With Love, Charlie

Chapter 1

When I was younger, I hated the moment we turned off the paved road onto the gravel drive leading high into the bluffs. I wanted to spend my summers with my friends, not on a farm with my grandparents in the middle of nowhere. But now, there's something comforting in the crunch of the gravel beneath my tires as I wind my way through the trees to the little farmhouse built in a clearing at the top of the bluff.

I'm the dreamer in our family, the free-spirit who's never felt the need to settle down and have the perfect family with two-point-five kids, a dog, and a white picket fence. Therefore, when my parents realized Grandma could no longer live on her own, they turned to me to help them. She's much like me, fiercely protective of her independence, but for the past few years, her grasp on reality has been slipping. If I hadn't agreed to quit my job, pack up my life, and move in with her, they would have had no choice but to put her in a home, and I know that would be the proverbial nail in her coffin. There's no way she would survive having everything stripped from her and being forced to share a small room in a clinical setting. More than once, my father told me I was insane for feeling this way, but I know in my heart, if we told her she had to leave the farm, she would simply give up on living. So, in a matter of seventy-two hours, I've gone from living in downtown Minneapolis, and working for a major corporation, to unemployed and living with my ailing grandmother on the farm my grandfather inherited shortly after they were married.

As the house comes into view, I'm flooded with memories of those visits I protested so much-the decorative windmill rattling in the front yard, the flower beds which used to be alive with tulips at this time of year now overrun with weeds. The façade of the house, which used to feel homey and lived in, is now rundown, with large patches of white paint flaking off the wood siding. The more I take in, the more upset I become, realizing that no one else in my family has taken so much as a weekend out of their busy lives to preserve the home where four generations of our family grew up.

My grandfather passed away when I was only nine, so I don't have as many memories of him as I would like, but I distinctly remember him spending every weekend outside, replacing worn boards, mowing the lawn, and tending the gardens alongside my grandmother. I shudder as I imagine what he would say if he saw the property he loved so dearly in such disarray.

"Oh, Paige, you're here!" my grandmother exclaims, holding onto the railing as she tentatively descends the stairs leading from the back of the house to the driveway. "You're just as pretty as all those pictures your daddy shows me when we go to dinner. Let me take a closer look at you."

I breathe a sigh of relief as I step into her welcoming embrace, grateful she seems to be having a good day today. From what my dad told me when we were discussing the details of my move, she struggles to keep her mind in the present. It was heartbreaking to hear my dad tell story after story about her thinking he was Grandpa. I think it's part of why he doesn't spend more time up here, but that's no excuse. She's his mother, and, as far as I'm concerned, he's left her up on this hill to waste away, visiting only as necessary to ease his guilty conscience.

"Let's get you in the house. You must be exhausted after such a long drive." She takes my hand in hers, leading me inside. She all but shoves me into one of the chairs around the outdated Formica dining table. I watch as she putters around the kitchen to put together a tray of cheese and sausage, the way she's always done when company comes to visit.

"Grandma, you don't have to do that," I say as I stand to cross the small room. When she shoos me away from where she's pulling dishes out of the cupboard, I know better than to push the subject. This is, and always will be her domain.

"You're a guest in my home, so don't you even think about lifting a finger," she scolds.

As a career housewife, my grandmother has always prided herself on being the perfect hostess. The only problem is, I'm not a guest. I'm her new roommate, sent here to take care of her and make sure she doesn't wander off disoriented into the acres of uninhabited woods surrounding the property. Did my parents tell her why I was coming, or did they give her the impression that my appearance is nothing more than a vacation?