“How are you here then? I saw the car, and when I heard your voice, I just assumed you were also back for the funeral,” Pastor Nevis said, squeezing and patting my hand as he talked, a gentle reminder that he was there, that I wasn’t alone.
I shook my head. “No. I got a letter from her.
This morning.” I fished it out of my purse, pointing to the top. “Look, it’s dated yesterday. She always dates things. Always. And it’s right there. Yesterday’s date. Now you’re telling me she’s been gone for three days? I don’t understand. That’s impossible.”
Leaning over so he could see the date, Pastor Nevis shook his head. “I don’t know. There is no good reason I can think of for her to write that date.”
“You think she wrote it ahead of time?”
Pastor Nevis smiled, a soothing gesture from an older man who had seen a lot. “Dear Sylvie. While I believe in the afterlife and forgiveness, and that each person has a seat at the table with God, such as it were, I am not sure that even angels would be allowed to return to write a simple letter. Your grandmother moved on three days ago.”
“Yeah.” I reread the date and opening line of the letter for the hundredth time. “I guess.”
He was right. She wrote it before she died, of that I had no doubt. But that did precisely nothing to solve the question ofwhy she did it that way.
“She says here, her time is running out.” He pointed at the line in question. “If she knew that she didn’t have long, is it possible her memory was beginning to go?”
“No.” There was no hesitation. “Look at this handwriting. It’s impeccable. Not a mistake to be found.”
“Possible signs that she wrote another version first.”
“Would a person with cognitive decline be so aware of it to write a rough draft?”
Pastor Nevis shrugged. “Perhaps.”
“No, not my grandma,” I said, though I spoke calmly. This wasn’t a challenge on his part, nor mine. “She was very deliberate and always thought about what she was going to say ahead of time, but it was all up here, in her head.”
I tapped my temple, reading over the opening lines again as I did, trying to puzzle it out. There was a meaning here, a reason for the specific dating of the letter and sending it express post.
I just didn’t know what it was.
“Maybe not. But forgetting the date is a very common sign, a mistake that elderly people make on the regular. You can’t rule that out. I wouldn’t think on it much,” he said. “Now is a time for reflection on Helen Wilson, your grandmother, a time of positivity. We don’t have to focus on the circumstances that come with such a trying time.”
“I suppose. But it’s hard to believe. She was sharp as a tack,” I protested lightly.
“That she was,” Pastor Nevis said, sitting back into the floral-patterned couch, a big smile on his soft features. “A great woman, Helen. A wonderful person I was happy to call a friend. Well-liked by everyone who knew her, which a lot of people in this town did. We’re all going to miss her wit, and her insight.”
“Me most of all.” I stared at the area rug underfoot, not seeing the pattern of cats and dogs sewn into it. “She’s all I have left.
Was all I had left.”
“Yes.” That reassuring hand was back again. “She often talked about your parents, about missing them. Truly a tragedy. We do not have children so that we may bury them. And in such a senseless way too. As I was that day, I am here for you now, if you seek the comfort and security of one such as me to help try to soothe your pain.”
I smiled, still looking down, once again cursing red trucks and their interactions with my family. “Thank you, Mr. Nevis, but no. I appreciate your caring for my grandma, and helping her through. She would be happy to know you’re taking good care of her, but I’ll handle this on my own.”
“Of that, I have no doubt. You have become a wonderful young woman, Sylvie. Your parents are proud of you as they watch over, I feel confident in saying that. Now your grandmother will as well.”
“Thank you.” I still wished they were here to watch in person.
Pastor Nevis gave my hand another squeeze. “I know this is a lot, my dear, but the funeral is scheduled for this afternoon, as per your grandmother’s wishes. She did not want it to be long and drawn out.”
“Three days,” I muttered, still trying to make sense of the timeline.
“Will you be okay? I can stay with you until the time. You need not be alone.”
I gave him a smile I knew looked as empty as it felt and shook my head. “Thank you, but no, pastor. You’ve done plenty, thank you. This is … a bit cold, perhaps, but after burying my parents, I think I can handle this easier. I will miss her dearly, but she was also eighty-six. I knew it could come at any time. The shock is easier to accept. Besides, I am sure you have a great many other things to do in the meantime.”
“All of which would be just fine on their own if you needed me, dear. But I understand.” Pastor Nevis stood. “Are you okay if I take some pictures with me?”
“Of course. Help yourself,” I said.
I stayed seated and unmoving long past when Pastor Nevis had left, the door closing heavily behind him. Then it was me.
Just me.
Time passed. The grandfather clocked filled the house with its deep, resounding gongs that then faded into silence. Fading like everything else.
I fidgeted with the note, twisting it between fingers, folding and unfolding it, over and over again, glancing at its words. The last words I would ever have from my grandmother.
My Dear Vi-vi,
There’s something I never told you. Something important that you should have known about, but time and circumstance were never right for me to tell you. Now it may be too late because my time is running out.
The forest, Vi-vi, it’s the key. At the heart is a darkness. You must not forget that. They did, and now it’s too late. I can’t do anything about it. I should have told you, and I’m sorry.
I’ve watched for the danger and the spreading darkness, and I’ve seen no signs of the guardian. They’re out there. I know it. They must be.
They have to be.
I’m sorry to put this on you, my dearest Vi-vi, but I have no choice.
All my love,
Grandma
“The guardian. What guardian? Guardian of what? The forest?” I shook my head, frustrated at the lack of transparency in the letter. What had my grandmother been trying to tell me?
And why?
There was so little information in the letter. Almost none of it helpful, other than to act as a foreboding sense of impending disaster, now that disaster had struck, and she was gone. Leaving me alone and confused, without anything to go on.
No, that wasn’t entirely true.
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