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I emptied the rest of the painkillers into her tea—four pills, that’s all. Not enough. It would be five days before we could fill another prescription, five days of agony.
I looked at Gran through my tears. She blinked and looked at the spoon on the saucer.
I took it and stirred and stirred, until a minute later she blinked again. I stopped stirring.
With great effort, she leaned forward, enough that I could put the cup to her gray lips. Even as I fed her the liquid, I begged. “Don’t drink. Don’t…”
But she did. She drank the whole thing.
“Delightful,” she whispered when she was done. Then she eased herself back on her pillows. She put her hands to her chest. Her lips moved. She was speaking. I had to come right up to her lips to hear.
“I love you, my dear girl,” she said. “You know what to do.”
“Gran,” I said. “I can’t!”
But I could see it. I could see her body stiffen, the pain seizing heronce more. Her breathing became even more shallow and the rattle was louder, like a drum.
We’d discussed it. I’d promised. She was always so rational, so logical, and I could not deny her this last wish. I knew it was what she wanted. She did not deserve to suffer.
God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.
I took her serenity pillow from behind me on the chair. I put the pillow over Gran’s face and held it there.
I couldn’t look at the pillow. I concentrated instead on her hands, a worker’s hands, a maid’s hands, hands so much like mine—clean, nails trimmed short, callused knuckles, the skin thin and papery, the blue rivers beneath them receding, their flow ebbing. Once, they extended out, her fingers grasping, reaching, but it was too late. We’d decided. Before they could reach anything, they relaxed. They let go.
It didn’t take long. When all was silent, I moved the pillow away. I hugged it to my chest with all my strength.
There she was, my gran. She looked for all the world as though she was fast asleep, her eyes closed, her mouth slightly open, her face serene. At rest.
Now, as I lie awake in her bed over nine months later, with Juan Manuel just down the hall, I think of everything that has come to pass, of these past few days that have turned my life upside down.
“Gran, I miss you so much. And I can’t believe I’ll never see you again.”
Count your blessings.
“Yes, Gran, I will,” I said out loud. “It’s so much better than counting sheep.”
I wake to the familiar sounds and smells of breakfast being made—the coffee brewing, the shuffling of slippers in the kitchen. Even the sound of humming.
But it’s not Gran.
And I’m not in my own bed. I’m in hers.
It all comes back to me.
Rise and shine, dear girl. It’s a new day.
I shift out of bed, slip my feet into slippers, and put Gran’s housecoat on over my pajamas. I tiptoe to the bathroom to freshen up and then walk to the kitchen.
There he is, Juan Manuel. He has showered—his hair is still wet. He’s humming his little tune, clattering dishes and scrambling eggs on the stovetop.
“Good morning!” he says, looking up from the pan. “I hope you don’t mind. I ran to the store and came back very quiet. You didn’t have eggs. And this bread?” He points to the crumpets on the counter. “For me it is strange. I don’t know how to cook it. Too many holes.”
“They are crumpets,” I say. “And they’re delicious. You toast them, then add butter and marmalade.”
I grab the bag and pop two into the toaster.
“I hope you don’t mind that I make breakfast.”
