7. Holden

Chapter seven

Holden

T he oxygen machine's rhythmic hum filled my grandfather's house with its mechanical heartbeat. I'd grown used to the sound over the past months, but for some reason, it sounded louder and more insistent. Maria's face told me everything before she spoke.

"His levels dropped twice today," she said, her voice low as she gathered her things. "Not dangerous—just enough to notice. He's been more tired than usual."

My chest constricted, that familiar vice-grip of fear I'd grown too accustomed to over the past months. I tried to nod casually, but the motion was wooden and mechanical. Every time I thought I'd adjusted to a new normal, something shifted, and the ground was shaky again beneath my feet.

Through the living room doorway, I saw Grandpa dozing in his chair with one of Gran's quilts tucked around his legs. A book lay open in his lap, his reading glasses slightly askew.

"Did he eat?"

Maria nodded. "Some soup. Half a sandwich. And he tried to convince me that Oreos count as medicine because they're black and white, like his prescription pills. Your grandfather's getting creative with his arguments. He's tough, Holden. But..."

"But he's not getting better like we hoped." The words tasted bitter.

She squeezed my arm, her touch warm and steady. "I'll be back first thing tomorrow. Call if—"

"If anything changes. I know."

After Maria left, I stood in the kitchen, listening to the house's evening sounds. The old radiator clanked as it fought off the autumn chill. Wind chimes tinkled softly outside—Gran's crystals catching the last light.

I found Grandpa scattering old photos across his lap table, the edges worn smooth from years of handling. A leather album lay open beside him, several plastic sleeves hanging empty.

"What's all this?" I reached down to rescue a Polaroid that threatened to slip between the chair cushions.

"Spring cleaning." His fingers traced the edge of a faded color print. "In autumn. Makes perfect sense if you don't think about it too hard."

I picked up a photo of a sailboat, its white hull bright against dark water. "Where was this one taken?"

Grandpa's forehead creased. "Lake... Lake something. Not Michigan." He tapped the photo against his chin. "We were on vacation. Belle wanted to see... wanted to..." His voice trailed off, frustration clouding his features.

"Hey, it's okay. We can make up a story instead." I perched on the arm of his chair. "Maybe it was Lake Conspiracy, famous for its population of freshwater merpeople."

A smile tugged at his mouth. "Don't be ridiculous. That's clearly Lake Sasquatch. Your grandmother insisted on teaching Bigfoot how to sail that summer. He was a terrible student—all that fur got tangled in the rigging."

"Ah, yes. Now I remember. Didn't he try to pay for lessons with the gold he'd stolen from leprechauns?"

"No, no." Grandpa's eyes sparkled. "It was with coffee beans he'd been hoarding since 1962. He said they'd be worth a fortune someday. It turns out he predicted the rise of fancy coffee shops."

I picked up another photo. It was a group of people gathered around a campfire. "And this one?"

"Oh, that's obviously from the Great Marshmallow Rebellion of 1975. Your grandmother led the resistance against improper s'mores technique. Very serious business. There were strongly worded letters and everything."

"I heard it got ugly. Chocolate shortages. Graham cracker rationing."

"Indeed. The local squirrels ran a black market in Hershey bars." He chuckled, then paused, squinting at the back of the photo. "Wait a minute..."

I turned it over. There, in Gran's precise handwriting: "Lake Huron, August 1973. Teaching Belle's sister Carol to sail. She capsized three times and blamed it on 'aggressive fish.'"

"Lake Huron!" Grandpa's face lit up. "That's right! Carol was terrible at sailing, but she made the best banana bread anyone had ever tasted, so we kept her around anyway."

"Even with the aggressive fish?"

"Especially then. The fish appreciated good banana bread."

We worked through the pile together, making up increasingly outlandish stories until we found Gran's notes. Her prompts brought back additional memories. We talked about summer afternoons on various Great Lakes, family picnics where someone always fell in the water, and Gran's sisters competing to see who could tell the tallest tale.

Other memories stayed lost, like coins dropped in deep water. Fortunately, our made-up stories filled the spaces with laughter instead of loss. When we found a photo of Gran teaching me to work her marionettes, Grandpa didn't remember the exact day, but he remembered how she'd always said I'd been born with slim-fingered hands designed for bringing stories to life.

