“Always hold your breath when you walk past someone smoking a white stick.”
My little sister was named after our Aunt Grace. She was born one year to the day after Aunt Grace died.
December 2, 2009
I walked through the heavy metal door to her apartment and into the smell of stale spices. The sun cut through the window blinds and exposed the dust dancing around the dim living room. Silent strangers left no space on the couch.
I stepped over strange shoes, squeezed through somber bodies, and made my way into her room.
The only sound was her labored breath. Jessica was sitting on the bed next to her.
“I’m glad you came. Lisa said she only has about an hour left.” My cousin Jessica was at Aunt Grace’s side every day. She slept there, knew each doctor by name, and even bathed her.
“Thanks for texting me.”
“Of course,” Jessica said.
My grandmother was sitting in a chair to the right of the bed. I hadn’t seen her in about six years. Some legal drama between her and mom.
I walked around the left side of the footboard. There was a rectangular table against a window on that side of the room that I had never looked at. The table was draped in a baby blue cover, which was draped in about three layers of dust.
On the table was a pale pink floral box labeled stitches.
I opened it.
There were a few yards of pastel fabric and five spools of ivory thread. To the right of the box was a sewing machine. There was a spool of thread on it that was almost finished. It couldn’t reach the needle.
Layers of dust coated everything.
I had never really noticed the color of her walls until that day either. They were baby blue to match the elaborate drapes that warmed her gated window.
“She made those drapes,” Jessica’s sister Catherine said behind me.
“I didn’t realize she even had a sewing machine,” I said.
“I know. Neither did I; Oscar told me,” Catherine was whispering.
“Who’s Oscar?”
“Her neighbor.”
There was so much I still hadn’t known about her. Still so much to learn from her.
Catherine watched me study our Aunt’s things.
Mom was sitting silently in a wooden chair in the corner of the room furthest from Aunt Grace’s bed. Dad was standing behind her, his hands on her shoulders. They watched me, too.
I looked to the huge painting of a sunflower hanging on the wall in the corner. “Did she make that too?” I asked Catherine.
“I don’t know. But I wouldn’t be surprised.”
To the right of her sewing table was a tall dresser. Sylvia Plath’s The Bell Jar sat alone in the center of it. I stepped toward the dresser. I was closer to her labored breath. I didn’t look at her.
I remembered when she gave me a copy of that book two years before on Christmas. It was wrapped in what looked like a paper bag. It smelled like fresh basil. I remembered thinking that she must have been to a pizzeria on her way to my house that day. I’d lost myself in The Bell Jar that night.
Two days later, she brought me The Lord of The Rings collection. She knew that would keep me busy a bit longer.
I remembered the fresh burns on her hand when she handed the books to me. Her cat had pulled her curtains into a candle and set her apartment on fire. I wondered if she’d made those curtains, too.
Beside the dresser was a nightstand. I moved toward the nightstand and I was right next to her. I stood at her bedside, facing her nightstand. On it sat an old portable radio that was playing Sinatra hits. And there were pictures of her. There were so many pictures of her.
Aunt Grace at the beach.
Her blowing birthday candles.
Her making a snowman.
She was beautiful.
Her breathing slowed behind me. I took a deep breath and turned around.
She was in a purple floral dress, under a pink blanket. She wore a thin gold bracelet. Her nails were still glossy from the manicure I’d given her last week.
I’d brought every nail color that I owned, but she said, “It’s best to be simple.”
Her burn marks, which were once a shade darker than the rest of her skin, now blended in.
She was beautiful.
I remember thinking, while I gave her a manicure, that she looked about ready to die that day. She was weak, and pale. She’d been so much further from death than I’d realized. Now her skin was so pale it was almost gray. Her mouth was open. Her eyes were closed. She sucked the air in slowly. Her neck bulged on the right side.
The tumor was dead now. It’s angry pulse had stopped. It was no longer hungry.
She was beautiful.
I looked at the time on a cable box across from her bed.
Two-oh-four.
I looked at my grandmother. A tear rolled down her cheek.
I looked at Jessica. She was curled up beside Aunt Grace with a hand on our aunt’s chest.
I held my aunt’s cold hand and spoke to her. “Sometimes I think of the next time we’ll meet.”
She took a small breath.
“I’ll always keep the memories.”
Two-oh-six.
I said, “And I’ll hold on to your rule for life.”
Her breath was barely audible.
“To live it free and simply,” I said.
Two-oh-seven.
Jessica sat straight up on the bed. She pressed her hand firmly on Aunt Grace’s chest.
Her eyes were wide.
Jessica put her ear to Aunt Grace’s heart. And then she let out a deep cry and fell on top of Aunt Grace.
My grandmother crawled onto the bed. Mom stood up and Dad wrapped his arms around her.
Everyone started coming into the room.
I let go of my aunt’s hand, walked past the pictures, past Sylvia Plath, past the sewing machine, through the crowd of strangers in the hall, past the dancing dust in the living room, and out the heavy metal door.
The sun washed over me, and the cold air filled my lungs. I counted my breath until I couldn’t count anymore.
“Always hold your breath when you walk past someone smoking a white stick.”
My little sister was named after our Aunt Grace. She was born one year to the day after Aunt Grace died.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR – Amanda Nesbot lives in NYC. She loves pretending to be a tourist in her city and escaping into fantasy novels. Since the age of 12, she’s dreamed of dorming at Hogwarts. Read more of Amanda’s work at amandanesbot.com.