Witches & Werewolves: A Sacred Oath (9 page)

This is such a train wreck. I just want to get out of here.
 

Lucas just sits there, observing, staring at me—through me. And I begin to wonder if he can actually read minds, like he claims?

“You know, it’s a school night, and I know you still need to get some groceries. We should probably do that so I can get home by curfew,” Lucas says.
 

“But she hasn’t brought my second pitcher,” Jake protests.
 

I jump at the chance to escape. “Do you want to be able to eat tomorrow?”

“Choosing between gratification now, and gratification later ain’t a choice at all,” Jake responds.
 

“All in favor of eating tomorrow raise their hands,” I say. Everyone does, except Jake. But, eventually, he succumbs to peer pressure and finally raises his hand. “Good, that’s settled,” I say.
 

Before I can grab money from my purse, Lucas flags the waitress down, giving her cash. “My treat tonight,” he says.

“No,” I say.

“I invited you, it’s my treat. You can get next time.”
 

I huff, but accept his offer. Then I realize that
next time
obligates me to another meal with him. I see what he did there. Sneaky.
 

Lucas gets his change, leaves a tip, and we file out of the pizzeria. I do my best not to make eye contact with Ethan or Olivia, but I feel his eyes all over me—or maybe that’s just wishful thinking.
 

We stock up on everything imaginable at the grocery store. There’s no telling the next time we’ll get here, with our current transportation crisis. We each push a full cart of groceries through the parking lot to Lucas’s car, and I begin to wonder if this is all going to fit. Jake leads the way weaving the cart, fighting against a broken wheel.

“I can tell we’re going to be great friends,” Lucas says.

“Why is that?” I ask.
 

Uncle Jake has decided on the path he will take, and pushes the cart between two parked cars to get there. From here, I can see it’s not wide enough. “Uncle Jake! No!” I scream.

But it’s too late. Jake rams the cart, squeezing it between the two parked cars. Paint peels from the doors, letting out a hideous squeal that echoes into the damp night air.

“Jake, what did you do?” I shout.

“Looked wider,” he says, shrugging.
 

Before I can stop him, he yanks the cart back, carving another groove in the paint of both cars. The shriek pierces my ears, like nails on a chalkboard. Fire engine red paint lines the side of the shopping cart as it emerges from between the vehicles. My jaw drops at the sight. This is bad. Really bad. But it gets worse.
 

The door of the fire engine red sports car flings open and a six-foot-six hulk of a man bounds out. He’s not happy at all. He’s shouting obscenities and has a semi-automatic handgun pointed at my face. It’s so close I can smell the metal mixed with gun oil, and a faint smell of gunpowder—this gun has been fired recently.
 

I see his finger grip tighter around the trigger.
 

CHAPTER 12

IT SUDDENLY COMES to me, and I remember the last time I was in Haven Hill as a child. It was my grandfather’s funeral. I had been trying to pinpoint it since we got here, but I guess I was having a mental block. It’s amazing the kind of clarity of mind you can have when staring down the barrel of a .45 automatic hand gun.

Noah was just a baby, and I was barely six. What had been a foggy, distant memory is now crystal clear. I watch the events replay in my mind as if I were back there right now. I don’t know why I’m thinking about this presently. My attention should be focused on my impending doom, but I’m somewhere else completely. Maybe this is my way of escaping? Maybe this is my life flashing before me before I die?

I remember my dad waking me up in the middle of the night, telling me to pack some clothes, that we were going to see grandpa. I was excited at first, but that changed quickly. I could see the concern on my dad’s face—I knew right away that this wasn’t going to be a trip to file away in the happy moments jar.
 

Our flight had gotten delayed, they lost our luggage, and we finally arrived at the hospital late the next evening. It was agonizing. We just felt trapped in that airport, desperately wanting to get to grandpa as fast as possible. I did’t have any real details of what was going on, and all dad would say was, “Grandpa’s not well.” I could see the tears well up in his eyes every time he said it.
 

Grandpa wasn’t really awake, and he wasn’t really asleep, when we first saw him. The nurse was giving him a breathing treatment when we arrived. Grandpa had a clear oxygen mask strapped to his face, the elastic bands were grooving into his cheeks. Wearing a pale green hospital gown with little snowflake patterns, he looked disheveled. He was covered in electrodes monitoring his vitals. IVs poked into his arm, and his wrists were wrapped in ID bands--one of which read in bold letters, “DNR.” Do not resuscitate. He didn’t look comfortable, and certainly not the way I remembered him from our last visit. I started sobbing instantly.
 

The doctor told us that he had the
Old Man’s Friend
. Pneumonia. But there didn’t seem anything friendly about it. They call it that because it is supposed to bring a peaceful death. CO2 levels rise in the blood, brining a supposed euphoria as the vital organs shut down in a cascade of system failure. The doctor said grandpa likely had twelve to twenty four hours to live, but they would do everything within reason to save him.
 

One person’s definition of reasonable can be very different from another person’s. And there seems to be a general attitude in the medical community that as a person ages, their life becomes less worth saving. I believe everyone’s life has meaning and is worth saving, whether you are eight or eighty. And this was my grandfather. Everyone who’s dying in a hospital bed means something to someone, and he certainly meant something to me. Here was a man who had fought for our country in WWII to protect the very freedom we enjoy today. He deserved to have someone fight for him.

