her, she moaned pitifully, like an animal in a trap.
“My pills,” she said. “Whatever’s left of them.”
“It won’t work, Gran,” I said. “There aren’t enough. Next week we’ll have more.” I begged her yet again. I pleaded.
“Promises…”
She no longer had enough breath to complete the phrase.
In the end, I relented. I opened the bottle and put it on the edge of her saucer. I brought the teacup to her hands.
“Put them in,” she said.
“Gran—”
“Please.”
