She looked up when I came in.
Her face showed no surprise at all.
“They’re not here,” I said.
It wasn’t a question.
“No,” she said. “Sit down, Clara.”
On the kitchen counter was a note in my mother’s handwriting.
She has the kind of handwriting they don’t teach anymore. Every letter perfectly formed, disciplined, beautiful, and cold.
I read it standing up.
Clara, I’m so sorry for the last-minute change. Marcus got the regional director promotion, the big one. Remember his firm is flying the whole team to New York for the announcement dinner. Dad and I couldn’t miss it. You understand? Grandma Evelyn is here. She needs her blood pressure medication at 8:00 a.m. and 8:00 p.m. It’s on the counter. Stay through Sunday if you can. There are leftovers in the fridge. We’ll celebrate Thanksgiving properly when we’re back. P.S. I know teaching doesn’t pay much, but maybe helping with Grandma will remind you that taking care of people has real value.
I read it twice.
The words “taking care of people has real value” sat in my chest like a stone, because what she meant, what she always meant, was that it just didn’t have monetary value.
Not the kind that mattered to her.
Not the kind my brother had.
I folded the note and put it in the pocket of my jacket.
I don’t know exactly why I kept it. I have a habit of keeping things I should probably throw away.
My grandmother watched me from the table.
She was 79 years old and had been watching my family for a long time.
“You knew they weren’t going to be here,” I said.
She picked up her pen and filled in another square.
“I suspected.”
I pulled out a chair and sat across from her.
The table was old oak, the same one she’d had in her house before she moved in with my parents three years ago when her knees started giving her trouble.
It had hosted 40 years of Sunday dinners and holiday meals and quiet mornings with coffee and crossword puzzles.
“Grandma,” I said, “are you okay?”
She set down her pen and looked at me.
Her eyes were sharp and brown and entirely clear.
My grandmother had never once in her life looked like a woman who needed to be worried about.
“I’m fine,” she said. “The question is whether you are.”
I didn’t have an answer for that, so I went to check her medications.
Two bottles on the counter.
Lisinopril, 10 mg, once in the morning.
Atorvastatin, 20 mg, once at night.
Both current.
Both filled last week.
I checked the dates, the prescribing physician, the dosages.
I’m an elementary school teacher, not a nurse, but I’ve been the one managing my grandmother’s medications for three years because my parents were always in the middle of something that mattered more.
