Page 65 of Goodbye Days

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. I’m happy to be going home.”

“I mean I’m sorry for making you move.”

“We’ve been through this. You have no need to apologize.”

But I do. I committed something so close to negligent homicide that I’m not even allowed to tell anybody but Dr. Mendez and Mr. Krantz. If I weren’t guilty, why would I need to be careful about telling my side of the story?

“Okay,” I say finally. I start to pick up my pole.

Nana Betsy puts her hand over mine. “No. Leave it.” She pulls a piece of folded-up notebook paper from her front jeans pocket and unfolds it. She smoothes it and sets it on one of the chairs. She uses an egg-sized rock to weight the paper.

I catch a glimpse of the note, which is written in precise, neat, grammar-school handwriting. It reads:

To whoever finds these things:

Please keep them—they’re yours.

They belonged to my grandson and me.

We were never much good at fishing

but we used them to make many wonderful memories.

I hope you’ll do the same.

In loving memory of Blake Jackson Lloyd

I start up the path, expecting Nana Betsy to follow. She doesn’t.

“Blade, do you mind going along without me for a few minutes? I need a moment or two here alone.” Her voice is a scratchy whisper, the wind through long grass. She hands me the car keys.

Before I go, I watch as she lowers herself into the chair beside the one with the note. She rests her elbows on her knees and buries her face in her hands.

I do the same thing when I get to the car.

We’ve each mostly composed ourselves by the time she joins me, about ten minutes later.

“All right,” she says with what seems to be genuine cheeriness (or at least temporary unburdenedness). “I could use some traditional post-bad-fishing waffles and bacon. How about you?”

“Always.”

We drive to the nearby Waffle House. As we park, Nana Betsy laughs. “This must not seem like a very glorious last day for Blake. But this is what he and I loved to do together. Every Saturday morning we could, for the last few years. I’m only guessing this is what he’d have wanted for his last day, but it’s definitely what I’d have wanted.”

“Since I’m Blake today, I say it’s what he would have wanted.”

“I think if what you’d do for your last day on Earth doesn’t look like a pretty normal day for you, you probably need to reexamine your life.”

“I agree.” I guess a Buick in a Waffle House parking lot is as good a place as any to have your notion of the well-lived life cracked open wider than the Grand Canyon.

“Let’s go eat some waffles.”

A blond waitress with a smoker’s voice greets us. “Good mornin’, Betsy! Been a while. You got a different breakfast companion.”

Nana Betsy’s smile fades almost imperceptibly. “Hello, Linda. Blake couldn’t make it today. This is his best friend, Carver.”

“Hi.” I wave.