Page 97 of Disturbing the Dead
Nan is fading fast. There are lots of whispered discussions between Mom and the doctors, conversations I am not allowed to be part of. Conversations about hurrying the end along? I know Nan had considered medically assisted death, but when the end came, it came too fast for that.
Is it too late to do anything? Too late legally… but too late for mercy? I have no idea what the laws are here. I only know that I don’t need to be part of those conversations to understand what they are about. And even as the little girl in me screams that I want every last moment with Nan, the adult agrees that if the end can come faster, while she’s lucid and the pain is controlled, then that is the truest definition of mercy.
Nan and I talk when she’s awake. She wants to know more about my life in 1869. She doesn’t mention me leaving again. She just wants to know more, and if it gives her something to distract her in these final days—and gives us one last secret to share—then that is the greatest blessing I could ask for.
That evening, after Nan falls into a deep sleep, I head to the rental apartment, on Royal Circus. Standing at the window, looking out at the quiet circle, I remember when I’d last seen it, strolling here with Isla. We’d walked along the Water of Leith, the same route Florence King wandered the night Sir Alastair died. We’d bought hot pies, and we were heading home when I recognized the apartment I’d rented and stopped to show it to her.
I’m looking out, smiling as I imagine us standing right under this window. Then I realize I’m not alone and wheel to see Mom there.
“I didn’t hear you come in,” I say.
Without a word, she walks over and hugs me. Hugs me tight, and I fall into her embrace.
“I love you so much, Mal,” she says, stroking my hair. “I want you to be happy. That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”
I stiffen. “Did Nan say something?”
She doesn’t answer. She just holds me even tighter, and I know my secret isn’t a secret anymore. Does Mom believe it? It was one thing for Nan to accept it—the woman who claimed she didn’t believe in the fair folk but also avoided stepping in mushroom rings. Convincing my defense-attorney mom? That’d be a whole other level, and I can’t imagine how Nan would even try. But for now, Mom doesn’t say a word. She just hugs me.
Death comes for Nan the next morning. When Mom and Dad hurry me into the room, I swear I see Death waiting by the curtains dancing in the breeze, and it’s not the Grim Reaper with his scythe, but Death from the Sandman comics I devoured as a teen, gentle and kind and waiting patiently to lead my grandmother to the other side.
I expected to howl and rail at these final moments. But Nan is ready to go, and I am ready to let her go. Not ready to release her from my life—I’d never be ready for that—but ready to release her from her own.
I am calm enough to insist Mom be the first at her bedside, in case the end comes too quickly for us all to get a chance. Dad and I stay outside the room while Mom says her goodbyes. Then Dad joins Mom for a few moments.
When it’s my turn, I ask my parents to stay, and they agree, just stepping aside to give Nan and me our moment together.
I say everything I’ve dreamed of saying since I thought I’d lost my chance. I share my most cherished memories of our time together. I tell her how important she was in my life and how much I love her, and how I regret being too busy with work to come over for more than a few days at a time.
“You came,” she says. “That was all that mattered. Children grow up, and they start their own lives, as they should. But you called and you wrote and you came, and I never once wished for more.”
I hug her. Then she takes my hand and squeezes with more vigor than I expect, startling me.
“I believe everyone has a place they are supposed to be,” she says. “For me, it was here. I was born here, grew up here, met your grandfather here, and never left, and I counted myself lucky to have been born in exactly the right spot. Your mother’s spot was across the ocean, and that hurt, but I was so happy she found it. Then I only had to wait for you to find yours. You thought you had, but it wasn’t quite the right fit. You needed to find the place where you belonged, completely. A place where you could make a difference. You did. It just wasn’t where anyone would have looked.”
I go to speak, but her hand tightens on mine.
“You could be happy here, Mallory,” she says. “And if you must be, then you will be. But your place is back there. You think it was some wild coincidence that landed you in that time, in that place. It wasn’t. It was the universe correcting itself. You went to where you were supposed to be.”
She reaches up for a hug, and I lean down into it, her frail arms going around me. “You will find your way back, Mallory. I’ve seen what you will do there, the life you will lead, and I could not be happier for you.”
I hug her again and step to one side, nodding for my mom to come closer. We hold Nan’s hands, with Dad coming up behind us, his hands on our shoulders. And, with a few final breaths, Nan quietly passes from this life.
The last twenty-four hours have been hell. Mom planned everything in advance, because that’s my mother, but it doesn’t keep there from being an endless list of things to be done—final arrangements, people to be notified, staff to be thanked—when all I want to do is find a quiet place and grieve. But then there will be a lull in the activity, and the grief is so overwhelming that I long for activity again.
Everything that can be done has been done. Mom being an only child means there isn’t a cadre of relatives who need to fly in. Nan’s family and friends all live locally, and the funeral will be in two days.
We’re driving back to the apartment, heading down Princes Street, when Mom turns in to a parking lot.
“Let’s grab something to eat.”
I want to protest. It’s midafternoon, and I couldn’t eat even if it were mealtime. Yet I must always remember that, as much as I loved Nan, my mom has suffered the greatest loss, and if she wants to eat, we will eat.
Dad says nothing. He just gets out of the car—the passenger seat now—and takes her jacket from beside me, shakes it out and helps her into it.
Nan joked earlier about me needing to cross time to find a man worthy of me. The truth behind that joke is that it’s not about me finding a “worthy” man, but finding one who might give me the sort of love, respect, and support I expect, based on my parents. They have set the bar so high that anything less is settling, and I’ve never settled in my life.
I lag behind to watch them, hand in hand, Dad carrying Mom’s purse, as if even that would be too much of a burden for her right now.
