Life Without You (33 page)

I pulled him in for another hug. “Nothing else I’d rather do.” I paused, my mind completely blank of ideas of how we could spend the next few hours. What could we do that we hadn’t done yet?

“We haven’t had Wilkes yet, and I’d hate to have to send you home knowing that I didn’t take you at least once. Your grammie would skin me alive,” he said, thankfully relieving me of at least part of the responsibility of coming up with a plan.

“You’re right, we haven’t. How did that happen?” I asked, genuinely surprised at the fact that almost the entire month had slipped by without his suggestion that we make a visit to the mini mecca of smoked meats.

Grandpa shrugged. “Don’t know. Guess we got busy with other things.”

That and, if I was going to be perfectly honest, I had probably allowed it to become forgotten because, even though I really wanted to go, I was also really afraid. Even though the hand-pulled pork was smoked and incredibly lean, it had still become a casualty of my safe list, straddling the line just enough that I had abandoned it altogether.

Eat Somewhere Unsafe. Eat Something Unsafe.

My bucket list flashed before my mind’s eye.

I blinked, trying to get a grip on the mental gymnastics that were playing out in my head and in the pit of my stomach. I had only a few days left here.

Was I going to let my panic rob me of the joy of having insanely good barbecue with my grandfather, at a place I had loved since childhood?

Or was I going to listen to the part of me that saw it for what it was: a sandwich, not a death sentence.

One small taste of normalcy, one more memory to make.

One more thing on my bucket list.

I smiled, knowing it was probably more than a little wobbly-looking. “We’re going to have to fix that, then.”

“Can’t wait. We can pick it up and bring it back here to eat, since there’s nowhere to sit there, or we could go to a park. Your choice.”

I thought for a moment. Was there anywhere I wanted to go? Not really. I’d been to the carousel and Air Power Park, and those were really the only two places I knew of that were pretty conducive to picnics. I could hardly claim to be an authority on Hampton’s park situation, though, so I was more than likely missing a few dozen places that would be ideal…but still. I cocked my head thoughtfully.

“How about we come right back here and sit out on the deck. We haven’t done enough of that, and the weather looks perfect for it, don’t you think?” I asked.

“That it does. So what do you want to do with the rest of the day?” he asked, clearly unaware of the panic-inducing nature of the question.

What was there to do? I wanted to spend time with him, but I had absolutely no idea of how we might fill that time. We’d done everything my sad little brain could come up with already, except… How could I have been so thoughtless? The idea hit me like a slap, it was so obvious, and I couldn’t believe no one had already suggested taking me there. The whole month had slipped by, and not once had it come up. Perhaps it had become so much of everyone else’s background that the thought had never occurred to anyone.

Time to change that.

“I want to go see Grammie’s grave,” I said, nearly choking on the words.

The look on his face was one I was not prepared for—a mixture of pain and what I could only guess was surprise, most likely at the fact that we had allowed all this time to pass without ever once bringing the idea up. How had we all so greatly neglected such an obvious thing? I was shamed and saddened by it. How often over the past month had Grammie had been in my heart, on my mind, and in my conversations? Yet the idea of her being at the cemetery had not been one that I had allowed my mind to touch. I wondered if it might not have been a subconscious way of protecting myself, of not letting that part of the reality that she was truly gone hit home.

If I didn’t see her headstone, it was a little less realistic.

The cold stone of a grave seemed so…final. So impersonal.

So unlike Grammie.

Grandpa nodded, swallowing back tears. It was the first time I could recall ever seeing him that close to crying, and it tore my heart to shreds.

“I’m sorry I didn’t ask before now,” I said, barely finding my voice. “I should have. I just somehow…” How could I even begin to explain?

Grandpa nodded again, then cleared his throat. He looked as though he had aged in just the past few minutes. “Don’t apologize, Dellie. I’ve been meaning to ask you.” His voice was gruff with emotion.

“Well, it’s not too late to do it now,” I said, hoping to reassure him.