"You know what she'd say about all this?" He gestured at our mess of photos and memories, both real and invented.

"That we're terrible historians?"

"That sometimes the stories we choose to share matter more than the facts we're trying to remember." He squeezed my hand. "Now, about that racket you were making in the kitchen..."

I smiled. "Just me dropping every pot in the kitchen. You know how I like to draw attention."

"Hmph. Now, tell me about your day before I fall asleep again. I get tired of me for company."

The day's fading light flooded the living room, turning everything golden. Grandpa had rallied enough to sit straighter, his eyes bright despite the shadows beneath them.

"Parker's got me chasing down stories about the old fishing fleet." I stood and then settled into a chair near him. "Did you know the Johansens painted all their boats different shades of blue? One for each daughter."

"Seven blues for seven daughters." Grandpa smiled. "Ellen Johansen used to say she could spot her husband's boat by the color alone, even in the worst fog."

"That's the kind of detail Parker loves." I leaned forward. "Tell me more."

"Are you trying to distract me from the fact that you haven't touched the folder your parents sent?" He raised an eyebrow. "The one about that facility in Milwaukee?"

My stomach clenched. The manila envelope, thick with glossy brochures promising round-the-clock care and dignity in aging, sat unopened on my desk upstairs.

"I'm not going anywhere, Match." His voice was gentle but firm. "This is my home. Your grandmother's home."

"I know, but—" The words stuck in my throat. "Mom and Dad think—"

"Your parents are worried. It's what parents do, even from across an ocean." He adjusted his oxygen tube. "But they aren't here, and we get to decide."

I remembered the video call three months ago. My parents' faces were serious on the screen, pixelated, but still able to deliver disappointing comments in high definition. Dad had approached it like one of his corporate mergers—all logistics and rational points, spreadsheets of pros and cons.

Mom's silence had hurt more than Dad's efficiency. She'd just sat there, her hand pressed against her mouth, probably remembering how Gran had refused to leave this house even in her final days.

They told us their choice was an excellent facility—the best in Wisconsin. They'd handle everything, and I could return to Portland and restart my life.

"Your mother thinks you're putting your life on hold." Grandpa stared at me, trying to read my expression. "She forgets that sometimes the best parts of life happen in the pauses in between."

Outside, a car door slammed. Voices drifted up from the street—afternoon giving way to evening in Blue Harbor. I thought about Portland and about the life I'd planned. It felt distant now, like a story I'd read about someone else.

"I need something sweet." Grandpa grinned. "Something from Sarah's case at the Bean would be perfect. You know, that baker, Rafe. He works wonders. Those lemon squares he bakes on Thursdays..."

I recognized the deflection but played along. "It's barely fifty degrees out. You sure you want me wandering the streets for baked goods?"

"Positive. My sugar's probably low." He patted his chest dramatically. "Medically necessary."

"You're worse than Parker when he needs coffee." I reached for my jacket. "Stay put. I'll be right back."

The evening air smelled like autumn, crisp and clean after the storm. Leaves skittered across the sidewalk, and the streetlights were just starting to flicker on. The Little Blue Bean's windows glowed warm against the gathering dark.

A forest-green ranger truck, parked in the diagonal spot near the corner, caught my eye. The dashboard still held the day's clipboard and what looked like a trail map, the engine ticking as it cooled. The front was splashed with mud—probably from checking the north trails after yesterday's storm. Something about seeing Wade's truck here, so far from his usual domain in the park, made my pulse quicken.

I was so focused on the pastry case I could see through the storefront window that I nearly collided with someone outside the shop.

"Sorry, I—" My words died as I looked up into storm-gray eyes. Wade stood there in his ranger uniform, looking somehow both exhausted and alert. He had tousled salt and pepper hair. He'd likely been running his fingers through it.

"Careful." His voice was gruff, but his hand on my elbow was gentle and steadying. " Are you okay?"

The warmth of his touch spread through my entire body. "Yeah, I just, um, Grandpa wanted lemon squares." I gestured vaguely at the shop. "Apparently, it's a medical emergency."

