Janey Pendergast closed the tatty old diary and sat with it on her lap. The attic had grown cold and dark beyond the oil lamp’s low flame, now nearly out. No wind gusted the house, no rain pelted down. The storm had passed. Through the window she saw night had come.
“Oh no!” She stiffened and stood, clutching the diary to her chest. “No, no, no!” Janey grabbed the lamp and rushed down the stairs, nearly tripping twice. The entire short journey she kept thinking, I’ve ignored her all day. Mama is right. I am selfish, so selfish.
She halted outside the old woman’s room. It was dark, cold, and quiet. Janey whispered, “Grandmother?” She heard no reply.
She crept in, set the dim lamp on a low table, and laid the diary on the bed. The old woman was there, as Janey had left her so many hours before. Not daring to breathe, Janey reached for the thin hand, felt it beneath hers. It was as cold as stone.
The sudden horrible weight of what she had done dropped on Janey. She had neglected her great-grandmother, and now because of Janey, this woman, this amazing woman, was dead.
She buried her face in the quilt, knotting it in her fists. “Oh, God, please forgive me, I am so sorry. I didn’t mean it.”
She felt a soft hand lightly stroke her hair.
“You read it, then.”
Janey sat up. “You’re alive! Oh, Grandmother, I am sorr y, so sorry for earlier . . . all day.”
“Hush now,” said the old woman. “I am fine. I am old, old as sin, but I am fine.” She took the weeping girl’s hands in hers. “The question is, are you?”
“I . . .” The girl looked down, her voice quiet. “I read it. Your secret diary.”
“Good. I hoped you would.” The old woman ran a finger along the book’s worn cover, the edge of the crumpled beaded bag beneath.
Neither spoke for a few moments, then the old woman said, “I am sorry about your father, Janey. Losing him is something you will carry always.” The old woman reached, slid open the drawer of her bedside stand. Her long fingers rustled inside, then stopped. “Hold out your hand.”
Janey did and the old woman put something in her palm.
When Janey looked, she saw a shard of pottery, and jutting from it the delicate loop of a teacup handle decorated with tiny blue flowers.
“For when you miss him the most.”
Janey looked at her great-grandmother and closed her eyes and held the little shard close to her nose. She breathed deeply and smiled.
They both did.