I took her to her podiatrist appointments on Tuesday, which meant I would spend hours in a waiting room that smelled of rubbing alcohol, just browsing car magazines from when I was five years old. Then, I took care of a wobbly railing on the back porch by replacing it with deck screws that I found lying around in the garage. Life became predictable. Every evening, we used to sit on the green sofa and watch episodes of Law & Order until she would fall asleep halfway through the second one.
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Then one day Jesse texted me. I was sitting on the floor against the coffee table, waiting out an ad break. My phone vibrated on the wood floor.
“How’s the retirement plan going?”
And I really should’ve just deleted it. Jesse was probably just out getting drunk at O’Malley’s, trying to get a rise out of me. But instead, not thinking at all, I typed: “Once she’s gone, I’m set.”
I sat staring at my phone for a moment. The blue glow seemed blindingly bright in the dark living room. I felt guilty for about five seconds—sharp little stab of it in my gut—before turning the phone over in my hand and going back to my show. As if somehow, feeling a little guilt made me less monstrous. As if having some sort of conscience about the whole thing meant that I was on the right side.
Three days later she collapsed.
She was merely standing beside the stove, trying to grab a spoon from to stir her tea. However, her hand missed, and then the next thing I knew, she was gripping the edge of the counter with her two hands as her knees seemed to give out on her. Her expression was one of confusion, and that was what scared me, since Evie was not someone who ever showed any confusion. She was always on top of the situation.
In the hospital, the doctor was discussing her heart, but I wasn’t paying attention. I couldn’t help but think about us fighting about freezing the bananas just an hour ago. Life is so incredibly fragile, and after all, it makes you feel like a moron.
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The funeral was brief. Her niece Claire couldn’t stand me at all, and quite frankly, who could blame her?
On the morning following the funeral, I met with her lawyer to talk about the house. Rather than providing me with paperwork, he gave me a shoe box with my name on it.
In it was the printout of the message I’d sent to Jesse. It lit up while I was sitting in the kitchen.
Beneath that piece of paper was a bunch of receipts for the things that she bought for me – my new boots, new coat, car repair, even the dentist!
She had written notes on almost every single one of them.
You lied about needing help here.
You almost told me the truth here.
You looked ashamed when I bought this.
The final note was attached to the receipt from the thick black wool coat that I had been wearing at her funeral the previous day. It hurt worse than if she’d screamed at me, because she didn’t leave me with nothing—she left the house to me anyway. She knew exactly what I was doing the entire time, and she still decided to save me.
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Love and Peace
