Page 120 of It's Always Been You
The grief in her voice is unmistakable. She’s mourning.
“None of that will go away,” I plead, taking her hand in mine. I lower her onto the nearest recliner and crouch down in front of her. “No one is locking you up and throwing away the key, Grandma. You’ll be able to come and go as you please. You could even opt for a two-bedroom apartment, if you reallywanted to, so you can have guests. You’ll still be able to go to church and host your Bible studies and do whatever else you want. I promise.”
She shakes her head. “I wish I’d died when I fell down those steps.”
“Grandma!” I gasp, horrified. “Don’t talk like that!” I look to Francine for back up. Francine sets her coffee aside, drawing closer to us on the couch.
“What?” Grandma defends. “At least then I’d be with Jesus, and I wouldn’t be a burden to you or anyone else.” A tear slips down her cheek.
“You have never been a burden to me!” I cry, devastated that this is how she feels. “You are the cornerstone of this family.”
She only shakes her head.
“Maggie,” Francine hedges, reaching out to grasp her other hand. “Remember that God is always in control. This trial you’re going through is not without its purpose.”
“And what purpose might that be?” Grandma retorts cynically, airing my exact thoughts.
Francine hesitates. “I’m not sure,” she murmurs, stroking Grandma’s hand with her thumb. When she speaks again, her voice is softer than velvet but more convincing than a stone-cold fact. “But I do know what the Bible says. And it says God is working all things together for our good and His glory.”
“It sure doesn’t feel like it.”
Tell me about it.
I rise from my crouch. Hearing Grandma talk like this is excruciating; it’s just so unlike her. She’s usually so . . . well,happy.Optimistic.Hopeful.Buther uncharacteristic pessimism—and the fact that she feels like a burden—reminds me of all the times I felt like a useless burden growing up, especially after Dad shipped me off to that psychiatric hospital. Sometimes Istillfeel that way.
Like I’m . . . hard to love.
And to think that Grandma’s relationship with Jesus is so much stronger than mine, and she still feels like a nuisance to her loved ones. If that’s the case, what hope is there for someone like me? No matter how many Bible studies or church services I attend, I can’t seem to shake this idea that God isn’t listening to my prayers and doesn’t care about my problems.
Or Grandma’s.
Frankly, I’d like to blame God for Grandma’s predicament, but I don’t see the point. God is on His throne, and He’ll do whatever He wants, regardless of how we mere mortals feel about it—just like Francine implied. So instead, I turn my fury on my own father, the person who’s heartlessly snatching away the last piece of Grandma’s sense of autonomy—and her hope for the future along with it.
I stomp in the direction of the front door.
“Where are you going?” Francine calls, trailing behind me.
I grab my coat from the hook and shrug it on. “Out.”
“Out where?”
“For a drive.”
She steps in front of the door. “But it’s snowing!”
“I know.” I give her a quick, reassuring hug, then turn her by the shoulder and gently push her back in Grandma’s direction. “But I have a bone to pick with my father.”
***
“This is your fault.” The force of my accusation could shatter glass.
Slamming the door of Francine’s Volvo, I storm up Grandma’s driveway toward my father. He’s on the front porch, barking orders at the movers he hired to box up and transport all of our belongings. When he sees the look on my face, he must know I’m out for blood because he dismisses the movers, then gestures for me to step inside.
Bouncing up the porch steps, I stride past him, buzzing with adrenaline. Inside the house, I face him and cross my arms. A mover approaches us, but Dad lifts his hand, and the guy looks between us before slinking off.
“What, Evie?”
“Don’t ‘what, Evie’ me!” I shout. “Grandma is practically suicidal over this move, Dad! You can’t do this to her. She’s not ready.”
