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Chapter 1
Sandy
‘Why folks always start these letters with ‘if you’re reading this, then I’m dead’. Everyone knows I’m dead! Ain’t no one shocked. I’m thinking it’s for drama. You know people always got to be doing too much for no damn reason. And I guess it is a pretty hard letter to start. Ain’t no easy way to get into your death letter, is there?’
Sandy smiled as she read over the familiar words. The paper was worn from how many times she’d unfolded it. There were some uneven creases from where she clutched it to her chest the first time she struggled through her grandmother’s final while sobbing. It was just like that old biddy to start her final letter with something so silly and sassy.
Sandy ran her fingers over the looping letters. They were shaky from fatigue, but even on her deathbed, weak and sick, her grandmother’s handwriting still hinted at the elegant, sloping, smooth lines that Sandy used to joke was Ye Olde font. Her grandmother would then pretend to not know what fonts were to make her laugh.
But it was all a farse. Playing up the old lady stereotype was Lexi Tollman’s favorite hobby, especially around other people. But she loved messing around on her computer. Though she chicken pecked the keyboard and squinted at letters that were already huge and grumbled about things constantly changing, she loved exploring new technology and trolling around online, giggling like a ninety-year-old maniac.
Her grandmother was a weird bird – her own words. But she had never let an opportunity for joy escape her.
“And there’s a lot of it possible in that fancy picture box,” she’d laughed, patting the top of her screen, rings clicking against the plastic of the old fashioned monitor.
‘I know you’re crying right now, Sandy girl. Don’t you dare. You hear me? I’m old. I lived a damn good life. Every day with you brought me a lifetime worth of happiness. I see you worrying yourself sick over me. You’re downstairs right now, talking to my docs. Trying to do something. And I love you for it. I love that you’re so determined to save me. I just know you’re kicking yourself right now because you failed. But you stop that, hear me? I lived longer than average and better than most. If I’m going, I’m going out peaceful and happy with the memories of us to keep me company. So, you just go ahead and let me rest and don’t even think about wasting grief on me.’
It was an impossible request. Sandy’s throat was tight again, eyes swimming with tears, even after reading this letter for the hundredth time. The last few nights, she’d fallen asleep with it on her pillow, staring at the words and seeing her grandmother’s lined, smiling face.
Taking a breath, trying to obey her command and not cry, Sandy let her head fall back and rest against the stone wall at her back.
The waiting room had four other people in it. This place was by appointment only, and they were booked months in advance, but they were so fast, it was only a matter of minutes once you were pulled back. Sandy hadn’t been waiting long. And even as she watched, the person ahead of her in line was called.
She hadn’t made the appointment.
Her grandmother had.
Because she was a sassy, weird, old bird.
‘If anything, you should be mad at me, Sandy, my girl. I love you with all my heart, but I can’t help but feel that I stole something from you.’
That was the biggest load Sandy ever heard, and if she ever saw her grandmother in the next life, she’d make sure to tell her. She certainly wasted no time in saying it to her urn when she read that line in the letter.
She couldn’t say she made it that far the first time she read the letter, as it took multiple attempts to get all the way through. The first few times she tried, her vision would blur, and she’d succumb to the tears before she could finish, and she’d need to try again later.
She could practically hear her grandmother chastising her for it.
I just told you not to cry for me, she’d say, shaking her head and clicking her tongue even as she embraced her. You’re just a hopeless little rebel child, ain’t ya?
No, she definitely wasn’t, but it was another joke between them. Her grandmother was a homebody by choice, and she’d raised Sandy that way because that was just how she lived. Instead of yearning for an escape from their country home and simple lifestyle of quilting and knitting and canning, Sandy had flourished. She loved doing those things. She loved being with her grandmother.
She was a boring, obedient, quiet girl. She always had been. Her grandmother teased her about it, but Sandy didn’t want to change. Her favorite memories were sitting in front of the old style, big screen TV in their living room, sitting on their reclining love seat, working on whatever knitting or sewing project they had at the time. Sometimes separately, sometimes together, always yapping at the TV like the people on the other side could hear.
They loved watching murder mysteries and true crime TV. Especially if they didn’t know who did it. Figuring out the bad guy was a fun game they played together. But they also watched plenty of daytime TV, playing along with the games like they were there. However, it was soap operas that really had their hearts. Figuring out the mysteries and drama of their favorite show, putting together the pieces of it, trying to figure out what they’d do in their situation, was something they passed many an hour doing. And she loved every second of it.
Sometimes, her grandmother would mention Sandy getting out. Doing something more exciting. Maybe go skydiving or go out dancing at a club or, heck, stay out past ten o’clock! And while those things certainly were appealing, nothing was more fun than time spent with her grandmother, relaxing at home, knitting away.
Though her grandmother rarely mentioned her, Sandy knew about her mother. How she had rebelled against grandma’s simple life. How she’d run away at sixteen – literally running out in the middle of the night, hopping in the bed of her then-boyfriend’s pickup truck, and speeding away into the darkness, never to be seen again.
Literally never. Grandmother didn’t know, even on her deathbed, if her daughter lived or died. As far as she knew, the only time Gretchen Tollman ever returned was the day she put Sandy, asleep in a cheap car seat, on the front porch in the early morning, then ran off before being seen.
Grandmother only knew Sandy was there because she always drank her morning coffee on the front porch. She’d opened the door and nearly tripped over her only known grandchild. She said it was the most terrifying moment of her life, because Sandy had been so quiet and still, she’d been afraid that someone had left a baby there overnight and she’d passed away from the cold.
No. Sandy was just quiet and even tempered, even as a baby. A brief letter beside her in the seat explained her origins and her name, but that was it.
They never heard from Gretchen Tollman again, grandmother suddenly had to once more play the role of mother, and Sandy was, no doubt, in a better place for it.
Sandy couldn’t imagine why her mother hadn’t loved living with her grandmother. The house was old, but well-kept and charming. Her grandmother wasn’t overly strict or harsh. She was free with her love, her cookies, and her knowledge. She taught Sandy how to sew, crochet, embroider, and cook. They could, and often did, spend hours making blankets or clothes. They donated much of what they made because they certainly couldn’t use all of it, but the fun wasn’t in what was made. It was watching daytime TV, shouting answers at gameshows, gasping at DNA test results, eating fresh pie with homemade whipped cream, and cursing at the yarn or the fabric for sabotaging them.