“No,” he agreed, attempting a smile. “It’s not too late.”

I asked Grandpa to stop off at the Food Lion on the way to the cemetery so that I could buy a balloon. I’d considered flowers, but for my purposes, I thought a balloon was much more appropriate. As we drove slowly down the small winding road that traveled through the cemetery, I could feel my stomach tighten and my nose stinging with tears.

The closer we got, the harder it was to control them.

Was I ready for this?

No, but I found it hard to believe that you could ever
really
be ready to see the headstone of someone you had known and loved your entire life, someone who had seemed as though they would always be there.

We were both silent as we rode on in the truck, and I wondered what Grandpa was thinking.

How many times had he come here in the days since her burial?

How many flowers had he brought to this place that marked the passage of the woman he had loved for more than half a century?

We finally pulled to a stop; and Grandpa cut the engine, his movements slow and heavy, like he was dreading this as much as I was. I reached out a hand to take his, squeezing it tightly as I tried to get my breathing back to normal levels.

Were we ready?

No. Not really.

But it was time.

I gave him a small smile that was meant for me as much as for him, hoping that, in the steps between here and that small slab of engraved stone that I would be able to get a firmer grip on my emotions, that I would be able to get my heart and my mind in line with the reality of all of this. This moment, this place, was like the punctuation mark on the end of a sentence, one that had been a string of words left open to the possibility of more. One that signified a life that wasn’t over… And now it was.

I slinked down from the high seat of the truck cab, getting my feet under me on the ground and tugging the balloon out with me, making sure that it was happily bobbing in the air above my head before I shut the door behind me.

It seemed almost absurd here, in this setting that felt so final, to see the optimistic bounce of a balloon as a light breeze blew through the lush green grounds. Once again, I’d chosen a lavender one, wanting to pay homage to Grammie’s love of the color. But this one—unlike the plain Jane version I’d bought the day Vivi, Savannah, and I had celebrated Savannah’s mother’s birthday—was pearlescent; and I’d practically swooned with delight when I’d found it. It was like a floating lavender pearl—from me,
Dellie Pearl
. And it was perfect. Absolutely perfect.

Grandpa followed behind me, silently trudging up the small patch of grass that separated the paved drive from the countless pieces of stone, concrete, and marble that marked the passing of so many lives, each of them hardly doing justice to the people whose earthly remains rested below. And now Grammie’s name was among them.

The balloon bounced and bobbed, blissfully unaware of its somber surroundings.

Finding Grammie’s marker was easy enough, mere steps away from the drive and in the middle of an almost overwhelming number of other stones bearing names that were both familiar and foreign to me—names traceable in my family tree, names I had spoken many times throughout my own lifetime during visits to this city where my family history had taken such deep root. Grammie had been the last in her line, outliving brothers and sisters, growing old with them and sometimes even taking care of them as the years passed, never withholding her love from them, even when others would have easily turned their backs.

The ground was littered with the remains of these lives, each of their stories finalized by this place.

Or was it? I wondered as I looked around at the markers. Each of these names lived on in the hearts and lives of the ones they left behind, the legacies they built far outlasting them and carrying on for generations.

The balloon tugged lightly on my hand, gently reminding me of what we had come here for.

“So that’s it,” I said quietly, my gaze finally coming to rest on Grammie’s plot.

“That’s it.” Grandpa’s own voice was quiet as he said the words, and I could see the sheen of tears as I glanced at him.

The sentiment was simple, scrolled across the small stone marker that was meant to honor her. Far too simple, but how could the complexities of a life ever truly be whittled down to fit the confines of a headstone?

Meredith Rose Samuelson

Beloved wife, mother, grandmother, great-grandmother, and friend

1933–2013
.

Eighty years she had lived. Eighty years full of life and love and heartache and joy that could hardly be contained here. And they weren’t. They pumped through the pulses of each of her children and her children’s children, lived on in the memories of those who may not have been relations by blood, but whose own lives had been changed by hers.