With each breath, the fluid in his lungs gurgled and rattled, and it sounded like he was drowning. It was painful to see. And even more disturbing when they had to suction the fluid out of his lungs—either by ramming a suction tube down his throat, or through his nasal cavity. He would shake and jerk, wincing and moaning with discomfort during the procedure. Just watching made me feel like gagging. I imagined what that tube must feel like, shoved past the uvula, past the tonsils, down into the upper respiratory tract. I had never seen him in such distress in all of my life. He was always larger than life, a man’s man, never afraid of anything. He always had a grin and a glimmer in his eye—but not today.
 

Despite the dire prophecy of the attending physician, my grandfather improved over the next several days. So much so, that his trademark smile and sparkle in his eye came back—but only for a day. But in that day, I held his hand and told him that I loved him. He replied, “I love you too.”
 

It was the last thing he ever said to me.

The next day was a steep decline. The doctors said that the pneumonia was likely due to aspiration. He had lost the ability to swallow, and unfortunately, that ability wasn’t coming back. Dysphagia, as they called it. Anything he ate or drank was spilling down his windpipe, breeding infection in his lungs. He had been on IV fluids since he was admitted. His only source of nutrition was coming from a nasal cannula, which they used to inject a feeding solution directly into his stomach.
 

Despite this, he was still aspirating into his lungs. It seems gramps had pretty advanced dementia—more advanced than anyone realized. It had progressed past the point of merely repeating conversations. His brain wasn’t only forgetting memory details, it was forgetting how to tell the body to function. His swallowing wasn’t improving. Putting in a permanent feeding tube would likely still result in aspiration. He would face increased infection concerns. Given all of these factors, the doctor suggested we consider hospice.
 

Hospice is where they send people to die. The singular goal is to make the patient’s passing as comfortable as possible. It created a very strange feeling among all of us—it was no longer a case of
if
, but
when
my grandfather would die.
 

I was too young to process all of this at the time. But now, watching this replay in my mind, I am aware of so many details that I had either forgotten, or just couldn’t comprehend. I remember staying in the intermediate care unit of the hospital almost twenty four hours a day. Jake hadn’t returned to the hospital since the day grandpa was first admitted. I can see now how much this bothered my father. Some people just don’t do hospitals well, and Jake is one of those people.
 

Watching the slow, steady decline of someone you love is excruciating. Every moment is precious. Once in hospice, my grandfather was only semi-conscious for another day or so. From then on, he mostly slept, with the assistance of some heavy duty
comfort
medication. Jake showed up to the hospice three times—each time drunk. Like, really drunk. Obnoxious, loud, and disrespectful drunk. This infuriated my father. And even though my grandfather wasn’t really conscious anymore, he seemed to react to what was going on the room with moans and groans—Jake’s behavior was upsetting him. This enraged my dad even further.
 

The hospice nurses said that the hearing is the last thing to go. The patient might seem out of it, and non-responsive, but they can hear everything you say. I told him stories of my favorite moments with him, and how we would see each other again in Heaven.
 

The nurses made regular checks and administered the medications on schedule. Each one had such a high degree of respect and compassion for their patients. It takes a special kind of person to care for the dying—knowing that each new patient is going to pass, and that all you can do is ease their transition.
 

Nobody ever talks about
death
in hospice. They always say
transition
. And they all say that the patient controls the exact moment when they will transition. At this stage, some last for days, and some for weeks. If they want you in the room, they will pass with you present, if they want to be alone, they will wait until you step out.
 

It sounds crazy that they would have so much control. But the nurses say they see it all the time. A family will hover around for weeks. And the minute they have all stepped out of the room—either for food, or to go to the restroom—when the patient is finally alone—the patient passes.

My grandfather gave me the honor of being with him. In the wee hours of the morning his breathing grew extremely slow and shallow. I held his hand and told him how much I loved him as he drew his last breath. Suddenly he was gone.
 

The wind howled outside, like his spirit was being carried off with the breeze. His body didn’t even look like him anymore, merely a shell of what once contained his soul.
 

I remember being so numb by this point that I didn’t even cry. I just felt like he was free. That he wasn’t in pain anymore.
 

By the time of my grandfather’s vigil, Jake had been on a heavy bender for over two weeks. I can see now why my father found his behavior unforgivable. After the priest said a few words and lead us in prayer, he invited friends and loved ones to say a few words. This was a huge mistake.
 

Jake staggered up to the podium, followed by audible gasps from the crowd. He dove into a mostly unintelligible rant about how he both loved and hated his father. My dad was holding my hand at the time, and his grip squeezed like a vice as the veins in his temples bulged. I had to pry my hand loose because he didn’t even realize how hard he was clamping down.
 

I thought for an instant he was going to leap up and tackle Jake. He was so pissed off. In hindsight, he probably should have. As Jake finished his rant, he stammered away from the podium toward the casket to pay his final respects. Jake tripped, stumbling into the casket, crashing it to the ground.
 

Everyone at the vigil shrieked in horror as my grandfather’s body spilled out onto the floor. It was horrifying. Traumatizing. And I had totally blocked it out of my memory until this moment.
 

“Pop a cap in that bitch!” I hear someone yell.
 

I pull myself out of my daze to see the .45 staring back at me. I’m no longer at my grandfather’s funeral. I’m back in the parking lot of the grocery store, and I wonder just how long that little trip down memory lane took? How long was I day dreaming?
 

A passenger in the little red car has leapt out and is shouting at the hulk of a driver to squeeze the trigger. He’s a tiny guy, like a chihuahua, bouncing around, extremely animated. His eyes wide, just waiting to see my brains splattered against the concrete.

At this moment, I’m incredibly pissed at Jake.

“Pop a cap in that bitch!” the chihuahua repeats.
 

BAM!

CHAPTER 13