Something flickered in Wade's expression. "Clark's not doing well?"

The simple question, colored with genuine concern, broke down a wall. Words spilled out before I could stop them. "His oxygen levels keep dropping. It's nothing critical, but my parents want him to move to this facility in Milwaukee. He refuses, and I don't know if I'm helping or hurting by supporting that decision, and—" I caught myself. "Sorry. You probably don't want to hear all of this."

Wade was quiet for a moment, his hand still on my elbow. The street lamp caught the silver threading through his temples, and I fought an urge to reach up and touch it.

"You should..." Wade shifted his weight, looking like he might walk away. His jaw worked for a moment before he seemed to come to a decision. "Sarah's got fresh coffee. Might help."

Inside, the café was winding down for the evening, just a handful of regulars scattered at corner tables with their laptops. Katie, the evening barista, looked up from wiping down the counter. Her eyes widened slightly at seeing Wade, but she didn't comment.

"Two coffees." Wade's voice was clipped, professional—his ranger voice. Then something softened almost imperceptibly around his eyes. "And, uh, there's that vanilla thing you usually..."He trailed off, studying the menu board like it was a trail map.

"You remember my coffee order?"

A slight flush colored his neck. "Hard to forget when Sarah announces it every time you walk in."

We settled at a corner table where the overhead speaker leaked soft jazz into the air. The ceramic mugs clinked against the wooden tabletop, and the coffee's steam curled between us like morning mist off the lake. Wade wrapped his hands around his mug, and I noticed callouses on his fingers, probably from rope work and tools.

He stared into his coffee for a long moment. His fingers tapped an uneven rhythm against the mug, and I could almost see him wrestling with whether to say more. Finally, he cleared his throat.

"Back in Chicago..." He stopped and rolled his shoulders like they ached. "With the fire department, we'd get called to nursing homes sometimes." The words came out rough. "Good ones, expensive ones, but it was easy to sort out which residents still had family visiting. They had... light in their eyes, stories to tell."

I traced the rim of my mug. "That's what worries me. He's always been such a great storyteller, and I'm concerned he might get frustrated and stop. His house and this town are huge parts of who he is."

"And who you are."

I looked up, startled by the perceptive comment.

"It's not..." Wade started, then stopped. His hand tightened around his mug. When he spoke again, his voice was lower, as if sharing something he hadn't meant to reveal. "You're more than just his grandson. The memories, Isabella's art..." He looked away, but not before I caught something vulnerable in his expression. "You're keeping Blue Harbor's heart beating. That..." He swallowed hard. "That matters."

"But what if I'm not enough?" The words came out raw, scraping my throat like ground glass. All the late-night doubts, moments of panic when Grandpa's breathing hitched, and the weight of being the only one in the house all bubbled up at once.

Wade tensed, his hand jerking slightly like he might reach across the table. He caught himself and pulled back. The movement knocked his spoon against his mug with a soft clink.

My voice cracked. I stared down at my coffee, watching ripples form from my shaking hands. "Everyone else gets to make suggestions from a safe distance. They don't have to watch him struggle with the oxygen tube or hear him calling for Gran in his sleep."

"You..." Wade's voice was gruff, almost angry. He stood abruptly, moved to the window, and then back to our table. When he spoke again, the words sounded like he'd dragged them from somewhere deep. "You show up. Every single day."

He ran a hand through his hair, leaving it more disheveled. "I've seen you, you know. Walking with him. Sharing stories." His voice softened with each example. "Making him laugh even on the hard days."

He met my eyes then, and for the first time, he didn't look away. "That's... that's everything, Holden."

The way he said my name made my breath catch. His gaze held mine across the table, and for a moment, I glimpsed the man behind the gruff exterior. It was someone who understood loss, love, and the weight of choices.

"The facility would have doctors and twenty-four-hour care."

"They'd have the equipment," he acknowledged, his voice rough. "He'd have everything except home." Wade's deep voice sounded like it rested on a layer of sandpaper. "Sometimes, that's the right choice, but not always." He glanced out the window, where the evening sky had deepened to indigo. "Sometimes love means letting people stay where their hearts are happy."

