yours, Hal. You didn’t even ask. You can’t just bust in here like nothing has changed when everything—”
He pauses. Blinks once. Twice.
“Just clean it up, okay?”
He turns his back to me and walks upstairs without another word.
I lean forward and press my hands against the counter. All the emotion I’ve kept in since we got here bursts out now that Gramps looked at me like I’m the worst granddaughter in the world and just left. Tears stream down my face. I am the worst. The real reason it was all in the garage is so obvious now. Gramps literally stripped the house of everything Grams in a matter of months and I hate it.
My movements through the kitchen turn static. I’ll work on the cover reveal another day. I frost the cupcakes standardly and put the ingredients away. I scrub the bowls until my fingers prune and there are no more signs of sugary batter or memories of Grams. Scrub until I can convince myself that it doesn’t even look like I used them, not really, and I can forget the broken heart plastered on Gramps’s face.
I can’t.
I dry the bowls and pack everything back into KITCHEN STUFF. Tears dry on my cheeks as I lift the box and carry it into the garage, back to its spot on the shelf that I now realize is all Grams’s stuff. Cupcakes gave me tunnel vision—because it only now hits me that everything that was Grams, everything that is Grams, has been reduced to boxes in a garage.
CLOTHES (1/4)
SHOES (1/2)
BOOKS (1/10)
PHOTOS
Someday, we’ll all just be boxes in someone’s garage.
The KITCHEN STUFF box nearly crashes to the floor, my hands shake so violently. I can’t breathe, my chest is in knots, and I’m so hot and I’m gasping for air, gasping for anything to make this stop.
It doesn’t stop.
I am going to die, I think.
I’ll only be three, maybe four, boxes when I die, I think.
“Hal?”
In an instant, Ollie grabs my hand and pulls me away from the boxes, toward the steps of the garage.
“Breathe,” he says.
I squeeze my eyes shut. Listen to Ollie.
Breathe.
Ollie holds my hand tightly and lets me breathe my way through this. And I do get through it. Slowly my muscles relax, my breath steadies, and I’m not going to die—at least not today.
The first time I had a panic attack, Ollie was nine. Our uncle had died suddenly—I didn’t know him well, but the idea that he was just gone? The idea that someday I’d just be gone? It was too much. I cried so hard I couldn’t speak, or breathe. I thought, This is what dying is, isn’t it? It’s not being able to breathe—which only exacerbated the situation.
Ollie found me on my bed, sobbing my brains out and hyperventilating. He didn’t say anything. He just climbed into my bed and held my hand until it passed.
He’s held my hand through every panic attack since.
The tightness in my chest eases and I let go of Ollie’s hand. “Sorry,” I say. “I thought I was—”
I don’t finish my sentence because whatever I thought I was, I clearly wasn’t.
“You good? Maybe you should talk to Gramps about—”
I shake my head. “Gramps hates me.”
Ollie shrugs. “He’s just triggered, you know? He’ll get over it.”
I cover my face with my hands. “I just wanted to bake. He just wants to forget her.”
“Maybe he’s not ready to remember yet. Maybe we’re making it worse. I don’t know. Dude can barely take care of himself—it’s pretty brutal to watch.”
I squeeze my eyes shut. “I’m sorry, Ol.”
Ollie waves me off and nudges my shoulder. “Did you bake double dark chocolate?”
I open my eyes and nod.
“Excuse me while I go eat one. Or five.”
He holds his hand out to me and pulls me up to standing. I swear, he’s even taller than he was just a week ago. He says something that makes me laugh—I can’t remember what though, because when we reenter the kitchen a second later, Gramps is there, eating a red velvet cupcake over the kitchen sink. Scout sits patiently at his feet, waiting for any possible crumbs to fall.
Seriously? Moments ago, Gramps’s grief crushed me into a panic attack and now he’s just—eating my cupcakes? He can’t see Grams’s baking equipment, but the cupcakes they produce are apparently fair game. I can’t.
“What?” Gramps asks, voice flat. “You made my favorite.”
At least that hasn’t changed.
“I made them for Shabbat, Gramps,” I say quietly.
“Oh.” His eyebrows lift with surprise. “Well, I’ll bring them,