I love you, Grammie
, I thought, closing my eyes to the strange stillness of the cemetery.
I love you, and I miss you. We all miss you. Thank you for being the woman that you were, the treasure that you were. And thank you for showing me, in the life that you lived, that the struggles we face can make us even more beautiful, and that we are all worth cherishing.

I opened my eyes again as, one by one, I uncurled the fingers on my right hand, releasing the balloon to take fight and soar. High, high above our heads. Free to fly wherever the wind took it, hopefully catching the eye of someone, somewhere, and making them smile.

Grandpa and I stood there watching in silence as it floated away, not even moving as it faded from view.

“She would have liked that,” he said at last, breaking the quietude.

I smiled and looked over at him. “I hope so. And I hope that she really knew how much I loved her.”

“She knew, Dellie,” he said, his lined face serious. “She knew.”

Chapter Twenty-Seven

“Vivi, when was the last time you took a good, hard look around you and really thought about what you’re seeing here?” I asked, drumming my fingers on the menu that sat on the table in front of me.

Two days left here, I marveled as I glanced quickly around the dining room at Azalea’s. Two short days. I had to get this right.

Vivi scowled at me in confusion. “What kind of nonsense question is that? I look around me all the time—I’m not blind.”

“I know you’re not blind, Vivi. You might be stubborn enough that it makes you deaf sometimes, but you’re far from blind.” I paused, hoping she would really listen. “Look around a minute. What do you see?”

“A bunch of hungry people who complain way too much about every last little thing?” she asked, her eyebrow arched and a smirk playing over her glossed pink lips.

I sighed. Nope, not quite getting it. “There’s more to it than that, Vivi,” I said quietly, hoping I would be able to explain. “You told me before that sometimes you’re still afraid—even after all this time—that you’re going to fail, that
this place
is going to fail.” I shook my head firmly. “You’re not going to fail, Vivi. Look at all these people here. They’re here because they like it here. They
love
it here. And they love you, too.” More headshaking. “You’re not going to fail, because this place is special; and that’s all on
you
. Your mama may have started this place, but
you’ve
kept it going.
You
.”

The smirk had gone from Vivi’s face, and the sarcasm in her eyes was replaced by a watery look that she seemed not to be able to control quite as much as she would have liked. Obviously, something I was saying to her was sinking in, and that bravado she seemed so determined to maintain was crumbling just a bit.

“
You
are enough, Vivi. You’re more than enough. Do you see that?”

Tears were spilling down Vivi’s face by now, and she scrambled to pluck napkins from the dispenser to mop them away before anyone else in the restaurant could see.

“I see it, and all these people see it, too. It’s what keeps them coming back, day after day. Not your mama.
You
,” I said, watching her face as she tried to regain her composure.

“You do know how to do it, don’t you, Dellie?” she said, keeping her voice low as she dabbed away at the last of the tears. She sniffed, patted at her hair as if it might have slipped out of place along with her emotions.

“What do you mean?” I asked, genuinely bewildered by the question. Or statement. I wasn’t quite sure which.

“You and those words, Dellie. You’re a writer, but you read people, too. And you know how to nail them with words.”

“Is that a gift or a curse, in your opinion?” I really was curious to know her answer, and I knew she would pull no punches.

She cocked her head, her gaze thoughtful as she studied me. “Both, I would think. Depends on the situation. And how you choose to use it.”

“I try to use my powers only for good,” I quipped, trying to lighten the mood. “Words can be far too damaging if they’re not used carefully.” Much, much too damaging, I thought, recalling some of the words that had been spoken over me like curses during my short marriage. And in the years before, as well—words spoken by people I had trusted, people I had loved and had supposedly loved me back. Words that had, in the end, became the tipping point into a life too long lived in fear and crippling doubt.

Something must have shown in my eyes, because Vivi’s studied expression had become one of concern.

“Are you okay, Dellie?” she asked, laying her hand lightly on my shoulder as she stood next to me.