Page 26 of Bad Intentions

The pancakes are torched, smoke rising from the black pan as I pick it up and set it in the sink, then run water right over the pancakes. The smoke billowing from the searing pan turns the air hazy.

“Jesus,” I whisper, then look at Grams. She sits with her hands clasped together on top of the table, her eyes on them. Her lips are moving, though no words come out.

The news on the TV switched to the weather forecast, and now I wonder if the news is what made her spill the batter.

“Grams?” I call out.

She hunches over the table, both her hands pressing to her chest now.

“Grams?” I repeat and step closer, ducking my head to try to catch her eyes. Her lips tremble, and she’s still trying to say something.

I put my hand on her shoulder. “Grams, look at me!”

But she won’t. A wheezing sound escapes her mouth.

I dart to the living room and, thanking god for the outdated landline, pick up the house phone and dial 911.

“I think my grandmother is having a heart attack,” I blurt into the phone when the operator picks up.

16

JOSIE

The freaking rain won’t stop pounding. This is unusual for spring here. I stand by the sink and watch the rain splash the kitchen window and the dirty ambulance parked in our driveway.

My life lately reminds me of a sad TV show where bad things happen in every episode.

I try holding my breath, crossing my fingers, praying, pleading in my mind—anything for Grandma to be fine.

“She is doing fine.”

The voice makes me turn around. One of the paramedics zips up his coat as he walks into the kitchen.

I take an exaggerated inhale and exhale, then push off the sink, my arms hugging my middle. “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” he says, slinging a jump bag over his shoulder as the other two paramedics appear behind him and walk through the kitchen and out the side door. The man nods toward the bedroom. “We conducted all the checks. Her heart rate is stable. Blood pressure is a little high. We gave her oxygen. I’d suggest going for a checkup as soon as she can, considering her condition. And she should start taking appropriate medication.”

I told them she has cancer but is not doing any treatment, so his advice makes sense.

“She seems pretty healthy in general,” the man continues. “But her condition will soon trigger a number of issues.”

“So what was it?” I ask, walking him out the door.

“A panic attack most probably.”

“A panic attack?” I repeat, surprised. “Is that life-threatening? In her condition, I mean.”

“Not really. Unless it becomes a common occurrence. She needs to rest.”

“Rest. Got it.”

When he walks out, I watch through the screen door as the ambulance pulls out of the driveway. Then I take a mop out of the closet and clean the rainwater and dirt left by the paramedics off the floor in the kitchen and the hallway that leads to Grandma’s bedroom. She’s meticulous about her house. She sure taught me well enough to keep the house clean.

When I’m done, I walk toward her bedroom and knock.

“Yes?” comes the frail voice from inside.

Grandma is in bed, in her clothes, which never happens.