Chapter 4: Rain for the Departed

After fall set in, Grandma grew weaker. I called in so many doctors, tried every remedy, but nothing helped.

The leaves turned gold and red, swirling around the yard. The house smelled like soup and medicine. The whole place was full of waiting. I watched Grandma fade, powerless to stop it.

Grandpa said Grandma often woke up at night, dreaming of me lying in the snow, covered in blood.

He told me this in a whisper, his eyes haunted. I tried to reassure him, but I could see the fear etched in every line of his face.

But when I visited by day, she’d pretend nothing was wrong, forbidding Grandpa and Nurse Ruth from telling me.

She smiled for my sake, hiding her pain behind stories and laughter. I played along, pretending not to notice how thin she’d become, how her hands shook when she thought I wasn’t looking.

Grandma loved fudge, hated bitter medicine. But when I was there, she tried her best—her eyes never left me, and whenever I set the bowl down, she thought I was leaving.

I made extra fudge, hoping it would tempt her to eat. I sat by her bed, reading aloud from her favorite books, anything to make her smile.

I’d hold her hand and coax her gently, “I’m not going anywhere... Lila’s not leaving.”

Her grip tightened, and she’d sigh in relief, eyes fluttering shut. I stroked her hair and hummed the lullabies she used to sing to me.

Only then would Grandma relax, clutching my hand as she lay down, finally able to sleep peacefully when I was near.

Her breathing slowed, her face softening. I watched over her, refusing to leave her side.

I kept watch over her, just as she’d watched over me when I was little.

It felt like coming full circle. I remembered nights when I was sick, Grandma sitting by my bed, her hand cool on my forehead. Now it was my turn to keep vigil.

But Grandma’s condition kept getting worse. I watched helplessly as she faded, and no matter how many doctors I called, nothing could stop her life from slipping away.

The days blurred together, each one a little dimmer than the last. I tried to memorize the sound of her voice, the curve of her smile, afraid of forgetting.

In the end, she was too weak even to open her eyes.

Her breaths were shallow, her skin translucent. I sat by her bed, holding her hand, willing her to stay.

The doctors said living like this was too painful, that maybe she was holding on because of unfinished business. If I could help her let go, she’d be at peace.

Their words echoed in my mind, but I couldn’t bring myself to say goodbye. Not yet.

I knew what Grandma’s last wish was. I’d always known.

She’d whispered it to me a hundred times, her voice full of hope. She wanted to see me become a mother, to know I’d never be alone.

She believed that only when I had a child and became a parent myself would I truly be grown up, and she could finally rest easy.

It was her way of making sure I’d always have someone to love, someone who needed me.

Grandpa couldn’t bear to see her suffer and urged me to let go.

He sat by the window, hands folded in his lap, eyes red from crying. “It’s time, Lila,” he said gently. “Let her rest.”

I sat all night at Dad and Mom’s grave.

The moon cast long shadows over the headstones. I talked to them, asking for strength, for guidance, for a sign. The silence was comforting, a reminder that I wasn’t alone.

The next day, I found Jamie brewing coffee and hugged him from behind.

The kitchen was warm. The smell of coffee was rich and comforting. I wrapped my arms around Jamie, pressing my face into his back, drawing strength from his steady presence.

“Jamie... let’s have a child.”

My voice was soft, but certain. I felt his hands cover mine, squeezing gently. No words were needed—his answer was in the way he held me, the way he turned to kiss my forehead.

Jamie said nothing, but I didn’t need him to. Just having him by my side was enough.

His silence was full of love, of promise. I let myself lean into him, letting the tears come.

I cried so much that day, I soaked his shirt.

He held me through it all, never letting go. When the tears finally stopped, I felt lighter, as if some of the weight had been lifted.

I never used to cry so easily.

I’d always prided myself on being tough, on holding it together. But grief has a way of breaking down even the strongest walls.

Grandma always said I was her favorite, that in her arms I could cry whenever I wanted, and she and Grandpa would always comfort me. But I always held back—the sadder I was, the more stubbornly I refused to cry.

I remembered her rocking me in the old porch swing, her voice soft and full of love. I wish I’d let myself cry more often, let her comfort me the way she wanted.

Now, I really want to cry in her arms, but I can’t. I don’t dare.

She loved me so much—I can’t let her leave with tears in her eyes.

I forced myself to smile when I was with her, even when my heart was breaking. That was the last gift I could give her.

...

The day Nurse Ruth confirmed my pregnancy, Grandma was in high spirits. She put on new clothes and had Nurse Ruth do up her hair neatly.

She insisted on wearing her Sunday best, the blue dress with tiny white flowers. Nurse Ruth braided her hair, tying it with a ribbon that matched her eyes. She looked radiant, almost like she used to.

I fed her breakfast—Jamie’s oatmeal. Usually she could only take a few bites, but today she finished half a bowl.

She smiled after every spoonful, her appetite returning for the first time in weeks. I felt a flicker of hope, even as I knew what was coming.

