Summer of Supernovas

by Darcy Woods

  At the end of this week from hell, Gram’s finally back home where she belongs. Recuperating, and wondering why in blue blazes the kitchen door is scratched up. The EMTs ended up taking it off to fit through with the gurney. Of course, I had it rehung before she got home, but leave it to Gram for no detail to go unnoticed.

  While there are still plenty of follow-up appointments, those are small potatoes after the scare of almost losing her. It’s a miracle to have her back at all. The doctors believe she must have lost consciousness just moments before I found her. The CPR saved her from the damage that might’ve been. So her mind remains sharp as ever.

  I bake three dozen cupcakes and deliver them to the 911 dispatch office, and another three dozen for the hospital staff. It’s not enough to pay back what they’ve done. But it’s something. I’ve also signed up for CPR certification at the community center.

  Tomorrow I will make my last and final X on the calendar. The close of June brings the close of my auspicious planetary alignment. Three weeks ago this would’ve thrown me into a tizzy, but in light of everything, it seems almost…ridiculous.

  I haven’t heard a peep from Seth. Naturally, he sends the most extravagant get-well flowers to Gram, but otherwise, his silence says more to me than any words could. I understand. I’ve forgiven his lie (including swiping the exact birth date of my match off the chart), even if he hasn’t forgiven me.

  The brass mail slot clinks softly, odd because today’s mail has already come. I take the teakettle off the stove before moving to the hall, where I immediately spot a manila envelope on the floor. I know that neat, compact writing—it’s Grant’s.

  My pulse quickens as I pull back the curtains, just in time to see the flash of his taillights at the end of my street. And then he’s gone. I suspect he and Irina have been in contact, but she’d never give me a straight answer. I guess it’s her way of protecting me.

  With shaky hands, I tear open the envelope, finding two regular-sized ones inside. One labeled: Open first. The other: Open second.

  I’ve been so preoccupied with Gram that I haven’t allowed myself time to miss Grant. But as I unfold the first note, the ache of his absence levels me.

  Dear Mena,

  Know you’ve been in my thoughts every second of every day since we saw each other. Iri has kept me updated on Gram’s condition (please don’t be mad at her). I can’t tell you how glad I am to hear she’s finally home.

  But I’ve kept my distance, because the last thing I wanted to do was add more turmoil to an already difficult time. And, in fairness, I don’t believe Seth did either. But there are things that (selfishly) I do not want to go unsaid.

  I don’t regret one moment of our time together. Even if that’s all it will remain—a moment. I will treasure it. Always.

  Now for the selfish part. I miss you. I miss your smile and your laugh. I miss the way you always know what the sky is saying when no one else does. I miss the smell of that soap you use—the lavender vanilla one. I miss teaching you guitar and wish I could have taught you more. I miss the way your tongue sticks out when you concentrate. I miss all the ways we fit, even if your astrology says we don’t. I could write thousands of songs about all the things I miss. And so, I’m going to say the thing you wouldn’t let me say before….

  I love you, Mena.

  I stop reading to wipe the tears from my eyes, and take a deep breath before continuing.

  You asked me once what brought me back from my darkness. It was music. But more than that, it was putting my faith in people again.

  So I put my faith in you.

  With me, or without me, you will find your way. Because you shine too bright not to.

  Yours,

  Grant

  I rub the splotchy tears from my lenses and pick up the second envelope, flipping it over.

  Everything you wanted to know but never asked.

  I hold it to my chest—Grant’s astrological chart. It must be! And he’s absolutely right, I never asked because I was so positive I already knew.

  “Mena?” Gram calls from her bed. “Mind bringing that tea for me?”

  I tumble back to reality and try to pull myself together. “Sure,” I croak, ducking back in the kitchen.

  A few minutes later, I enter Gram’s bedroom with her favorite chamomile in hand.

  “I think we’re overdue for a chat,” she says in a serious tone.

  I put some powder under my eyes, attempting to hide the redness, but maybe it wasn’t enough. Maybe I appear as shaken on the outside as I feel inside. “You’ve been through a lot, Gram. You’re supposed to be resting.” I set the mug on her nightstand.

