Page 7 of Ladybirds

“Yeah, well, who asked you?” he snaps. “I don’t want your pity!”

Her stomach sinks. “It’s not—”

David doesn’t let her finish, his face is flushed with a rage she doesn’t remember. “Just leave me the hell alone!”

His nurse is at her elbow, coaxing her out of the room. Sara barely feels her hands on her shoulders, barely registers her words (come with me now, honey). There’s a buzzing in her ears, a numbness in her bones, but she still recognizes the sound of her grandmother’s china shattering against the wall.

Oma knows the moment she opens the door. Even through the burning of her eyes, Sara can see the way her face falls, the sympathetic drawing of her brow. Her grandmother folds her into her arms, hand stroking over her hair, just as Sara’s knees go weak and the first broken sob bursts from her lungs with a violence that leaves her trembling.

“Oh, my dear sweet girl,” Oma croons, holding her in the open doorway—moths fluttering around the porch light overhead. Sara sobs harder, the force of it ripping through her chest in a keening howl. Oma holds her, soft shushing sounds emitting from her aged lips, as she rocks her. After a few minutes, she gently guides her to the couch; her arms holding her together the entire way.

She tells Sara stories about the grandfather she never got to meet—how she would help him sow the seeds and tend the stalks until the corn grew taller than he was. She tells of how he’d strip the husk from the first corn harvested, breath it in, give Oma a tobacco stained smile, and say, “Look at that gold, eh Gertie?”

Oma chuckles, deep and raspy. “Oh, he’d say the exact thing every year. Even the bad ones.” She sighs. “Sometimes I wonder… if he had let someone else man the farm sooner, if I could’ve kept him longer.” She tilts up her granddaughter’s face, arthritic fingers cupping her cheeks and her wizened stare more gray than blue in the lamplight. “And then I remember, how little good wondering does for us.”

“But Oma—”

“My dear, sweet Sara.” She sweeps some hair from her forehead, fingers whispering over her brow. “Take this time to mourn—your grief, your sadness, it’s all deserved. But when the tears run out, pick yourself up. Keep him in your heart, but let him go and move forward.”

Sara shakes her head. “It’s different, though. David isn’t dead, he just—”

Oma’s hands grip her shoulders, stern in ways she hasn’t been since she was a girl. “Gone. Sara, he’s gone.”

Fury fills her, hot and aching in her chest; pounding relentlessly in her ears. She pulls away, ignoring her grandmother’s level gaze. “How can you say that?! How can you just give up on him?!”

Sara has never yelled at Oma. Never. She expects to see a flash of hurt, maybe even anger, but her grandmother’s gaze only holds pity. “Because I love you, and your happiness is more important to me than anything else in this world.” She holds Sara’s hands in hers, weathered thumbs stroking the backs of her knuckles. “You tried and have nothing but his cruelty to show for it. Helping him shouldn’t hurt you.”

She wants to argue. She wants to scream.

Sara thinks of her mother’s rusty red sedan, of the beer cans and whiskey bottles strewn across the kitchen countertop at home, and has to tramp down the burning urge to remind her grandmother that that’s what giving up looks like. Instead, she rips herself from Oma’s gentle hands and runs out the door—ignoring the voice calling after her.

CHAPTER FOUR

Sara doesn’t stay away for long—she never does and she would never want to. Even if her father’s house wasn’t her only other option, Oma is one of the most important people in her life and she won’t let her fall away because of a disagreement. Especially not one born from good intentions.

Besides… objectively, she can see the wisdom of her grandmother’s words even if her heart isn’t quite ready to believe them. The reception she received from David the following morning, the frigid silence and refused acknowledgment, doesn’t inspire confidence. The way his mother texts her not even half an hour after she leaves, words formal and clipped with a hint of awkwardness, all but buries Sara’s weakened hopes.

‘We think it might be better for David’s recovery if you stay away for a while.’

Mrs. Mclintock doesn’t say how long “a while” is, but Sara doesn’t need her to. She knows a polite dismissal when she sees one—knows that what the older woman is really saying is “don’t come back”.

Maybe it’s because the weeks have already beaten her heart so thoroughly that she’s immune to pain, but she takes Mrs. Mclintock’s words with a numb acceptance that lasts long after the hospital disappears from her rearview mirror. Oma’s words ring (he’s gone… move forward) the entire drive; an echo over her heart. Sara still isn’t ready to believe it, not fully, but she’s tired.

David wants her to stay away, so she will. Perhaps her trying to force it was just making things worse… maybe the time apart will give him room to remember. Maybe, if she can just be patient, she can get him back.

It’s a tiny thread of hope, but it’s wrapped around her heart so tightly she knows it would take months—maybe years—to uncoil. She doesn’t breathe a word of it to anyone. It sounds too fragile, too much like false hope, to share. Besides, some wishes won’t come true if they’re spoken out loud and, while she’s never been one for superstitions, Sara isn’t exactly in a position to risk it.

Oma’s door creaks a bit when she opens it, the bottom hinge still needing oil. The living room is empty, which is a bit strange. Normally, Oma would be watching the evening news around this time. Taking her shoes off by the door, Sara peers hesitantly into the house as she closes the door behind her. “Oma?”

“In the kitchen!” Her grandmother calls back. There’s not a single shred of animosity or bitterness lacing her voice, and Sara feels herself relax. Oma’s never been one to hold a grudge, especially not when it concerned her granddaughter, but Sara’s never quite went off on her like that, either. It’s a good reminder that some of the good things in her life haven’t been upended overnight.

Now that she knows to listen for it, Sara can hear the water running over the sink. She must be doing dishes. She goes to set her bag at the usual spot on the chair by the door—an old wingback chair whose age has faded the floral pattern over time and has recently seen more use as a dumping ground than a place to sit—but stops at the last second.

On the cushion, blinking up at her with large hazel eyes, is a cat.

Sara blinks back at him, frozen in the entry, until the gray tabby sits up and perches itself on the arm of the chair and gives a trilling meow. A smile, so rare this past week that the action feels foreign, pulls at her lips and she sets her purse on the floor instead.

“Well, hi there,” she croons, offering her hand. The cat smells it tentatively, before rubbing its face against her knuckles. “What’s your name?”

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