My great-grandmother had the gift of second sight. She was the seventh daughter of a seventh daughter. On the island, the seventh daughter of a seventh daughter was known to possess certain magical abilities. She was a hundred and one years old, and lived alone in an entirely beige two-bedroom apartment. My great-grandfather had died the year before I was born. I knew two things about him: he rarely smiled, and he had a prosthetic leg.
I went to visit my great-grandmother one afternoon when Jack was at his studio. I removed my shoes as I entered the apartment, feeling the plush carpet on my bare toes. The television’s volume was cranked and the thermostat was set to cremate.
My great-grandmother was sitting in her rocking chair facing the television, a small pile of candy bars on the table beside her. I kissed her on the cheek and sat opposite her on the couch. “How are you?”
The wrinkles in her face were like craters, her hair thinned to the point of transparency. She was so little, she couldn’t have weighed more than ninety pounds. Pointing the remote at the television, she clicked the button over and over to minimize the volume. “I’m going to die in four days.”
It stung, the thought of losing her. “Why do you say that?”
“I dreamt it last night,” she explained, reaching for a candy bar. “My dreams always come true, you know this.”
“Well I really hope this one doesn’t,” I said, my voice small.
She peeled the wrapper from the candy bar and bit into it, chewing carefully and swallowing. “I don’t want you to be sad, though.” She smiled knowingly. “Someone new will be coming into your life.”
I smiled back, despite the queasiness I felt in my stomach.
Four days later, I was awakened by the oak grandfather clock. The coils wound and spun, then it chimed loudly. Startled, I sat up in bed. Jack wasn’t home yet. The clock had never worked, it was simply decorative.
I looked to the door, and my great-grandmother was standing in the entryway. She was glowing, beautiful, smiling and hazy, as if she were a dream. As she stared, a wave of peacefulness rippled through me. Then, she vanished.
I returned to sleep, feeling the warmth of maternal protection.
The next morning, as I sat in the living room drinking coffee and thumbing through an old magazine, the telephone rang. I lifted the receiver to my ear. “Hello?”
“Doll?” It was my mother.
“Yes?”
“I’ve got some bad news.” She paused, letting out a sigh. “Nanny died last night in her sleep.”
I turned the page of my magazine. “I know. You didn’t have to call.”