  Gram frowns. “And yet you’re the one who looks worse for wear.” She pats the spot beside her on the bed. The color is back in her skin and that determined flair is returning to her gestures. Even with her illness, I know arguing is a lost cause because Gram will win. Every. Time.

  I crawl in next to her. She takes my hand, sandwiching it between her own. “We need to talk about what you found in the attic.”

  “Later we will—I want to. But when you feel better.”

  She shakes her head and gives my hand a weak squeeze. “No, now. It’s a conversation we should’ve had years ago but I was too afraid. Interesting thing about almost dying”—she pauses for a sip of tea—“it makes you question what kind of living you’ve done. What I did, I did out of love, you see? Doesn’t make it right. Doesn’t mean you’ll forgive me…or understand, but—”

  “Gram, I—”

  “Hush now”—her wrinkled hand pats mine—“please. I need to say this.”

  Gram pauses, lifting the photo of my mom from her nightstand. The frame is decorated with tiny shells I collected from our beach trip together, messily glued around the edges. Gram’s finger traces the image of her happy daughter, smiling wide for the camera, blue eyes dancing with innumerable dreams.

  “Grace was just sixteen when she met Jonathon Markham. Handsome boy. Ambitious. She fell for him hard and fast as young girls so often do. And I believe Jonathon was equally smitten with her.” Gram smiles sadly. “Should’ve seen the way he watched your mother speak. Looked at her like she’d hung the moon.” She sets down the photo with a soft sigh.

  “A year later she found herself pregnant. My Grace was sure he’d support her, be there in her time of need. Except…Jonathon had just learned he’d received a scholarship to an elite college out west. One his family could never have afforded. It was his dream. A dream he was more driven to fulfill than owning up to his responsibilities as a man. As a father.

  “So Jonathon left. Left your mama—pregnant and scared and brokenhearted. Sure, he sent money as he could. But once he was gone, I don’t believe he set one foot back in Carlisle. Until the day your mother was laid to rest.”

  I’m still—even more if that’s possible—hanging on Gram’s every syllable.

  “The day I buried my only child, I made her a promise.” Her teary eyes find mine. “I promised that I would protect you. Always. And from that day forward, you were my world, Wilamena. While I couldn’t shield you from the pain of losing your mama, I’d do everything in my power to keep you from the pain of others. So when Jonathon showed up after six years seeking forgiveness and wanting to be a part of your life—I just…couldn’t.

  “Besides protecting you, it also felt like a betrayal to Grace, if that makes sense. Like…forgiving him would make what he did okay.”

  I open my mouth to disagree.

  “I know, child, I know. That’s not the true nature of forgiveness. But I was hurting and angry. I wanted someone to blame, and for more years than I care to admit, that person was Jonathon.

  “Still, I had another reason for keeping you apart.” Gram gazes at me again, and as she blinks, a magnified tear tumbles from beneath her glasses.

  “Why else, Gram?”

  Her voice cracks. “Well, I’d already lost my daughter. I suppose I was afraid…” Then Gram sobs, her body shak
ing with sorrow.

  “You were afraid you’d lose me, too,” I whisper, piecing it all together. How could she think I’d ever leave her? I’ve decided I will reach out to Jonathon when I feel ready. But he could never be what Gram has been to me. No one could.

  “No,” I murmur. I wrap my arms around my grandmother, surrendering to my own tears. “Love doesn’t work that way.”

  She chuckles midcry. “Sixty-eight years of age and it takes my granddaughter to teach me that. Ah, Mena.” She rubs my back in little circles the way my mother used to do. “I’m so sorry for all I’ve kept from you. But I promise, from this day forward, no more secrets, okay?”

  No more secrets? But that means…Fuuudge. I still have one secret to unload. One big thing I’ve kept hidden.

  I push from her arms. “Um, Gram, I…kind of have a confession.”

  She takes a tissue from the box before passing it to me. “Well, let’s have it.” Then her swollen eyes somehow widen. “Lord in heaven, tell me you’re not pregnant!”

