Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 83343 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 417(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83343 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 417(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
“And then you’d come back,” she says.
I nod and pour the hot water from the kettle and bring both mugs over to the table. “I made green tea and didn’t ask you. I’m sorry.”
“This is lovely. And good for me. Thank you.”
I lean back on the chair and take a sip of the tea. It’s still too hot, and I wince a little at the burn.
“How do you think you’d feel if you did go?” she asks.
“If I went and it was okay, I’d feel…relief.”
“In what way could it not be okay?”
I sigh and set down my mug. “Well, that’s the problem. I don’t know. If I stay here at Crompton for the weekend, I know exactly how it will be. I know it will be lovely.” I will iron my bedsheets and maybe steal a rose from the side of Granny’s house for the bud vase that sits on my kitchen windowsill. I might have a drink with Meghan and wander down to the lake, see if I can spot any frogs. Every moment of every day wouldn’t be set in stone, but what I do will be set within certain parameters. No surprises. No emergencies or disasters.
“In what way do you think a weekend in Norfolk could be wonderful?” Granny asks.
I close my eyes and a movie plays in my head. I imagine walking down the beach holding Vincent’s hand. I imagine his family gathered around the fire, playing charades and eating a roast dinner on Sunday before we’re forced to say goodbye. I’ve only had a chance to see that kind of thing in a film. But Vincent’s offering the chance for me to be there, to experience it myself. “There are lots of ways it could be wonderful. I think…I’d like to try.”
Granny sets down her knitting and takes both of my hands in hers. Her eyes are glassy and her voice cracks when she speaks. “That’s wonderful, my darling.”
“Do you think I can? I want to.”
She closes her eyes and takes in a deep breath before opening her eyes and smiling at me. “Wanting to is a start. Wanting to is a great start.”
“And I get to come back,” I say.
“In just a few days,” Granny says.
“Why do you think that Mum was like she was?” I ask. “Do you think she didn’t like to be tied down with a child, so she ended up overcompensating?”
“She loved you,” Granny says. “I know she did. But I don’t think she understood how to be anyone other than the person she was. Even as a small child, she got bored easily, hated going to bed, going to school, doing anything she had to repeat over and over. Trying to get her to clean her teeth or even bathe regularly was a battle. Most kids can avoid things they don’t like, but it wasn’t that she didn’t want to brush her teeth, it was more she didn’t want to be tied down to anything. Not even taking care of herself.”
“You’re not like that. Grandpa wasn’t like that. Where did it come from?”
Granny shook her head. “I don’t know, my darling. Some people are just born a certain way.”
“Is that why she didn’t like to go to the hospital appointments?”
“I think so. It was easier to manage when she was a child, because I would force her to do some things, but as an adult…there was little hope she would manage her condition on her own.”
“You knew that?”
“Your grandpa would keep track of the appointments and beg her to get to them. He was devastated when she died—we both were obviously—but I think he thought he should have done more. I don’t know why I accepted it more easily. Maybe I felt it in my womb or something, but I just saw it happening as soon as we got the diagnosis. I had a long time to grieve my daughter before she died.”
My mum’s epilepsy shouldn’t have been fatal. If she’d just taken care of herself, she could have lived a long and happy life. If she’d made her hospital appointments, taken her medication regularly…she could have lived. A small voice in the back of my head adds for me. She could have lived for me.
I try and steady my breathing to stop myself from crying—not for my mother, since my grief for her has long passed, but for my grandparents. They saved me, yet it doesn’t make up for the suffering they endured because of my mother’s choices.
“I always worried more about you after her death,” Granny continues. “I still do.”
I know why she worries. Even though we don’t talk about it much, it’s always there, buried slightly under the surface. It’s not until now that I’ve even considered anything changing. Guilt catches in my throat at the thought of worrying Granny all these years.