I close the door and look at the envelope. Yesterday morning I was tempted to read it, burn it, and never think about it again.
But I didn’t.
Instead, I stared at the damn thing for what seemed like forever.
While Ashtyn wants me to read the letter, Falkor doesn’t seem to mind watching me do nothing except stare at it.
“Falkor, catch!” I toss the envelope to him like a Frisbee.
The dog watches the envelope land a few inches from his outstretched paws. He might actually be the most useless dog on the planet.
Ashtyn called me out for being afraid of reading the letter.
I’m not afraid.
I was afraid of losing my mom. The day she sat me down and told me she had cancer, I was scared. Not one day went by after that when I wasn’t afraid. When her blood counts were low, I thought it was the end. When she got dizzy and sick after chemo, it freaked me out. When her hair fell out and she looked fragile, I felt helpless. When I held her frail hand in the hospital when she looked like a shell of her former self, I was destroyed.
I’m definitely not afraid of reading a letter from a grandmother who’s a complete stranger.
Just do it already.
I pick the envelope up and sit on my bed as I open it. The letter is written on heavy pink cardstock with my grandmother’s initials embossed on the top in shiny gold lettering. I think the paper was sprayed with some sort of perfume, because it smells like a woman.
Just so I don’t have to listen to Ashtyn nag me about it anymore, I unfold the letter and read it.
My dearest Derek,
I’m writing this letter to you with a heavy heart. I have just been diagnosed and have been reflecting upon the mistakes I’ve made in my life. There are things I need to make right before my imminent death. Since you are my one and only grandchild, it is imperative we meet after my treatment on June twentieth. It’s my last, dying wish. There are things that you don’t know—that you need to know—that you MUST know.
With Eternal Love,
Elizabeth Worthington (your grandmother)
Ashtyn was right . . . my grandmother is dying. She didn’t specify what she’s been diagnosed with. My mind is swirling with the possibilities. It’s got to be bad since she didn’t mention it. I wonder if it’s lung cancer, like my mom had. My mom was one of those few unlucky souls who got lung cancer even though she didn’t smoke a day in her life. Heredity and the environment were to blame, I guess.
Or maybe my grandmother has pancreatic cancer, which is a death sentence to anyone diagnosed with it.
Or some horrible, debilitating disease that’s too painful to mention.
Shit, now I can’t stop thinking about it.
Most teenagers would have probably been on a plane by now, rushing to their ailing granny’s side. But most teenagers don’t have Elizabeth Worthington as their grandmother, famous for thinking her social status is something to admire and aspire to. I’m sure she’s realized by now that her blood isn’t blue and no amount of money can buy health.
I read the letter two more times before placing it back in the envelope and telling myself to forget about it. I almost wish I hadn’t read the thing. It’s all Ashtyn’s fault. If it weren’t for her, I wouldn’t have to carry around guilt. I need to get my mind off it, or I’ll be thinking about it all night.
One person has the ability to keep my mind off that letter.
Ashtyn is in her bedroom on her laptop. Her room is pink with painted flowers running up and down the walls. She’s even got little hummingbird stuffed animals on her bed. Above her desk are posters of the Chicago Bears and an eight-by-ten picture of someone named Katie Calhoun wearing a Texas football uniform.
“This is the girliest room I’ve ever been in. Just being in here makes my testosterone levels plunge.”
She jerks her head up from the computer. “That’s a joke, right?”
“Kind of.” I clear my throat and lean back on her dresser. “I just wanted to tell you to be ready at seven tonight.”
“For what?”
“You lost the bet, remember?”
“Yeah, well, I don’t have to honor that bet because you said that the letter was an invitation to join the Olympic synchronized trampoline team. You lied.”
“That doesn’t make any difference. You said there was no Olympic synchronized trampoline team, and I bet you that there was. It’s cut and dried, Ashtyn. You lost. It’s time to pay up, and tonight’s the night.”