***If you haven't already, check out the prologue. Really don't like this right now...help please!***
I was surprised to wake up the next morning. Surprised, because I hadn’t realized I’d fallen asleep, and that when I had it was shockingly nightmare-free. The letter was still crumpled in my right hand as it had been before. Rubbing my eyes, I walked to overflowing trash can with the intentions of throwing it away, only to look at it yet again and hesitantly shove it into the pocket of my old blue jeans. Whether or not I took my grandfather up on his offer to visit, there was a part of me that felt attached to the note that I’d been so afraid of just the night before. Yawning, I stumbled into the kitchen for breakfast. Wait, it was 11:00...lunch then. After microwaving a can of soup and wrangling my wild brown hair into ponytail, I wasn’t quite sure of what to do. I ate but wasn’t quite sure I was hungry.
The window revealed the world outside--a far more tranquil place here in Oregon than it was in New York City. It was a pretty busy day, though; cars zipped by, and the sidewalks were strewn with the figures of people. Only two blocks away, Palegrove Hospital’s sign stood.
No, no, no, I told myself. He doesn’t deserve it. Even if he’s dying. Did he care when your dad was dead? Or even your mom? His own daughter? I don’t think so, so what makes you think that he could possibly care about you?
No matter how much I grappled with my consciousness, and no matter how much I agreed that this was a bad idea, I found myself walking out the door, down the steps and two blocks south.
My curiosity overpowered all logic and hatred.
The hospital’s waiting room was eerily quiet, as if the dull room and faint humming sound of the lights cut off all other noise. The walls were painted a pale blue, the carpet an off-white color that revealed wear and tear over the years. A few people sat in the black chairs, some coughing or dozing off while others flipped through old magazines. Mrs. Flagstone, the woman behind the reception desk, shot me a questionable look through her thick-rimmed specs. Maybe she remembered me from my last check-up that had ended with me squeamishly smacking the shot from my doctor’s hand; after that, I’d raced out the door and hadn’t returned. Tetanus didn’t seem as bad as a pointy needle.
“May I help you?” she asked, her voice scratchy and hoarse as though she’d had a cigarette-pack too many.
“I’m looking for someone.”
“Yes?”
“I got a letter from him. He said he was staying here?”
Her small moment of interest had clearly come and gone, as she now flipped through a catalog. “Fascinating. Really.”
How had she not been fired? “Well I was wondering if I could visit him,” I said, beginning to doubt that she would help me at all. “His name’s Douglas J. Peters?”
She looked up at me now, yet again curious. “Why do you want to see him?”
“He’s my…” I hesitated. The word ‘grandfather’ still stuck in my throat a little. “He asked to see me.”
"You knew him?"
"Well, no."
Mrs. Flagstone scoffed. “Well unless you’re some kind of psychic who can visit the dead, meeting him won't be an option.”
My breath caught in the back of my throat. “He’s dead?”
“'Fraid so."
For whatever reason, I felt myself suppress a tiny sob. Why did it hurt so much to lose someone you didn’t even know? Especially someone you’d thought to hate only moments ago? Then again, I suppose the same could be said for the loss of my father. Death seemed to be my stalker. “Are you sure?”
She rolled her eyes, as though that was the most absurd question she’d ever heard. “Yes, I’m sure. Can’t hardly forget Peters, can you? Strangest man I’ve ever met…”
“What do you mean? Strange?”
“As loony as a Canadian coin,” Mrs. Flagstone remarked, yet again suspicious of me. “Who exactly was he to you?" “He was my--” (I think I choked the word out) “--grandfather, but I never met him. But I came home and found his letter on my bed, saying he wanted to see me.”
She gave me a slightly sympathetic look, but it didn't take the hard chill from her bitter words. "Well I'm afraid that it won't be possible until you start digging your grave now. And not being a psychic there really isn't anything else I can do for you."
“Wait,” I said wearily. My efforts felt somewhat hopeless now, but the letter had frightened me somehow. The fact was, if my grandfather had wanted to talk to me, it wouldn't be something as simple as having a little chat. If my grandfather had wanted to see me...to "make amends"...this couldn't be something so simple. “You said he was strange? What kind of strange? I guess, what I mean to ask is…was he the kind of strange that would sneak out of the hospital to put a note right on my bed while I was away?”
By the look she gave me, it was clear she believed insanity ran in the family. “No. After his stroke, he couldn‘t walk. He was a definite character, though, one you can’t help but remember. He told some amazing stories--a gift--but they were always followed up by some absurd gibberish that no one could understand. He would randomly begin reciting poetry, too. Your grandpa had more than a few screws loose.”
“Really?” My curiosity was sparked. “What kind of stories?"
She rolled her eyes impatiently. “Look, if you’re really that interested I suggest you get in touch with Cheryl LeScue. She was his nurse most of the time he was here. She was intensely interested by his stories, rumor has it wrote a few down. Talk to her."
I nodded. “Cheryl LeScue. Got it. Thanks.”
I didn’t really know where I was going with this, but I had a feeling it would take me places. My grandfather was dead. Still, I got the feeling that whatever this was about, it was far from over.
