Page 170 of Share with Me

Chapter Fifty-Three

“What did the therapist say, dear?” Grandma Yun was at the screen door when Ivan trudged up the front porch steps.

Behind him, Matt backed away his van, its wheels crunching gravel on the way out. The sun came down on Ivan’s back, but the winter wind blew away any warmth from his neck.

“Long road ahead, Grandma.” Ivan’s voice was low. He closed the door and bolted it.

“At least your bones are healed.”

Ivan nodded. His ribs didn’t hurt as much anymore. He could move his wrist some. He still couldn’t lift heavy things, but he was getting there. He wished that Brinley could come over and massage his arm and kiss him and make him feel all better.

But she’s history.

When Ivan turned around, Grandma was shuffling off on her walker. Was it his imagination or was she walking slower than she ever did?

“It might take less energy to use the motorized wheelchair, Grandma.”

“I need the exercise.” She went in the direction of the kitchen, and Ivan followed her.

“Four months will be here before we know it.” It was a soft voice, but Ivan heard her.

“Grandma.” He had to tell her the truth.

“What, dear?” She turned around.

“We don’t have four months.”

Grandma didn’t move.

“We’re way behind on our house payment.” Any day now the house could be foreclosed on.

“I know. Then?”

“We’ll go on an adventure and move in with Willow.”

“She’ll get tired of us after a few weeks.”

“Hopefully my wrist will heal and I’ll be back in business.”

Do I believe that myself?

Ivan leaned against the doorframe and took in the sight of the old kitchen where Grandma Yun had taught him to scramble eggs when he was a kid missing his mother. His grandparents had kept the two boys and a girl occupied so they didn’t think about how their mother had abandoned them to run off with some guy to who knew where. To this day Ivan had no idea where his parents were, whether they were still alive, or what they were up to.

“We have to keep praying.”

Ivan could barely hear her.

“Yes, Grandma. Appreciate every prayer.” He choked out the words.

“Thank God the tendons are not broken. Thank God we have insurance.”

“Disability.” Not enough, but somehow things were covered. He’d figure all that out later. “Don’t worry, Grandma. I’ll be functional. Maybe even play violin again. I won’t be able to play Paganini or anything fast for some time to come.”

Or have a crossover concert career.

“But you’ll live.” Grandma waved her hands. “Want something to eat?”

“What do we have here?” He walked toward the island. It was worn out, the Formica chipped and part of the side glue had come off, baring the stained plywood underneath it. Grandma had tried to keep it clean and that was the best they could do.

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