A comfortable silence settled between us. Outside, a flock of geese passed overhead, their calls muted through the café windows. The coffee warmed my hands, but Wade's presence warmed something deeper.

"How do you do that?"

He tilted his head slightly to the right. "Do what?"

"Say the perfect thing while pretending you're not saying anything important at all."

A ghost of a smile touched his lips. "Practice. You should see me with lost hikers. I've got a whole speech about trail markers that's really about life choices."

"I bet that goes over well."

"Usually, they're too tired to argue." He pushed back from the table. "Come on. Let's get those lemon squares before Clark hunts us down."

At the counter, Wade moved with the stiff precision he usually reserved for official park business. When I reached for my wallet, he shook his head sharply.

"It's..." He cleared his throat, staring intently at the pastry case. "Ranger's prerogative."

Katie raised her eyebrows at his gruff tone, but I saw how his hands weren't quite steady as he counted bills. The tips of his ears reddened as he pointedly avoided everyone's stare.

The walk home was lighter somehow. The paper bag of pastries was warm against my chest, and the evening air carried the scent of woodsmoke from nearby chimneys. Wade walked beside me, his longer stride unconsciously adjusting to match mine.

He stopped at my grandfather's gate. Light spilled from the living room windows, and I saw Grandpa's silhouette still in his chair.

"Thank you. Not just for the coffee and squares, but for..."

Wade shifted his weight, boot scuffing against the sidewalk. His hand lifted slightly and then dropped back to his side. "Yeah, well." His voice was gruff again like he was trying to rebuild his walls, but a hint of softness remained around his eyes. The smile that followed was small, unpracticed, but real.

He turned to go. After taking two steps, he stopped and turned back hesitantly. "The park service..." He dug in his pocket, pulled out a small notebook, then pushed it back down. "We have resources. Lists of contacts. Home healthcare, equipment suppliers. All local. I can share."

"I'd like that."

He nodded once and walked away, his figure gradually blending with the gathering darkness. I watched until he turned the corner, and then I headed inside.

Grandpa was awake, pretending to read but obviously waiting. "You were gone a while for just lemon squares."

"Ran into Wade Forrester." I tried to sound casual as I set out the pastries. "We had coffee."

"Did you now?" His eyes twinkled. "And did our taciturn ranger have anything interesting to say?"

I thought about Wade's quiet understanding and his hidden depths. "He reminded me that sometimes the right path isn't the obvious one."

Grandpa set his book down. "Sounds like Wade's been doing some thinking of his own."

"Maybe." I adjusted the oxygen tube where it had twisted. "Now, do you want to hear about the Johansen boats while we enjoy these squares, or should I save the story for tomorrow?"

"Oh, tonight, definitely tonight." Grandpa patted the chair next to his. "I might even fill in some details you haven't heard yet."

I settled in beside Grandpa with the pastry bag between us. The oxygen machine hummed its steady rhythm but didn't seem so loud anymore. Outside, Gran's wind chimes sang softly in the evening breeze, and somewhere in the darkness, Wade was walking home, carrying a piece of my heart I hadn't meant to give away.

"You're smiling," Grandpa observed.

"Am I?"

"Mhmm." He selected a lemon square with careful deliberation. "Though I notice you only brought back two squares. Did our stern ranger confiscate one as part of some park service pastry inspection?"

"That's not—he didn't—" I sputtered, which only made Grandpa's grin wider.

"Careful, Match. A man my age shouldn't have to witness his grandson turning quite that shade of red. It might impact my oxygen levels."

He selected a lemon square with careful deliberation. "You know, your grandmother always said the best stories start when we're busy looking elsewhere."

I thought about chance meetings, coffee shop conversations, and how Wade's eyes crinkled at the corners when he almost smiled. "What else did Gran say about stories?"

"Oh, lots of things." Grandpa's voice took on the soft, storytelling tone I remembered from childhood. "But mostly that love shows up in unexpected places, sometimes wearing work boots and carrying coffee."

I couldn't help laughing. "That's not what she said."

His eyes twinkled. "No, but she would have if she'd seen the way you look after you've been talking to our park ranger."