I got up with the sun the next morning, having the fleeting motivation to try and battle my oversleeping for once. I knew by the afternoon I’d be desperate for a cup of coffee or a too-long nap, but for now, while the determination struck me, I’d try to seize it. I tucked my journal into the front pocket of my pull-over hoodie and left my borrowed room to greet the day.

On the balls of my bare feet, I crept towards the kitchen, but found myself pausing outside my grandfather's door as I passed. It was closed again, and as I held my breath to listen, I could hear my grandmother on the other side. At first I thought she was humming, but after listening longer, I placed her steady, gentle rhythm: she was reading to him.

Shaking my head, I continued on as quietly as possible. I had no intention of bothering her, so I’d just get a bowl of cereal and mind my own business. As I searched the kitchen I realized there was no cereal in my grandmother’s house though. Actually, there wasn’t much of anything to have for breakfast, besides coffee. I considered surrendering and starting a brew, cutting to the chase and dosing myself up on caffeine immediately instead of waiting until the inevitable exhaustion set in, but my stomach rumbled fiercely in protest and I knew I’d need to make something. 

If I was going to be baking, then I was going to go all out. I pulled out my journal and set it on the counter, flipping through to a recent doodle I’d sketched along with a jotted down note: Make this! The drawing was poorly done—my limbs were still weak from the blood loss at the time—but recognizable: a plate of Belgian waffles stacked up with a spoon of ice cream on top. A replica of the magazine photograph I’d drooled over while at the hospital. When I saw it, I knew I had to have something similar before my birthday.

It was on my list, and I was sure making breakfast would help keep me on my grandmother’s good side, so I scratched a line through the words in my journal to check it off. Then I scoured her cookbook collection for one on desserts, managing to uncover an appetizing recipe for Belgian waffles. 

As I expected, my grandmother kept a full stock of baking supplies just as she used to; I had everything I needed. About thirty minutes later, when she shuffled into the kitchen in her night robe, I’d already put my dirtied dishes into the washer and was taking the first waffle off of the steaming iron. 

“I didn’t expect you up so early. Aren’t kids your age supposed to be awake all night and asleep all day?” She shifted past me and filled the kettle with some water; it was tea for her in the mornings, it seemed.

“How do you know I’ve even gone to bed yet?” I joked, ushering her to a seat at the bay window and placing the waffle and a fork in front of her. “Let me know if it’s good.” 

“Oh dear. Dessert is not for breakfast.” Her words objected but she raised her fork and cut off a corner to taste it regardless. “Get me the honey, would you, Flower?” 

I had already turned to gather it for her before she asked, but I paused when my old pet name escaped from her lips; it had been so long since someone called me that. I thought perhaps she’d forgotten all together. She pretended as if she didn’t noticed what she said, but when I handed her the honey she smiled and something in my chest fluttered, just barely.

“Who taught you to bake?” she asked. She could never admit it was good, that was not the style of the women in our family. I knew the question was her way of confirming it was delicious though.

I made sure to conceal my smugness, returning to the iron to start my own waffle. “You did.” 

“Oh yes. That’s right. It certainly wasn’t your mother.” 

I snorted at her sass.

When the kettle whistle assaulted the silence, I retrieved her tea for her and then settled down across the table. She was nearly done with her plate and had unfolded the newspaper to start doing the crossword as she finished. The lull between us made me thoughtful, and as I watched her read over the paper, I recalled her voice reading to my grandfather only a little while before.

“When I got up earlier, I heard you reading to Grampie,” I noted through a bite of delicious waffle, swirling my fork through the whip cream on top as I let the comment sit briefly. “Why do you talk to him?”

She tensed, and I was worried I offended her. I knew my grandfather was still a sore subject for her, especially when neither my mother nor I came to visit when he first fell into a coma. She took a sip of her tea and let her shoulders relax again, settling her eyes back down to the paper before answering. 

“The doctors say it’s good for him. They say he can hear everything still, so it’s good to keep him stimulated. That it might help.”

I nodded, leaving it there. I didn’t want to prod further when I realized how careless I’d been with my first question. Next time, I’d tread lighter. She finished her waffle and dismissed herself shortly after, bringing her tea and the newspaper with her to the den. When she left, I retrieved my journal again to add to my list: Talk to Grampie.

***

My grandmother entered my room later in the afternoon while I was unpacking, asking if I needed anything from the grocer. I requested only cereal and milk, not wanting to be too much of a bother. She took note, then explained that she would be back in a hour, and drove off in my grandfather’s beat up old farm truck, allowing me to be alone again for the second time since arriving, and since the “accident.” 

The house was too quiet. In the way that a graveyard is hauntingly silent despite the countless bodies. Or like a hospital room, when everyone’s trying to avoid talking about the elephant between them. I could hear the old radiators clicking as they warmed up, the ticking of the big grandfather clock in the entryway, and the distant beeps of the monitors, confirming there was still life besides myself there.

I played with the zipper on my sweater, up and down, just to hear a noise, to overpower the beep, beep, beeping. It didn’t work though. The sound consumed me. I took a deep breath, exiting into the hallway. 

Talk to Grampie, I had written. What better time than now, when I was given some privacy? I followed my hand along the wall to the other end of the hallway. The door was ajar again, the stale-air smell growing stronger the closer I got. It reminded me of sterile linens and bandages and stitches. It reminded me of coming back to life. I picked uncomfortably at the wrap around my wrist before stretching my hand out and placing it flat on the wood of the door.

The door creaked as it parted from the threshold, slowly, and I saw the corner of the bed, and then the blankets covering stiff feet, and then the monitor screen, blinking and refreshing with each tonal heart beat. I could hear mine in my ears now, wet and alive, deafening. I took a deep breath and inched the opening wider.

He slid into view; I saw the tubes wrapped around him, in his nose and arms, his skin gray like a corpse, and I felt the panic grab at my lungs, a pair of hands, crushing the wind from me. I retreated, my back hitting the opposite wall hard, before I ran down the stairs to the entryway and then out the front door. I was suffocating, drowning when I wasn’t even underwater. The cool October air shocked my lungs into working again, and after escaping from the house I was able to catch a hard, painful breath.

I braced my hands on my own knees as I tried to work past the anxiety attack that assaulted me, willing myself not to faint, negotiating my wild heartbeat down to just a jackhammer. This was not a new experience for me, but the attacks weren’t often this bad. I had medication I was supposed to be taking for them, but the pills made me feel even more suicidal than the depression and anxiety did.

The tunnel vision faded away and I was able to stand up straight again, feeling as though I’d just ran a marathon. I combed my fringe back from my forehead, damp with a cold sweat, and scanned the area with clear, albeit sensitive eyes for the first time since leaving the house, only to find a shadow across from me.

I caught the gangly boy’s gaze as he watched, standing perfectly still a few yards away. The panic grasped my throat again as I realized he must have been there for my whole, dramatic scene. 

The overwhelming embarrassment froze me solid in a silent stand-off with him, until he shifted to take a step forward. I bolted like a scared animal, swiftly turning back to the house and escaping behind a locked door.

Once I determined it was safe, I peered through the frosted glass detail on the entrance. He stared after me for a moment, before reaching up and tossing his hood over his hair, going back to tending to the leaves.