The next day, instead of sleeping until noon, Ginger woke up early, took a shower, blow-dried her hair, and changed into clean clothes. Then she climbed into the SUV she hadn’t used in over five weeks and drove to the Silver Springs Care Center to see her grandmother.
As she drove there, she promised herself that this decision had nothing to do with Cain’s pep talk yesterday, though her heart knew a lie when it heard one. His words had hurt her, made her feel self-pitying and weak, and he was right: Gran didn’t have forever, and Ginger had neglected her.
She stopped by a florist on her way over, picking up a peace offering of pink roses, but found when she entered Gran’s room that she’d been beaten to the punch. On her grandmother’s dresser and bedside table were vases of fresh wildflowers, cheering her room with their vibrant fall colors.
She shrugged. Daddy must have come by recently.
She set the roses on the blanket at the foot of Gran’s bed and pressed her lips to her grandmother’s forehead. It was smooth and warm, and Ginger inhaled deeply, the scent of marshmallows and coconut filling her with comfort.
“G-Gin?” Gran whispered, waking up slowly. “That . . . you, d-darlin’?”
“It’s me, Gran,” she said, sniffling as she wiped a tear away.
Her grandmother looked more frail since the last time she’d seen her, after Woodman’s funeral, and Ginger had a sudden burst of gratitude toward Cain, for his harsh words, which had challenged her to get up, get dressed, and go see her gran.
“D-doll baby,” said her grandmother, “it’s b-been . . . an . . . age.”
“I know, Gran. I’m so sorry,” she said, wiping away a tear. “I think I lost my way for a while there.”
“Are you . . . f-findin’ it . . . again?”
She managed a small smile as she sniffled again. “I think so. I hope so.”
“Isn’t easy . . . losing s-someone . . . you l-loved.”
He’s just away. He’s just away. He’s just away.
She clenched her jaw. “I’m not ready to . . . to talk about him, Gran. Not yet.”
“If you . . . d-don’t, you’re g-gonna . . . c-c-collapse under . . . the w-w-weight . . . of your s-sorrow.”
Ginger stood up and plucked the bouquet of flowers from Gran’s blanket, fixing a bright smile on her face. “I brought you flowers, but it looks like someone else had the same idea. Daddy stop by recently?”
“Yes, but they’re not from him,” said Gran, her alert eyes searching Ginger’s face carefully.
“You got a new beau? A new admirer?”
Gran chuckled softly, which led to a fit of coughing.
Ginger poured her grandmother a cup of water and held the straw to her lips. Gran had long since become dependent on others to feed her and help her drink. Her hands shook so violently now, the water would slosh all over the place if she tried to hold the cup herself.
“Th-thank you, d-doll b-baby.”
Ginger placed the cup back on the bedside table and sat down on the bed. “I don’t want to tire you out, Gran. But I promise you I’ll be back more often now. I’m so sorry I checked out for a while.”
“I understand.”
“Thank you,” she said, leaning down to kiss her grandmother’s parchment-paper cheek.
“G-Gin?” whispered Gran near her ear.
“Yes, ma’am?” she asked, staying close to her lips.
“P-people . . . c-can . . . ch-change.”
Ginger leaned back and looked down at her grandmother’s face. “Well, sure they can.”
“C-completely. F-from who . . . th-they were . . . t-to who . . . th-they are.”
“I know that,” said Ginger, cocking her head to the side, trying to understand where Gran was going. “What are you tryin’ to say? Are you talkin’ about someone in particular?”
Gran’s lips were open, and her eyes seemed to be begging Ginger to understand, but they grew heavy and finally flitted closed, like the conversation they were having was too much effort to continue.
“Gran?” she whispered, but her grandmother’s breathing was slow and deep. She was asleep.
Ginger took the roses into the bathroom, found a vase under Gran’s sink, and placed the stems in the water. Then she brought the vase back out and put it them on top of the bureau across from Gran’s bed, beside the vase of wildflowers. She grinned at the contrast: polite hothouse roses next to primitive, wildly colorful weeds.
“He . . . loves . . . you,” Gran whispered in her sleep, her words just short of a sigh.
Ginger nodded, tears stinging her eyes because everyone else used the past tense, but in her dreams, Gran still talked about Woodman as if he were alive.
Yes, he does, she thought sadly, turning to leave. He loves me very much.
***