“Wait here,” he says, turning to block her from the open door.
His tone and the way his eyes don’t meet hers until he’s finished giving the order warn her not to argue. This is something he wants to do alone. She nods, agreeing.
There’s a moment of hesitation. His eyes close and he takes a deep breath, preparing himself before he slips into the room. Even from where Gretchen stands, Charlie’s voice sounds strange, forced, when he says, “Hi, Grandpa.”
“Charlie! Am I ever happy to see you, boy!”
“Happy to see you too. How’s everything?”
It feels wrong to be eavesdropping like this, but it would actually take more effort not to listen when she’s standing right outside in the hallway. Presumably, Charlie wouldn’t have let her come this close if he minded. At least, that’s what Gretchen is going to tell herself as she slides an inch closer to the open door.
“Oh, awful! They won’t tell me where Ellen is. I ask them and they tell me she’ll be here later, they’ll find out what’s keeping her, but they won’t tell me where sheis. They won’t tell me where my wife is, and I deserve to know that, don’t I?” The senior Mr. Waybill becomes more distressed as he talks, his volume increasing with each iteration.
Charlie’s voice is a soothing, soft counterpoint. She recognizes it as the one he uses with the animals, and with her when she needs it. “Grandpa, it’s okay. It’s okay. I’m here now. I’ll tell you anything you want to know.”
“Ellen should be here.”
“Grandma’s back home,” Charlie says. “Resting.”
“Resting.” Mr. Waybill says it as if he’s testing the word, weighing it to check if it’s right. Apparently, it isn’t, because he becomes agitated again, accusing Charlie of lying to him too.
“Grandpa, please—”
“Where’s Ellen? Where is she? I miss her. I miss my wife.” The unmistakable sound of Mr. Waybill crying breaks Gretchen’s heart clean in half. Tears make a regular appearance in her spirit medium work, but usually they’re the quiet, sad tears of someone who wishes more than anything to believe their loved one is still somewhere out there. Occasionally, when she’s lucky, they’re tears of joy because she convinced the client that their wish has come true. But Charlie’s grandfather’s sobs are full of frustration and worry and a grief that lurks just under the surface where he can’t quite grasp it. She knows Charlie is going to be so mad at her for involving herself, but Gretchen can’t resist; she can’t bear to let Mr. Waybill feel this pain when she knows how to make it better. More than that, she can’t letCharliefeel it.
So she slips inside the room.
The old man sits on the edge of his bed, head bowed. He’s so slender, fragile-looking. His hair has the same natural wave as Charlie’s, the stark whiteness of it like a snowdrift atop his head. Charlie sits in a chair pulled beside the nightstand, his hand resting on his grandfather’s back, rubbing and patting without any real rhythm.
“Hello,” Gretchen says. The sound of a new voice prompts Mr. Waybill to raise his head. Reddened blue eyes—nearly the same shade as Everett’s, she notes—study her. But it’s Charlie’s that have Gretchen’s attention, because when they find hers, the displeasure there is as clear as it was that first day she arrived at Gilded Creek.Leave, they demand.Right now.
Instead, she takes a step closer and puts on a smile. She’s about to say that she has a message to deliver from Ellen, the way she would if Mr. Waybill were a client. He doesn’t remember that his wife is dead, but it doesn’t matter. She’ll just talk about Ellen as if she’s back at the farm instead of having gone Up, as Everett calls it. She’s home at Gilded Creek, busy trying out an Ina Garten recipe, maybe, working on another one of her eclectic afghans, visiting a sick neighbor—what was the name of the woman Everett told her lived across the street until a few years ago? But before she can speak, Mr. Waybill’s face brightens and he reaches for Gretchen’s hand.
“Ellen, sweetheart! There you are! About time.” She thinks back to the photo in the farmhouse’s upstairs hallway, how Everett said that Gretchen looks a bit like a young Ellen Waybill. It wasn’tthatclose of a resemblance in her opinion. But apparently, it’s close enough.
She can’t very well admit she’snotEllen and kill that look of relief on the poor man’s face. So instead she says, “Yes, I’m here now,” as Mr. Waybill wraps her in his arms. From the picture shesaw and the stories she’s heard, Gretchen knows he used to be as brawny as Charlie. Now he’s so frail she worries she might break him with one wrong touch.
Charlie moves to rise from his chair, his expression thunderous. He’s going to kick her out. As is his right. God, what was she thinking?
“I was getting real worried, El. I don’t know why I’m here instead of at home, and they said they didn’t know when you were coming to get me, that they were going to call you, but then they said they hadn’t been able to reach you yet... These people make me feel like I’m losing my marbles sometimes.”
“I’m so sorry you were worried,” she says, pulling away and patting Mr. Waybill’s arm reassuringly. She isn’t sure what the right thing to say is here, what the nurses tell the patients to keep them content, so she aims instead for distraction. “We’ve had our hands full with the new kids at the farm. Isn’t that right, Chick?”
Charlie’s eyes go wide and he sinks back down into his chair. It’s as if she’s disarmed him with the use of his childhood nickname. She can see the flicker of belief that flashes in his eyes. He may have seen through her more easily than anyone else ever has from the moment she arrived, but now he’s looking at her with curiosity. Like maybe he’s realizing there might be another layer to her that he missed upon first glance.
“I remember the time we had six kids born on the same night, back when Charlie was little,” she says, recounting what Charlie told her as they sat vigil over Sleepy Jean and the other goats in the little outbuilding.
Mr. Waybill grins, recognition and humor lighting up his eyes. “What a night that was. The first time you helped with the kidding, right, Charlie?”
“Yes,” Charlie says, swallowing visibly again. “That was... I helped deliver one. Everyone was busy with the others, so you let me take care of it on my own.”
“That’s right. You named her... Stu! And we teased you about naming her after what she was going to become.” Mr. Waybill cackles, taking great pleasure in the memory.
“S-T-U, not S-T-E-W,” Gretchen whispers, flashing a small grin at Charlie, who looks closer to tears than to smiling himself.
“And you let me give her a proper burial when she died,” Charlie says, clearing his throat twice as he fights for the words. “So she never did become stew anyway.”
“You can thank your grandmother for that.” Mr. Waybill reaches out and ruffles Charlie’s hair the same way Gretchen has seen Lori do. “That soft heart of yours is her weakness. Always has been.” He looks to Gretchen. “Isn’t that right?”
