Last Call

For Grandma Jean. You gave me a safe place to play.

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Vera Davis sat alone at a table for two. She scooped up a bite of her cheesy potato casserole — a childhood favorite her mother used to make on special occasions — and let it linger on her tongue, eyes closed. She imagined her mother, youthful and frail, wiping her hands on her apron and smiling down at her with curiosity. It was as if she was still a small girl, fidgeting with her Sunday dress, tasting it for the first time.

At eighty-six, Vera’s hands no longer held her fork without shaking. Her back curved forward with the weight she carried from other people’s expectations. She’d lived a lonely life, peppered with short visits from her sons and her grandkids. Her marriage, now just a browning piece of paper, and a covenant she felt obligated to keep. It had only been three months since Wyatt’s passing. She felt a confusing mix of grief, sadness, regret and relief. She couldn’t bring herself to break from her routines. It felt off. Foreign. After all, she’d cooked and set a table for two for sixty-eight long years. What good would it do to stop now?

All Vera had now were memories. The ones she retained in her ever-drifting mind, and the ones the frames and photo albums retold with every glance. There were memories of Wyatt and his insufferable demands, but also his crackling laughter and gentle hands. Memories of her seven grandkids running up and down the basement stairs playing Princess or airplane or Spider-Man. How they’d fight until she gave them timeout on the chair. There were faint memories of excruciating pain, the cries of her newborn boys, baptisms, graduations and weddings. These memories were a patchwork quilt, frayed and delicate. Cherished. Warm. But no matter how intensely she tried to cling to every detail, they were slipping, morphing, with each passing day. And on days like today, it was hard to decipher what was and wasn’t real.

She ate a few more bites of her casserole and stared at the chair across the table.

“The hummingbirds are back.” She said to the emptiness. “Cute little things. I even saw one sit still for a moment. Or at least I think I did.” Her lips curled into a smile, but her eyes were distant. Longing. She sipped on a glass of water, trembling, and splashed a little down her chin.

“Oh goodness me.” She took her napkin and dabbed it on her face. “Forgive me, Wyatt, I’m a little uneven today.”

The chair replied “It’s okay, sweetie. It’s just a bit of water.”

She huffed and nodded in agreement. Just a bit of water.

“Tell me about your day” said the chair.

“Your oldest came by.”

Suddenly Wyatt was there, clear as day, overalls and plaid, glasses sliding down his nose as he scrunched his brow. “Oh?”

“Said the lawn needs mowing. That he’d be back tomorrow to take care of it.”

“Well, tell him I’ll take care of it. I’m still capable.” Wyatt was indignant, and then he was gone.

Vera stared past the chair, through the French door window glass, at the overgrown yard, laced with weeds. Her eyes welled up with tears, as she looked back down at her nearly empty plate. That wasn’t her Wyatt. Wyatt died, she reminded herself. Her head ached from confusion. Everything was cloudy. Disconnected.

She rallied with everything she had left in her, leaning on the edge of the walnut table, forcing her body up. Her back cracked and she groaned. Every muscle from her hip to the neck was tight and on fire. She wiped her tears, stacked her dishes, and made her way to the kitchen sink. From the kitchen, she glanced back at the table. Wyatt’s uneaten plate sat cold under the warm overhead light, like a still life. It was then, as she turned to rinse her plate under the running faucet, she heard the sound of children laughing through the halls.

What Vera would have given in that moment to have her grandkids back home, waist-high, driving her insane with their demands and disagreements. They were her light. Her reason. Wyatt was there, yes. They had loved each other, yes. But marriage was predictable. Their days together were entirely predictable. The children were chaos. Beautiful, lively chaos that brought a smile to her face. Even now, as she thought of them. But they weren’t children any longer. And their children were nearing adulthood, too. They were living their own lives, and she had become an occasional, passing thought to all of them save her oldest son, who’d taken on a caretaker role since Wyatt’s passing. The cards came in the mail every birthday, every Christmas. She hung them on the back of the entryway door with Scotch tape and cycled them out when the next holiday came.

She placed her dishes in the dishwasher, methodically. She proceeded out of the kitchen, past the dining table (a full plate still perfectly on display), and found her favorite lounge chair in the living room. The cushions were worn in, and cradled her body just so. This was the only place she felt comfort.

The armchair was company with the upright piano, which was passed down from her father’s father, a Mormon pioneer who fled Nauvoo, Illinois in 1846. How that piano was still in one piece, she never knew, but she cherished it. Cared for it. She kept the bench pulled out, as an invitation to anyone who would visit. Come. Play. I love to listen.

When they were young, her grandkids played it relentlessly. There was no keeping it in tune, no matter how diligent she was about servicing it. And as they grew up and made lives for themselves, only one grandkid would ever return to play hymns for her. Jacob. She closed her eyes and imagined him sitting on the bench to her right, eyes sparkling, smiling in his Sunday best, saying “Is it okay if I just play something I made up?”

Vera chuckled to herself and opened her eyes. She saw Jacob, hands on the keys, eagerly awaiting her response.

“Oh, I would love that.” She leaned back in her chair, resting her arms on her lap, head turned toward the empty bench. As the music entered her mind, familiar and optimistic, her phone began to ring. She ignored it, giving full attention to the notes dancing around in her head. Then the melodies began to fade. Wyatt’s voice, soft and calm, called out her name. Her hands stopped shaking. Her back began to relax. Her foot stopped tapping.

Eight-hundred and sixty miles away, Jacob let the line ring one last time before hanging up the phone.