I wiped her mouth with a soft cloth, then helped her lie down.

She squeezed my hand, her eyes shining with pride. “My Lila,” she whispered, voice thin but full of love.

It started to drizzle outside. Grandma said it hadn’t rained in Maple Heights for so long—she wanted to see the rain.

The patter of raindrops on the window was soft and soothing. I opened the curtains, letting the gray light spill into the room.

Grandpa opened the window, and rain fell on the potted plants in the yard, making them even greener.

The scent of wet earth drifted in, fresh and clean. The plants seemed to perk up, leaves glistening in the rain.

“So pretty.”

Grandma tilted her head, eyes full of joy. She held Grandpa’s hand, beaming. “...It rained like this on our wedding day, too. You asked if I’d regret it, and I said, I wouldn’t.”

She squeezed his fingers, her smile wistful. “We danced in the rain, remember?”

Grandpa stroked her aged hand, his eyes red. “Maggie...”

His voice cracked, thick with emotion. He leaned in, pressing a kiss to her knuckles.

Grandma smiled, her wrinkles curving. “Now that I’m old... I still don’t regret it.”

Her laughter was soft, full of memories. She looked at me, eyes twinkling. "Love’s worth every bit of trouble, you know?"

“I just wasn’t good enough.” Grandpa looked at her with guilt. “...You suffered too much, went through so much hardship.”

He bowed his head, ashamed. I reached for his hand, squeezing it tight.

“It wasn’t hard, not at all.” Grandma’s eyes shone with happiness as she listed her children. “Lizzie, Mark, Sam, Charlie, Emily... If I hadn’t married you, how could I have had so many wonderful children?”

She recited each name like a prayer, her voice full of pride. I blinked back tears, thinking of all the family we’d lost, and all the love that remained.

I fought back tears, listening to her mention my aunts and uncles, and my dad—my heart twisting with pain.

I pressed my hand to my chest. The ache was sharp and sweet. Family meant everything to her—and to me.

Now, I’m the only one left by her side.

The weight of that truth settled over me, heavy and bittersweet.

“And my little Lila... Come, let Grandma hold you.”

She opened her arms, frail but strong. I crawled into her embrace, burying my face in her shoulder.

Her hand stroked my hair, her heartbeat steady beneath my ear. I let myself cry, letting grief and love mix together.

I’d told myself I wouldn’t cry.

But some promises are meant to be broken.

“Go ahead and cry. Grandma knows how much you’re hurting.” She gently patted my back, her voice warm and soft. “The most selfish and luckiest thing I ever did was making sure you kept Jamie. With him by your side, you’ll never have to grieve alone.”

She smiled, her eyes full of mischief. “He’s a good one, that Jamie. Don’t let him go.”

This was a gentle farewell. I knew, clearly, this would be Grandma’s last time holding me.

I tried to memorize every detail—the feel of her arms, the sound of her voice, the scent of lavender on her skin.

Outside, the rain kept falling. After a long while, I heard her say softly, “I don’t regret it...”

Her words drifted through the room, lingering in the air like a blessing.

The woman who fed me, who rocked me to sleep, who sent me off to college, who welcomed me home... So many memories flickered through my mind, so many faces overlapping, until all that was left was one loving, aged face, slowly fading away.

The Grandma who fed me, who rocked me to sleep, who sent me off to college, who welcomed me home... So many memories flickered through my mind, so many faces overlapping, until all that was left was one loving, aged face, slowly fading away.

I saw her in every season—planting flowers in the spring, baking pies in the summer, knitting scarves in the fall, humming Christmas carols in the winter. She was the heart of our family, the anchor that kept us steady.

Through that fading face, I seemed to see my younger self running through the halls, across the porch, into Grandma’s arms, hugging her neck.

The memory was so vivid, I could almost feel her arms around me, hear her laughter echoing through the house.

“Grandma, will you turn into a robin?”

I remembered asking her that, my voice full of wonder. She’d smiled, brushing my hair back from my face.

“Grandpa says, when people die, they turn into robins.” Grandma hugged me back, teasing me. “...If I turn into a robin, what will you do?”

I hugged her tighter, looking up at her. “If you turn into a robin, I’ll bring you worms every day.”

She laughed, the sound bright and clear. “That’s my girl.”

That was the first time I realized you could laugh and cry at the same time—so happy, and yet in tears.

I wiped Grandma’s tears away, and she kissed my face, looking so content. She didn’t mind turning into a robin at all, calling me her good girl.

“Then Grandma will wait for Lila to bring me worms...”

Her voice faded, but her love lingered. I clung to it, letting it fill the empty spaces inside me.

When the last warmth faded, I looked up, desperate for reassurance, full of hope, turning to Grandpa.

The room was quiet, the rain tapping gently on the window. I looked to Grandpa, searching his face for answers.

“Grandpa—”

“When people die, do they really turn into robins?”

He smiled, tears glistening in his eyes. “Maybe, honey. Maybe they do.”

Sixty