Page 61 of Her Dreadful Will
Zillah thought the improvement might be the uptick before the end. God, she hoped so. She couldn’t take much more of this. If Gran would just fucking die already, she couldleave, like the rest of Gran’s kids had, like her own sister had. They’d all left Zillah to do everything—to take care of the crumbly old house and crumbly old Gran. At first Gran’s kids had sent money. Zillah had used it for cigarettes and movies, some new clothes, and a couple weeks of takeout dinners. Of course she had used it for herself. Shedeservedit. But the minute that cheapskate bitch, Aunt Carol, caught wind that the money hadn’t gone to serve Gran’s needs, that was it. No more financial support.
What did Gran need anyway? A couple bathrobes and a sandwich or two? All she did was sit in her chair or putter around from one room to another, her mouth trembling with forgotten words, her eyes glassy and vacant.
Not so vacant lately, though.
What if the mental renaissance meant that Gran would live another decade? Zillah’s fingers tightened on the computer mouse.
No. That couldn’t happen. She wouldn’t be stuck here for another ten years, working for scraps that mostly disappeared into Nancy’s pocket or went to the taxes on the stupid old house.
“Zillah!” Gran’s voice was stronger now. Almost commanding.
“Coming!” screamed Zillah. With trembling fingers she picked up the smoldering cigarette she’d laid in the ashtray and took a long pull. The smoke filled her lungs, a comforting cloud in her chest. She set the cigarette back down and walked to Gran’s room.
Gran lay among rose-dotted sheets and white crocheted blankets. The spindles of the antique cherry bed-frame shone like dark candles in the glow from the overhead fixture—another antique with frilly bells of frosted glass encasing the bulbs. Sleek fan blades spun leisurely near the ceiling.
Gran herself looked—better. Healthier, and more alert than ever.
Zillah’s heart twisted. “What is it?” she hissed.
“Zillah,” Gran said. “It’s about time for apple-picking to start, up in the mountains. You know your granddaddy and I used to go up and pick apples, and get those apple cider donuts. They had ’em fresh and hot, you know, with the sugar all on ’em. I used to go up there myself after he passed on. But I haven’t been up that way in some years now, and I was thinking—you and me, we could drive up in a couple weeks and get some fresh cider and apple donuts. Also I need more books. I’ve read all the ones I have. Even the trashy romances Nancy leaves around.” She pursed her wrinkled mouth.
“You wanna drive. Up to the mountains.” Zillah let the words leak between clenched teeth.
“That’s it.” Gran nodded. “One more time.”
“No.” Zillah shook her head. “No. The car won’t even last that far. I have to look for ajob, Gran. Once I find one, I’ll be working again. All the time. Even on weekends.”
“You work too hard,” Gran replied. “You should ease up on it.”
“I can’t ease up,” gritted Zillah. “I need every penny and more to take care of this shack, and you.”
“Just ask Carol for some money,” said Gran. “She’ll help out.”
“She won’t.” Zillah shook her head. “She don’t care about you, Gran. None of them do. Not Uncle Jed, or Aunt Bea, or Aunt Carol. And certainly not my useless sister Delia. They can’t be bothered with you.”
“That’s not true,” said Gran. “Bea called just the other day.”
“She did not. That’s your memory playing tricks on you. You’re imagining things.”
“My memory has improved, Zillah,” Gran said sharply. “I think I know when my daughter calls and when she doesn’t.”
“Dementia don’t just ‘improve,’ Gran.”
“Well. I guess you know everything, hm?” Gran’s eyes narrowed. “Sometimes I think you’ve got a real mean streak, Zillah. Sometimes I think I remember you doin’ things to me, when it was all foggy. You pinched me, all the time. Twisted my fingers. You wouldn’t change the sheets one night, when I had that accident. ‘Go back to sleep,’ you said, didn’t you, Zillah?”
Zillah’s breath caught. Gran never remembered those things—never talked about the times when Zillah’s rage burst out, messy and cruel. Those moments were swathed in the fog of Gran’s failing memory, and Zillah pretended they never happened.
“I want you to bring me the phone, Zillah,” said Gran. “I need to make a call.”
Panic seared Zillah’s soul, and words flashed across her brain—Adult Protective Services. Police. Zillah Dean, charged with abuse— “Who are you going to call?”
“Bea, of course. Or maybe Carol. You need help, Zillah. We both do. And I’m going to make sure we get it, because I don’t plan to die anytime soon. I’ve woken up, and I realized there’s more I want to do. So get me the phone.”
I don’t plan to die anytime soon.
You need help, Zillah.
Zillah’s fingers, her lungs, her whole body itched for the cigarette she’d left in the den. “I’ll just—go and get it then.”
