Christmas Wishes and Mistletoe Kisses(8)

“I’ll get the towels and a broom for the floor,” her mom said, standing up and swinging her large cast out in front of her. “You go and see Dad. It’ll make him happy. But after that, I’m dying to hear about your new job.”

Abbey went down the hallway toward Gramps’s room. He would ask—she was sure—how life was treating her. He always did. And she knew that he was hoping for some kind of exciting answer.

The problem was, growing up, Gramps had always told her, “You can do anything you want if you just want it enough.” She could still remember the times he’d told her that, and, back then it had all seemed so feasible. Of course she could do anything she wanted—the sky was the limit. But when she’d gotten pregnant at twenty-four, she had to refocus. As she looked at Max the day he was born, she realized that what she wanted didn’t matter so much. What she wanted then was for Max to be happy. That was all.

“So you finally decided to come and see me,” Gramps said with a sly grin as she walked through the open door. He was sitting on the edge of his bed, trying unsuccessfully to pull on his cardigan. His hands were shaking so badly, he was struggling to hold on to the hem of the sweater as he tried to pull it around his shoulders. Abbey attempted to help him, but he batted her hand away gently. “How’s life treating you?”

There it was—the question. The answer to it was so far out of her grasp that she could never get her mind around a good response. “I’m doing well,” she said, unable to articulate anything else.

He stared at her, his head wobbling slightly back and forth from the Parkinson’s. His eyes were telling her he could see through that answer, but he didn’t say anything more. He just stood up and walked toward her. “Max is growing up quickly,” he said, clearly deciding to focus on the positive. “I haven’t seen the little guy for a few months and, I swear, he grew a foot!”

Abbey stepped aside to allow Gramps to maneuver down the hallway. After seeing how he insisted on handling his own sweater, she knew better than to try to help him.

“You’ll be here tomorrow for Thanksgiving, right?” he asked over his shoulder as he led her down the hallway. “I feel like you spend all your time working these days.”

“Of course I’m coming to Thanksgiving,” she said with a smile. “I wouldn’t miss it.”

Nick floated into her mind—the thought surprising her. She imagined him all alone in that big house tomorrow for Thanksgiving. Did he have any family coming over? Was he going somewhere else? Would he see Caroline? He’d been so direct and quiet during their meeting that she almost couldn’t imagine him sitting around a table, talking to his family. She wondered if he even cared about Thanksgiving at all.

They entered the kitchen and Gramps sat down at the small, oval table nestled near the bay window overlooking the swing set. Max was drawing in the dirt under her childhood swing with a stick. Abbey grinned at the sight of him and turned back to Gramps. Her mom was pulling his many bottles of medicine from the cabinet and lining them up on the counter.

“Have you bought the turkey for tomorrow, Abbey? If not, you’ll want to get it soon or all the good ones will be gone.”

Her mom hobbled toward the table, swinging her boot in front of her with every step, her broken ankle a reminder of the burden Gramps was putting on her. She set down the pills in a little pile and placed a glass of water beside them.

“I already have the turkey,” Abbey said with a smile, glad that she was able to put her mother’s mind at ease. “And I bought some of those oven rolls. All I have to do is make the pumpkin pie. I was hoping I could bring Max over tomorrow morning and make it here. Maybe Gramps could help since he was always so good at it. Gramps, do you still have your recipe?”

“You’ll have to ask your mom,” he said. “She packed up my whole house. She’s put it somewhere, I’m sure.”

“It’s in the recipe box,” her mom said.

“Would you make the pie with us tomorrow morning?” she asked.

With a shaky hand, Gramps picked up the pills and dumped them all into his mouth at once. He chased them with a swig of water. “Yep.”

“Perfect,” she said. “I’ll come by first thing.”





Chapter Three





“Hello?” Abbey said, her phone resting on her shoulder as she cradled the pumpkin mixture in a ceramic bowl, stirring it with a wooden spoon. Gramps was pressing the piecrust to the rim of the tin, his fingers so unsteady that the edges were uneven and lumpy. He used to cut holly leaves out of the crust and place them around the edges. They’d get golden brown in the oven, and Abbey would pick them off and eat them before she ate her slice of pie.