A niggle in the back of my brain drew my attention away from the letter in front of me and back to the front hall. To the table next to the grandfather clock in particular.
In a rush, I was on my feet, standing over the wooden surface and staring down at the piece of paper with my name scribbled on it and the journal beneath it.
Grabbing it up, I thumbed open the first page and whistled.
“Journal #74?” I noted the date as being her birthday. Quick math said she’d been journaling since she was twelve. “Seventy-three more of these?” I hefted the journal. It wasn’t slim.
Tapping the book against one hand, I let myself become lost in thought about the woman who had become a second mother to me in many ways. I’d known much about her, but journaling was a new thing.
What else had she kept secret?
Thumbing open to the first entry, I read more about the forest, mostly skipping that, and the mundane notes about what she’d done that particular day. I smiled when I got to the part where she talked about me showing up with cupcakes and a card. Tears trickled down my cheeks, warm tracks on the cool skin. She sounded so happy.
“I’m glad you enjoyed it as much as I did, Grandma. I’m just sorry I wasn’t here when you really needed me.”
I didn’t need you in death, dearie. I had you in life.
I wasn’t sure where the words came from, but they certainly sounded like something she would say.
Blinking until I could see clearly, I read on.
I wished I hadn’t.
Time is running out. I have failed. The bonds are being withdrawn, and soon the chains will begin to fail. They must be reforged before it is too late.
I stared at the four sentences. The writing was very clearly hers. But the words. I had never heard the woman speak like this. Ever. She was a kindly old lady who enjoyed her bridge, going to church and weekly bingo nights. This … this was different.
Flipping the page, I was again left stunned at the opening lines.
The guardian presence of the forest is fading. It’s strength and welcoming are dissolving as the cold darkness begins to worm its way in. No longer do I feel protected in its arms.
The last sentence in particular held my attention. I reread it a dozen times. More. My grandmother used to feel protected in the forest too? A validation of years of my childhood, and it was right there, on the page.
I had told my parents, over and over again, how walking in the forest made me feel safe and secure. Like it was looking out for me. None of them had understood. All my childhood life, I had thought I was crazy. Now here, on the page, was confirmation that someone else had felt it too.
Only she was saying it was gone.
I looked into the kitchen, out the window and across the back lawn, past the giant oak tree standing alone with its tire swing, to the tree line of the forest another fifty feet back.
Fresh sadness welled up as I fought with the realization that now, after all these years, I would never get the chance to talk about it. Because she was gone.
The harshgong of the grandfather clock startled me out of any impending reverie or downward spiral, reminding me that my time was also running out. I had a funeral to attend, and I needed to pull myself together if I was going to make it.
Returning to the funeral home where I buried my parents wouldn’t be easy.
Sylvie
Finding the funeral home was easy. Finding parking was not. Half the town had shown up by the looks of it. Cars filled the parking lot, and the streets were lined with them, forcing me to drive to the next block over to locate an empty spot. I could probably have found space in the funeral home’s lot if I wanted to, but the sun was shining, and a chance to stretch my legs and get some fresh air sounded like a wonderful idea with the day I was having.
The instant I was in sight of the funeral home, however, my neck started to tingle. Not a warning of danger, so I didn’t panic, but the prickles never faded. I was being watched. It was impossible to describe the feeling to someone who had never experienced it, but once you had, you knew it intimately.
Scanning the street and the cars around me, I tried to locate them, but to no avail. They were either hidden, or I wasn’t able to distinguish them from everyone else. The sidewalks had numerous people on them, all making their way to the funeral home.
My grandmother was more popular than I had assumed. I knew she was well-liked and respected, but this was a lot.
“Sylvie? Sylvie Wilson?”
I turned, already bracing myself. Not because of the speaker, an elderly lady with a walker I didn’t recognize, but because I knew what was about to happen.
“That’s me,” I said.
“I thought you looked familiar. Your grandmother used to show me pictures of you. I’m Sheila Rodriguez.” The woman balanced herself carefully with one hand gripping the walker’s rail and gave me her other to shake. “I just wanted to say that I am very sorry about your grandmother. Helen was a truly wonderful lady. She was very proud of you. Our bingo nights won’t be the same without her.”
“Thank you,” I said, trying to sound appreciative when all I wanted was to be left alone. I’d had enough condolences for two lifetimes when I was here for my parents’ funeral.
They meant well, but that didn’t make it any easier, repeating the same lines over and over again.
Thank you. I’m doing fine. No, I’ll be okay, thank you. Yes, she was wonderful.
Again. And again. I couldn’t. Not this time. I needed to say something else. A different topic, something besides death.
“Sheila,” I said, an idea coming to me. “You played bingo with my grandmother?”
“Every Monday night,” she confirmed.
“Had she stopped showing up lately?” I asked.
Sheila laughed, surprising herself. “Absolutely not. You couldn’t stop that woman if you tried. She was there early, helping set up most nights, and often stayed behind as well. She helped out anyone who needed it. I saw her just last week. She was as spry as ever. Which isn’t to say she was running around, but she never took a day off either.”
“Thank you,” I said, moving on as a line of people started to appear, others realizing who I was.
Most of them were a blur, names and faces of people I had never met or heard of but who had known my grandmother in some way and felt obliged to attend her funeral, to remember the life of a woman who would be sorely missed by half the town apparently.
I finally managed to extricate myself from the line and had nearly made it inside, when an elderly man fell in step alongside me. He moved easily and with pep for someone I judged to be in his mid-seventies, easily keeping up with me and not appearing to need to put much effort into it. He had standard male-pattern-baldness, but neglected to remove the sides and back, the silvery-gray hair tapering into a full beard that came halfway to his shoulders.
“Desmond Crane,” he said by way of introduction.
“Sylvie.” I didn’t feel the need to give him my last name. “What can I do for you, Mr. Crane?”
“Call me Des, please. Your grandmother did.”
I eyed the man. “If you insist.”
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