Free A Keeper's Truth by Dee Willson

day, a day to bring what’s left of our
pint-sized brood together. Death will do that, make the living closer. Abby and
I putter around the house in our pajamas all morning. Just after lunch, Grams
saunters in pushing Gramps’s wheelchair, sliding him into his spot by the back
window where he claims he can see everything, from the raindrops gathering on
leaves to his lovely ladies bustling round the house. Like me, Gramps has a
special place in his heart for the woods around us. Grams and Gramps live in a
quaint bungalow the next town over. They settled there long before Meyer was
born, when Meyer’s father Marty was just a boy, his sister Sarah a beating
heart in the womb, and only planned a temporary stay. But this place has a way
of sinking its teeth into your bones, in a good way, a comfortable way, and the
woods took the Morgan’s as their own, embracing them like family.
    Today
marks the last of our family days for a while. Tomorrow Grams and Gramps leave
for Florida.
    “I don’t
know what I’ll do without you,” I say to Grams, looking away so she doesn’t see
the tears welling in my eyes.
    “You’ll do
exactly what you’ve been doing,” she says, “exactly what you must. For you and
Abby.”
    I know if
I asked her to stay, told her I couldn’t do it alone, they wouldn’t go to
Florida. Selfish as it is, the thought has crossed my mind, but I can’t bring
myself to say the words, to make them stay when I know its best they take care
of themselves. They were in their late sixties when Meyer moved to Toronto for
university. When most are facing retirement and slowing down, they were busy
raising a little man. My man.
    “I’m not
the best mother. I panic when Abby is hurt and suffocate her when she wants
independence. Meyer always knew what to do. He always had the right answer.
What if I raise her wrong? What if I screw up and she ends up
like . . . like . . .?”
    Like me , I want
to say but don’t.
    We’re
digging through my closet, looking for clothing with resurrection potential.
The people of Saint Ann’s Cathedral embraced me, designating me chief costume
designer of their Christmas performance. Apparently being an artist qualifies
me to make costumes. Abby begged me to be involved, to do the pageant with her,
and after such a commendation from the committee, as well as Karen’s praise,
how could I refuse? I didn’t mention I’d never touched a sewing machine.
    “You
know,” Grams says, sitting on my bed, “I’ve never told you this, but you scared
the daylights out of me when Meyer first brought you around.”
    “I can
believe it. And I had the bulk of my shit together by then.” I can only imagine
what Grams would have thought of me a few years before I met Meyer, before art
school and my hair grew back. “I actually thought it was Gramps who hated me.”
    Grams
guffaws. “Ted was over the moon. His grandson had snagged a looker and it was
all he could do to keep his mouth shut in your presence. He teased that boy
something awful when you weren’t around, slapping Meyer on the back and hoot’an and hollerin ’ like some
silly frat boy. All that fuss over a girl, over you.” She smiles at the memory.
    “It was me
who worried you were all wrong for my grandson. It was my job to worry, and you
were this firecracker who had my baby boy in a trance. You were too beautiful
to stay loyal. You had no family to speak of and lived in a bar. Sure, you were
well spoken and polite, but under the tight jeans and belly shirts you were
this wounded bird determined to fly, and I was convinced Meyer would get hurt
wanting to fix you.”
    I recall
the fight Meyer and I had the second time he dropped to one knee and I said no.
We’d only been dating a few months, and I thought he was nuts to want to marry
me. I was five years younger than him, in school, working nights, and didn’t
have a clue how to be a family. Hell, I didn’t even have an address. He had a
good job in Toronto and