“No clipboard?”
He held up empty hands.
“Learned.”
She smiled.
“Good.”
They talked for an hour.
Richard thanked her again.
Margaret told him to stop thanking dying women for professional development.
He laughed.
She did too.
Bear arrived that evening.
Richard passed him near the porch.
They shook hands.
“You look smaller,” Richard said.
Bear stared.
“I am exactly the same size.”
“You seemed twelve feet tall that night.”
Bear smiled.
“You were annoying.”
“I know.”
They laughed.
Inside, Margaret slept.
Bear sat beside her.
Her eyes opened after a while.
“Jack.”
“Here.”
“You smell like rain.”
“Rode through some.”
“Idiot.”
“Yes.”
She looked toward the framed photograph on the dresser.
Young Margaret.
Infant Jack.
“Funny.”
“What?”
“I thought you needed me that night.”
“Which night?”
“The first one.”
“1968.”
Bear smiled.
“I probably did.”
“No.”
She shook her head.
“I needed you.”
He stared.
“At the hospital.”
“You gave me somebody to worry about besides myself.”
Bear swallowed.
“That's not how I remember it.”
“Memory is selfish.”
She smiled faintly.
“Everybody thinks they’re the one being saved.”
Bear looked down.
Margaret continued:
“Don't turn me into something perfect after I'm gone.”
His head lifted.
“What?”
“I was impatient.”
“Yes.”
“Bossy.”
“Absolutely.”
“Held grudges.”
“Documented.”
“Sometimes unfair.”
Bear nodded.
“You hated hospital oatmeal.”
“It was glue.”
He smiled.
Margaret looked at him.
“Remember the whole person.”
“I will.”
“And don't make that photograph a shrine.”
“No promises.”
“Jack.”
He laughed softly.
“Fine.”
She closed her eyes.
A few minutes later:
“Call me Grandma.”
Bear froze.
She did not open her eyes.
“What?”
“You've avoided it for three years.”
He looked away.
“Didn't want to make it weird.”
“It is weird.”
“Exactly.”
Margaret smiled.
“Say it once.”
Bear leaned closer.
“Goodnight, Grandma.”
Her smile deepened.
“Good.”
She slept.
Margaret Holloway died eleven days later.
Morning.
Home.
Michael holding one hand.
Bear holding the other.
No hospital corridor.
No administrator.
No request to pretend.
The funeral was small because Margaret requested small.
Family.
Neighbors.
Several former nurses.
Olivia.
Richard.
Bear.
Theo.
Michael gave the first eulogy.
He spoke about Margaret raising him after his mother died.
Her rules.
Her cooking.
Her absolute refusal to replace appliances until they physically surrendered.
Then Bear stood.
He had prepared nothing.
He hated podiums.