Page 75 of Goodbye Days

My heart feels like it has a thin silver wire wrapped around it, cutting into it with every beat.

“So that’s how we’ll end this goodbye day. By eating this beautiful corn that tastes like the night Blake’s life began. I hope you have room.”

I do.

We butter and salt our corn and sit on the porch in rocking chairs, eating while the sun dips below the horizon and the sky dissolves to a pallid blue-pink gradient. All around, the smell of leaves and grass relinquishing their warmth.

“You wanna hear about when Blake made me laugh the hardest?” I ask this without even really knowing the answer, because sadness has so palpably seized Nana Betsy.

“Of course.” She gives me a smile that leaves her eyes behind.

“So I go with Blake to one of y’all’s church picnics. I don’t remember if you were there. Anyway, this little kid is saying grace and he’s up there with the microphone, and he’s going, ‘Lord, we just thank you for the grass and the trees and the oceans’ and he’s basically thanking God for every single thing on Earth. And of course, we’re both starving. So Blake says, in this way-loud voice: ‘Move it along kid. I have places to go and people to see.’ ” As I tell the story, I’m not certain that was the time Blake made me laugh the hardest—after all, that moment had a lot of stiff competition—but it did make me laugh very, very hard.

Nana Betsy chuckles softly but still exudes melancholy. “I wish I’d held on to every moment with him the way a drowning person holds a life preserver.”

For a time, we rummage through the drawers of our memories, pulling out the stories that are brightest and sharpest, like knives, and setting them in a row. Rekindling fires that had burned to embers. And then we are silent and still because merely listening to ourselves breathe feels like a holy rite in Death’s halls.

She looks as weary as I feel. I’m hesitant to be the one to end the day, but somebody has to do it.

“Not that I want to, but I should probably go,” I say, leaning forward in my rocker. “This was good. I’m glad I did this. I know Blake better now.”

“It’s past my bedtime, too.” She puts her hand on mine, and I can detect the tremor in it. “I can’t thank you enough. We did simple things today—the things Blake and I did in a normal week. But that’s how I’d have wanted to spend a last day with him.”

“Me too.” I start to rise. “I’ll be back soon to mow.”

“You don’t need to do that. Fresh air’s healthy for me.”

“I know, but…” I stand, the food settling in my stomach. “This all still hurts. Not as bad as it did, though.”

“No,” she says distantly. Some timbre in her voice sounds new. Jittery. On edge. She’s fidgeting in her chair as though she wants to say something. She won’t look at me.

“Nana Betsy?”

She meets my eyes and there’s fear on her face.

“Carver, I have one more thing to ask.”

“Sure.” She called me Carver, not Blade. I’m now infected with her apprehension. I sit.

She exhales hard and reaches into her pocket. She pulls out another folded piece of paper. She almost drops it, her hands are shaking so badly. She unfolds it and I see a phone number. “I hired a private investigator to find Mitzi. He tracked her down a few days ago and got me this number. I haven’t called her yet to tell her. I thought today would give me the strength and I could do it alone, but I’m coming up short. Will you come inside and stay a few more minutes to hold my hand while I call her?”

I push down the shadowy dread scaling the ladder of my ribs. “Yes.”

Her face twists. She sobs. “She’ll say, ‘You took Blake from me and now he’s dead because of it.’ And I don’t know how to respond, because she’s right.”

“No. But…No…that’s wrong. That’s ridiculous. It’s because of me. Like I told you.”

Nana Betsy laughs bitterly through her tears. “Oh, Blade. He would have never been in that car if I hadn’t moved him here first. I’m just not ready to hear it from her. But I’ll never be ready, so I guess this is it.”

“It’s not your fault.” I meet her eyes and hope mine speak my conviction.

She finally nods. “Okay.” She says it like she doesn’t want to argue; not like I’ve convinced her. We walk inside and sit next to each other at the kitchen table, in the dark. I figure if she wanted the light on, she’d have turned it on.

She takes a deep breath. “Lord give me strength.” She picks up her phone and dials. I reach over and hold her hand. She grips it like the drowning person she spoke of earlier.

I hear the phone ringing on the other end. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Nana Betsy looks skyward. I see her murmur something. Six. Seven. Each ring is a crow pecking me in the ear. Eight. Nine. She grips my hand tighter.

And then somebody answers as Nana Betsy is lowering the phone from her ear.