I launched an investigation. “Gran,” I said, “what illness do you have? You never told me.”
We were in the kitchen at the time, cleaning up after dinner. “My dear girl,” she said. “Let’s have a seat.” We took our spots at our country-style dining set for two, which we’d salvaged years earlier from a bin outside of our building.
I waited for her to speak.
“I’ve been giving you time. Time to get used to the idea,” she eventually said.
“Used to what idea?” I asked.
“Molly, dear. I have a serious illness.”
“You do?”
“Yes. I have pancreatic cancer.”
And just like that, the pieces clicked, the full picture emerged from the murky shadows. This explained the loss of weight and the lack of energy. Gran was only half herself, which is why she needed full and proper medical care so she could make a complete recovery.
“When will the medicine take effect?” I asked. “Maybe you need to see a different doctor?” But as she doled out the details, the truth began to sink in. Palliative. Such an operatic word, so lovely to say. And so hard to contemplate.
“It can’t be, Gran,” I insisted. “You will get better. We simply have to clean up this mess.”
“Oh, Molly. Some messes can’t be cleaned. I’ve had such a good life, I really have. I have no complaints, except that I won’t have more time with you.”
“No,” I said. “This is unacceptable.”
She looked at me then in such an unreadable way. She took my hand in hers. Her skin was so soft, so paper-thin, but her touch was warm, right to the end.
“Let’s just be clear-eyed about this,” she said. “I’m going to die.”
I felt the room close in around me, felt it tilt on one end. For a moment, I couldn’t breathe at all, could not so much as move. I was sure I was going to pass out right at the kitchen table.
“I’ve told the Coldwells I can’t work anymore, but don’t you worry, there’s still the Fabergé. I hope that when my time comes, the good Lord takes me quickly, without too much pain. But if there is pain, I’ve got my prescription to help with that. And I have you….”
“Gran,” I said. “There has to be a—”
“There’s one thing you must promise me,” she said. “I will not go to the hospital under any circumstances. I won’t spend my end days in an institution surrounded by strangers. There’s no substitute for family, for the ones you love. Or for the comforts of home. If there’s anyone I want by my bedside, it’s you. Do you understand?”
Sadly, I did. I’d tried as hard as I could to ignore the truth, but it was now impossible. Gran needed me. What else was I to do?
That evening, Gran tired out long before Columbo, so I tucked her into bed, kissed her on the cheek, and said good night. Then I cleaned the kitchen cupboards and every dish we owned, one by one. I could not stop my tears from falling as I polished every bit of silver, not that we had much, but we had a little. When I was done, the entire kitchen smelled of lemons, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that dirt lurked in the cracks and crevices, and unless I cleaned it, the contagion would spread into every facet of our lives.
I still hadn’t said a thing to Gran about the Fabergé and Wilbur, how he’d left us penniless. How I could no longer pay tuition for college, how I was struggling to even keep up with the rent. Instead, I simply worked more shifts at the Regency Grand, took on more hours so that I could have enough to pay for everything—including Gran’s pain-management medications and our groceries. We were late on the rent, which was another thing I didn’t mention. Whenever I met our landlord, Mr. Rosso, in the hall, I pleaded for more time to pay, explaining that Gran was sick and we were down to just my income.
Meanwhile, as Gran’s health worsened, I read college brochures aloud to her at her bedside, explaining all the courses and workshops I was excited about, even though I knew I’d never make it to the first class. Gran closed her eyes, but I could tell she was listening because of the peaceful smile on her face.
“When I’m gone, you just use the Fabergé whenever you need to. If you keep working part-time, there will still be enough for rent for at least two years, and that’s not including your tuition. It’s all yours, so use it to make your life easier.”
“Yes, Gran. Thank you.”
I’ve been daydreaming and I didn’t realize it. I’m standing by the front door of our apartment. My mop leans against the wall and I’m clutching Gran’s serenity pillow to my chest. I don’t remember when I put down my mop or when I picked up this pillow. The parquet floor is clean, but it’s battered and scarred from decades of foot traffic, from the daily wear and tear of our domestic life. The overhead light bears down on me, too bright, too warm.
I’m all alone. How long have I been standing here? The floors are dry. My phone is ringing. I lean over and grab it from Gran’s chair.
“Hello, this is Molly Gray speaking.”
There’s a pause on the other end of the line. “Molly. This is Alexander Snow from the hotel. I’m glad you’re home.”
“Thank you. Yes. I’ve been home for some time. The detective drove me here herself after she questioned me. Rather good of her, I thought.”
“Yes. And thank you for agreeing to talk to her. I’m sure your insights will help the investigation.”
He pauses again. I can hear his shallow breathing on the other end of the line. It is not the first time he has called me at home, but a call from Mr. Snow is a rare occurrence.
“Molly,” he says again. “I realize this has been a very trying day for you. It’s been hard on many of us, especially Mrs. Black. News has been spreading about Mr. Black’s…demise. As you can imagine the entire staff is very upset and disturbed.”
“Yes. I can imagine,” I say.
“I realize that tomorrow is your one day off in weeks and that you went through a lot today, but it seems that Cheryl has taken the news of Mr. Black’s death quite badly. She says the experience has caused her ‘extreme trauma,’ so she won’t be coming in tomorrow.”
“But she wasn’t the one to find him dead,” I say.
“Everyone reacts to stress in different ways, I suppose,” he replies.
“Yes, of course,” I reply.
“Molly, do you think you could come in her place and work the day shift tomorrow? Again, I’m sorry that—”
“Of course,” I say. “An extra day of work isn’t going to kill me.”
Another long pause.
“Is that all, Mr. Snow?”
“Yes, that’s all. And thank you. We’ll see you tomorrow morning.”
“You will indeed,” I say. “Good night, Mr. Snow. Don’t let the bed bugs bite.”
“Good night, Molly.”
Tuesday
Chapter 6
I will admit to having bad dreams last night. I dreamed that Mr. Black walked through the front door of my apartment, gray and ashen, like the living dead. I was sitting on the sofa, watching Columbo. I turned to him and said, “No one comes here, not since Gran died.” He started laughing—laughing at me. But I focused my laser gaze on him, and his limbs turned to dust, a fine charcoal particulate that spread around the room and into my lungs. I started gagging and coughing.
“No!” I yelled. “I didn’t do this to you! It wasn’t me! Get out!”
But it was too late. His grime was everywhere. I woke up gasping for air.
It’s now six a.m. It’s time to rise and shine. Or just rise.
I get out of bed and make it properly, careful to position Gran’s quilt so that the star in the middle points due north. I go to the kitchen, where I put on Gran’s paisley apron and prepare tea and crumpets for one. It’s too quiet in the mornings. The scratchy grate of my knife against the toasted crumpet is an offense to my ears. I eat quickly, then shower and leave for work.