  “No! No, it’s…I study astrology,” I blurt. “For a while now.” I sneak a sideways glance, but her face tells me nada. Why haven’t I inherited her poker-face gene? I’m more transparent than a freshly cleaned window.

  “I suspected as much. How long is a while?”

  “Oh,” I blow out a breath, “I’d say eight years now. And I might have a dozen or so astrology books under my bed.”

  Gram’s eyebrows slowly ascend to her hairline. “A dozen or so?”

  I twist the tissue in my hands. “Specifically, twenty-three. Twenty-four if we count the collectible hardcover edition of Linda Goodman’s Sun Signs. Which, um, should be arriving in the next four to six business days.”

  My grandmother then does the most unthinkable thing…

  She laughs. No. She belly-laughs.

  “But…you’re not mad?” I ask bewildered.

  “For what?” Gram replies once she’s caught her breath. “Being your mother’s daughter? I know I can be a stubborn and opinionated woman, and maybe in this case, to a fault.” Her grin fades. “I think I was so fixated on all the other studying and extracurriculars you might be sacrificing by devoting yourself to this star business that I never once stopped to see what you gained. But, Mena, I understand now. And the last thing I ever meant to do was to come between you and something special you shared with your mama. Even if I think it’s—” She bites her tongue.

  I chuckle, resting my head on her shoulder. “Oh, Gram, just say it.”

  “Cosmological hooey.” The smile in her voice matches the one on my face.

  Some things will never change. And I’m okay with that.

  I’m having a stare-down contest with the number-two envelope when Gram pads into the kitchen early Sunday morning.

  “What are you doing up?” I ask, hiding the letter behind my back.

  But she’s already spotted my futile action. “What have you got there, Mena? Better not be another speeding ticket, so help you.” Gram snatches it from my hand quicker than she should be capable of moving.

  “It’s from Grant.”

  “Ah.” She slides it back onto the counter and turns to pour herself a cup of coffee. “But I see you didn’t open it.”

  I wring my hands, itching to tear into the paper. “I think it’s his astrological chart.”

  “Think or know?” Gram asks.

  “Ninety-nine percent sure.” I pull up a stool and resume my stare. “A few weeks ago I would’ve opened it quicker than the speed of light.”

  “And now?”

  “Now…I don’t know. He says that”—my eyes flit to her thoughtful expression—“he says that he…” Why can’t I spit it out?

  “I believe the word you’re looking for is ‘love.’ Grant Walker loves you.”

  My eyes bulge. “How did you know?” The letter is upstairs in my bedroom, underneath my pillow. Gram can’t quite make it up the stairs yet, and anyway she’d never read something so personal.

  She chuckles, giving her head a little shake. “Because my eyes were open, Mena. ’Bout time you opened yours. You want to know the secret to life?”

  My head bobs.

  “There is no secret. You can’t shortcut living. I know your mama wanted to protect you when she asked you to make that promise about following your star chart. But people make mistakes—clearly the Carlisle women are no exception.”

  I slide the amethyst stone back and forth along its chain. “So, you really think she’d want me to break my promise to her?”

  Gram’s face softens. “What I think is that she’d want you to be happy. That would be more important to her than anything else.”

  I mull over what she’s said. Her words carry a ring of familiarity. My father wished for my happiness. And while Gram was a staunch loyalist of Team Practicality, I knew she wanted my happiness, too. Oh my gosh! Yes, and Charlotte. Didn’t she say exactly that about Seth and Grant?

  Happiness.

  Why wouldn’t my mother have the same wish for me? After all, she told me she’d love me for longer than the stars would shine above.

  And as quickly as the thought forms—the crushing weight from the guilt of betraying my mother, the profound fear of losing what has bound us—it vanishes. Because it isn’t the stars keeping us together, it’s…love. And it always will be.

  So, could honoring her memory really be as simple as being happy?

  Gram must see the revelation in my eyes because she nods, a contented smile playing at her lips. Then her gaze drifts to the envelope I clutch in my hands. “Honey, the answers you’re seeking can’t always be found in the heavens above. Sometimes life requires a leap of faith. For you, maybe, just maybe—that leap means staying right here on the ground.” She kisses my forehead before shuffling out of the kitchen.

