One Last Thing ✅

fifty-two things

Grams looks up from her book, surprised, when I walk in the door. "That was quick. I thought you'd be gone longer," she says, placing a finger in the middle to hold her place.

I avoid her question and walk into the kitchen. "Are there any leftovers?" I call to her, opening the fridge and peering inside. I grab a can of Coke.

"There are things for a sandwich," Grams says, turning the corner. "Didn't you eat at Abbott's house?"

"Not really," I mutter, not wanting to explain.

I open a drawer and find packages of turkey and sliced American cheese. Along with those, I grab the container of mayonnaise and shut the refrigerator. When I deposit them on the counter and reach for the bread, something lying next to the breadbox stops me.

It's an envelope.

Not a blue one.

No, this one is white, with the return address of the high school.

My name is written in neat cursive.

I recognize the handwriting.

It's hers.

Mrs. Edwards sent this letter.

Every atom in me freezes.

Grams doesn't seem to notice my distress. "I visited the post office today. You got that letter from the school. She opens a cupboard and pulls out a plate, starts making the sandwich for me. "Aren't you going to open it? It's not about your grades, is it? It's not report card time yet."

I shake my head slowly, still staring at the letter.

It's hard to believe it's possible, but I find it even more terrifying than the blue envelopes I hide in my closet. Yes, those are from a woman who once tried to kill me, but at least she's alive. The lady who wrote this letter is dead.

"Lil? Aren't you going to open it? I'd like to see what it's about."

I stare at the white paper until the letters of the school address blur together, becoming illegible. Oh, god. I wish I were the one who'd died. Anything to not be here, right now, facing this ghost in my very own kitchen.

"Lil," Grams repeats sternly.

"Okay," I say, the word scratching my throat.

The paper crinkles in my hands as I pick it up. I look at Grams, and she gives me this look, like what are you waiting for? So I stick a finger under the flap and rip it open, pull out the piece of paper inside.

The note is written on the school's stationery. Across the top, there is a banner that proudly proclaims, "Thomas Edison, Home of the Wildcat." My eyes bounce down the page, seeing but unable to make sense of the letters.

"What does it say?" Grams asks, abandoning her task of assembling my sandwich to put her hands on her hips.

"I... I don't know," I say helplessly.

Impatiently, she takes the letter out of my hands.

Her face goes white when she sees the name at the bottom.

"Goodness."

Somehow, I have the presence of mind to grab a chair and pull it over for her, even though it seems like it should be me that's collapsing. Inside, I am. Everything is imploding. She sinks into it, still staring at the paper.

"Dear Lil," Grams begins reading aloud, her voice not much more than a whisper. "Thank you so much for reaching out to me today. I didn't feel it was appropriate for me to discuss my personal matters with you, but I want to tell you how much I appreciate that you trusted me with that news about your grandfather. I'm very sorry to hear of your loss. I'm sure he was so proud to have a granddaughter like you. See you in class! Sincerely, Mrs. Edwards."

The walls are melting.

Beneath my feet, the floor crumbles away.

I fall to my knees, tear at my hair, and scream.