I hold Grams’s hand until she falls asleep, which doesn’t take long. Then, as morbid as it sounds, I grab my camera from upstairs and take pictures of Grams in her peaceful state. There’s so much a lens catches that the eye doesn’t, and I plan on spending the entire night searching for those things. I want to study the expression on her face, the wrinkles that trace the outline of her lips. I want to compare the two of us and find similarities. It’s clear my eyes came from my dad, which means that he most likely got them from his. Grams’s eyes are a dark brown. Almost black. It should be impossible that so much light, so much hope, can come from such darkness.

When I’m done, I take my camera back upstairs, but before I look at the images, I send a text to Josh.

Becca: How come you didn’t tell me how bad things were with Grams?

Josh: Because they’re not…?

Becca: She’s in a hospital bed, Josh. She needs help going to the bathroom. You never mentioned those things.

Josh: I guess I just didn’t see it as such a big deal because they were progressive. It’s not like it happened overnight. I’m sorry. I should’ve told you. She was really excited to see you. Did she recognize you?

Becca: Yeah.

Josh: So that’s a good thing, right?

Becca: I guess, but I feel like I should be doing more. You’re taking on so much of this and it isn’t fair to you. I want to be here with her. I think I’m going to drop out and move in.

I don’t know why I said it, but before I get a chance to rethink it, I’ve already hit send. Truth is, I was toying with the idea even before I saw Grams. Spending that time with Josh was like a slow, sweet form of torture. I know it’s dumb, wrong, stupid, pathetic—all the possible words to describe a girl who’d give up everything just to be closer to the boy she loves… and I’m not going to do it. Like I said, I was just toying with the idea.

Right?

Right.

Josh: Shut up, idiot.

I smile at his response, half amused and half relieved.

Becca: What? I could be serious?!

Josh: Even if you were, I wouldn’t let you.

Becca: Why not?

Josh: For a plethora of reasons.

Becca: Give me two.

Josh: Reason one… It’s not as if it’s *just* college in St. Louis. You have friends there. You have Say Something. You have the school paper. Internships. And most importantly, you have all your therapy there. You can’t just up and move and forget all that exists.

Wow. Seems like I’m not the only one who’s thought about it.

Josh: Reason two: I love you and I won’t let you.

Becca: I love you, too.

Josh: You won’t be saying that in ten years when I’m retired and have a beer gut and receding hairline and mangled bones and scarred skin and walk with a limp because I’ve snapped my ankle eleventy-three billion times.

Becca: I’ll be saying it always, Josh, even if you’re not around to hear it.

Josh: You do insane things to my heart, Becca Owens.

Warming at his response, I lie down on the bed, the lack of sleep from the past few days catching up with me.

Becca: What am I supposed to do about Grams?

Josh: You hope for a better tomorrow.

Becca: And if it doesn’t come?

Josh: Then you cherish a greater yesterday.

* * *

Sadie knocking on my door jerks me awake the next morning. I rush to answer it, panic pumping through my veins. “Hey,” she says, smiling wide. “Josh is on TV. Thought you might want to watch him.”

Relieved, I shrug on a sweater and make my way downstairs where Grams is sitting up in her bed glued to the television. “There he is,” she says, pointing to the screen. “There’s my Joshua. Isn’t he handsome, Sadie?” she calls out, glancing at me quickly. Her face falls and she looks behind me. “Who are you? Where’s Sadie?”

“I’m here,” Sadie answers, walking into the room with two coffees in hand. She hands me one before sitting on an armchair on the other side of the bed.

Grams is still looking at me, her head cocked, gaze blank. It’s not until Josh’s voice fills the room that she tears her eyes away from me. Josh and his teammates all take up spots on a large couch, a huge screen television behind them showing a highlight clip of them skating. “Sorry,” Josh says, phone in hand.

“You texting?” the male host asks.

“Yeah. I apologize. This is really rude of me.” Josh shoves the phone in his pocket while his team laughs.

“I bet it’s a girl,” the female host says.

“Or twenty,” replies the male one.

The woman on the screen giggles.

The guy adds, “What’s that like for you? Fame and no-doubt fortune, plus that adorable son of yours… Boys want to be you, and the girls… well, you must have them hounding at you.”

Reece chuckles.

“Just one girl,” Josh says, shaking his head. “And she barely tolerates me. Believe me.”

Grams laughs, a sound that brings back memories of easy summer days. “He’s talking about Becca,” she mumbles. “All he has to do is see the way Becca looks at him. She adores him. Stupid boy.”

Yeah. Stupid boy.

Sadie matches Grams’s laugh, but her eyes are on me.

I take a chance and hold Grams’s hand. Her eyes snap to mine. “Sweetheart,” she practically squeals. “When did you get here?”

* * *

Sadie tells me that Tommy will be around later that evening so I have the day to spend with Grams if I want to. She also tells me that today is a good day. Grams woke up somewhat alert and with more energy than she normally does, which means she’ll want to go for a walk through the park—the same park the police found her in the night all this started for her. It’s only two blocks away, but Grams needs a lot of help and can’t be out long because of her deteriorating immune system. Normally, Sadie drives there and pushes Grams’s wheelchair from one end of the park to the other and back again.

We go the park with Grams huddled under layers of blankets. I push her chair while Sadie follows a few steps behind with a paper bag full of groceries. Apparently, Grams has been doing this most of her life since she moved into her house—going to the park and handing out food to the few homeless. Strange I wasn’t made aware of it during the almost eight or so months I spent with her, but then again, she’d disappear for hours at a time, telling me she had errands to run and I chose not to tag along, finding it more important to dwell on my past or, later, spend time with Tommy. It dawns on me that I know very little about my grandmother. Besides the fact she goes to church and had my father at sixteen, I don’t really know her at all. And now, it might be too late to ask.

“Stop, Sadie,” Grams says. I don’t correct her. She points over at a couple of people sitting in front of a bush, their few possessions in a garbage bag settled next to them. Grams waves and shouts, “Good morning, Johnny!”

I wheel her over to them while Johnny smiles at her. “Our angel of hope,” he sings.

Sadie hands them a loaf of bread, a large bottle of water, and jars of peanut butter and jelly. Grams spends a good fifteen minutes with them, talking about anything and everything. She asks the same questions a couple of times, but the couple continues to smile, repeating the same words already spoken. They seem to understand Grams’s illness. Heck, they probably understand it more than I do. And if what Sadie said is right—that Grams has been doing this a while—they probably see her decline as “progressive” just like Josh said. The couple pushes aside the worn-out blanket covering their legs so they can stand and hug Grams goodbye, and when they do I notice the plastic bags surrounding their feet. Grams must see it, too, because she gasps. “What happened to your shoes?” she says, her voice laced with sympathy.