  I sit, blinking. “But…what does that even mean?” My grandmother is a fortune cookie, a walking, talking cookie. What am I supposed to do with that? I drop my head to my arms.

  Suddenly Gram’s voice, clear as a bell, chimes from the hall. “It means if you love him, you’ll get off your duff and tell him. Child”—she chuckles again—“they don’t call it falling for nothing.”

  Then it all clicks. And I know exactly what to do.

  Lucky day, my foot. First, I lose hot water midshampoo after my morning epiphany with Gram. And now—arg! I lay on the horn behind the line of unmoving cars. Yes, I’m being one of those annoying people.

  Hilarious that I’ve waited all these weeks to acknowledge that I am head over heels in love with Grant, and now a little log-jammed traffic is making me lose it. But it’s not the traffic; it’s knowing that only a mere mile or two stands between us.

  I could run there faster…in Irina’s heels…uphill.

  “Oh, come on.” I slap my hands on the wheel. “What is the holdup?” I check my hair and lipstick and puff out another impatient breath. I dab my underarms with the remaining napkins I find in the glove box. All I need is to start pitting out while declaring my love to Grant. Traffic finally starts crawling across the bridge to the east side.

  I whiz by one ginormous house after another, my anxiety growing with the size of the homes. I spot the familiar line of cypress at the end of the cul-de-sac and pull into the long drive.

  I want to throw up. Instead, I pop a mint and try to focus on the words that will come out of my mouth when the door opens. What will I say?

  Hi, Grant, the lobotomy was a success and, ha-ha, turns out I was in love with you all along.

  Or maybe something straightforward like: Feel free to ignore the kiss-off note I left while you were sleeping on my couch.

  Well, there’s no denying it. I suck more than a black hole.

  My mind is reeling all the way up until the front door is yanked open.

  “Um…hey.” Which is the best I can come up with, now that my tongue has triple-knotted itself.

  Charlotte stands in the doorway wearing a splotched painter’s apron, hair piled
atop her head. “Wil?” She blinks. “Well, this is certainly a surprise.” But the shock of finding me on her doorstep quickly fades. “Sweetheart, we’re so relieved to hear your grandmother is home again and making a full recovery. You must be overjoyed.”

  “Oh, yes, thank you. She’s getting stronger every day.” My grin wavers. “Charlotte, er…I was actually hoping to talk to—”

  “Grant?”

  My eyes round. “H-how did you know?”

  Charlotte takes a paint rag from her apron pocket, wiping at a smear of crimson near her temple. Her lips lift in a sad little grin. “I think you may have been the only one who didn’t. But”—her frown deepens—“he just left. Didn’t he say goodbye?”

  “Left?” I echo.

  “Yes. He wasn’t planning to head up north until August, but then—”

  “Wait! He’s…gone?” I blink.

  “Well, yes, but he’ll be—”

  “What about Seth?” I ask, realizing I didn’t see his car in the driveway either.

  “He’s staying with a cousin in Chicago for a while. Things have been…difficult.” Charlotte places a gentle hand on my shoulder. “Honey, it was an impossible situation. Someone was bound to be hurt.” She lets go. “Maybe it’s for the best that you all take a little time and gain perspective. You’ve been through quite an ordeal this past week.”

  But I don’t want perspective; I want Grant. My heart deflates. Grant’s gone and I never got to tell him how I really feel.

  “Um”—Charlotte’s brows draw together—“can I ask why you’re carrying a bouquet of Brussels sprouts?”

  “They’re for…no reason,” I finish quietly with a shake of my head.

  Her lips purse as if working through a complex equation. “You really care for him, don’t you, Wil?”

  “Yes,” I murmur, rotating the sprout bouquet in my hand. “But I guess it’s too late, isn’t it? Everything’s just so mangled and…I’m sorry to have bothered you, Charlotte.” I turn and start back to the car. Clamping my lips together, I swear not to bawl hysterically like the last time I left the Walkers’. Don’t cry. And with each footstep I chant: Pillar of strength, pillar of strength, pillar of—