Chapter 4

Sara doesn't stay awayfor long—she never does and she would never want to. Even if her father's house wasn't her only other option, Oma is one of the most important people in her life and she won't let her fall away because of a disagreement. Especially not one born from good intentions.

Besides… objectively, she can see the wisdom of her grandmother's words even if her heart isn't quite ready to believe them. The reception she received from David the following morning, the frigid silence and refused acknowledgment, doesn't inspire confidence. The way his mother texts her not even half an hour after she leaves, words formal and clipped with a hint of awkwardness, all but buries Sara's weakened hopes.

‘We think it might be better for David's recovery if you stay away for a while.'

Mrs. Mclintock doesn't say how long "a while" is, but Sara doesn't need her to. She knows a polite dismissal when she sees one—knows that what the older woman is really saying is "don't come back".

Maybe it's because the weeks have already beaten her heart so thoroughly that she's immune to pain, but she takes Mrs. Mclintock's words with a numb acceptance that lasts long after the hospital disappears from her rearview mirror. Oma's words ring (he's gone… move forward) the entire drive; an echo over her heart. Sara still isn't ready to believe it, not fully, but she's tired.

David wants her to stay away, so she will. Perhaps her trying to force it was just making things worse… maybe the time apart will give him room to remember. Maybe, if she can just be patient, she can get him back.

It's a tiny thread of hope, but it's wrapped around her heart so tightly she knows it would take months—maybe years—to uncoil. She doesn't breathe a word of it to anyone. It sounds too fragile, too much like false hope, to share. Besides, some wishes won't come true if they're spoken out loud and, while she's never been one for superstitions, Sara isn't exactly in a position to risk it.

Oma's door creaks a bit when she opens it, the bottom hinge still needing oil. The living room is empty, which is a bit strange. Normally, Oma would be watching the evening news around this time. Taking her shoes off by the door, Sara peers hesitantly into the house as she closes the door behind her. "Oma?"

"In the kitchen!" Her grandmother calls back. There's not a single shred of animosity or bitterness lacing her voice, and Sara feels herself relax. Oma's never been one to hold a grudge, especially not when it concerned her granddaughter, but Sara's never quite went off on her like that, either. It's a good reminder that some of the good things in her life haven't been upended overnight.

Now that she knows to listen for it, Sara can hear the water running over the sink. She must be doing dishes. She goes to set her bag at the usual spot on the chair by the door—an old wingback chair whose age has faded the floral pattern over time and has recently seen more use as a dumping ground than a place to sit—but stops at the last second.

On the cushion, blinking up at her with large hazel eyes, is a cat.

Sara blinks back at him, frozen in the entry, until the gray tabby sits up and perches itself on the arm of the chair and gives a trilling meow. A smile, so rare this past week that the action feels foreign, pulls at her lips and she sets her purse on the floor instead.

"Well, hi there," she croons, offering her hand. The cat smells it tentatively, before rubbing its face against her knuckles. "What's your name?"

"I was hoping you'd tell me," Oma says, coming from around the corner with a dishtowel wiping at her hands. She leans against the wall, her smile soft and mysterious. "He's yours after all."

Sara's hand stills, head snapping up. "What?"

"You heard me. He's yours."

She swallows, reality effectively crushing the hope rising in her chest. "I can't have pets in the dorm."

"No," Oma hums, eyes bright, "but you can at your apartment."

Shaking her head, Sara scratches the cat behind its ears and earns a full throated purr. The sound fills her with bittersweet longing. "But I can't afford it without—" She doesn't say his name. She can't. Speaking it is bound to send another fissure through her already fragile heart. "I can't afford it."

Oma tucks the dish towel in her apron, before taking a seat on the couch. "There's an envelope in the kitchen—one of those big yellow ones on top of this little guy's cat carrier. Be a dear and grab it for me?"

Sara eyes her suspiciously, but does as she's asked. There's an envelope alright: big, mustard yellow, and a lot more official looking than it has any right to be. She picks it up carefully, curiosity stirring despite her apprehension. When she brings it to the living room, Oma waves her hand pointedly. "Well, go on. Open it."

She doesn't need to be told twice—the curiosity is as terrible as the apprehension—but when she pulls the papers from their Manila prison, it still takes her several moments to understand what she's seeing. "Oma, what—"

"It's already paid for," she says firmly; no room for arguments. "So there's no talking me out of it." Her expression softens, so tender and full of love and understanding that it just about breaks Sara's heart all over again. "You have been through enough, sweet girl."

In her hand is a receipt, an itemized bill proving her apartment is paid in full for the next year. Sara's lower lip trembles, a tear slipping past her defenses. She brushes it away with the heel of her hand before it can fall. "Thank you," she breathes, voice wobbling treacherously. "But can you really afford—"

Oma stops her with a look. Money isn't something they ever talk about; it's her grandmother's firm belief that talk of finances belong far, far away from the dining table and even then, only between those paying the bills. Anything else is rude. "If I couldn't, I wouldn't. And that's all I'll be saying on the matter."

Sara nods, sniffing loudly and wiping away another stray tear. She's speechless; there are no words that would encompass the depth of her gratitude. Overwhelmed, she sits on the couch beside her grandmother and wraps her arms around her aging shoulders.

Oma pats her hand; places a kiss on her forehead. "There are good things on the horizon for you, my dear. Good, wonderful things." She pulls away enough to hold her granddaughter's gaze, paper thin palm cupping her smooth cheek. "There always is after a big storm, but you need to have faith that your rainbow will come or else you'll miss it." Her expression softens, fingers brushing a lock of hair from Sara's forehead. "Do you understand?"

Her throat is packed with gravel. She can feel it rattling around each syllable she forces past her lips. "I understand."

The cat chirps at her from the ground, demanding attention, and Sara gives a watery laugh. "He's really mine?"

Oma chuckles, patting her knee. "He's really yours. I'm too old to be cleaning up cat shit."

Sara coughs on a surprised laugh. She's probably only heard her grandmother curse a handful of times, and each incident was more accidental than intentional. "Oma!"

She winks, flashing her signature blue eyeshadow. "Betty is a terrible influence. You know, last week she brought whiskey to our poker night?"

Sara smiles, leaning down to scratch the cat's ears. "Whiskey, huh? Was it good?"

"It was a great time until the next morning."

They both laugh, and for a small, immeasurable moment, Sara feels at peace. Everything in her world is far from right, but here in the warm glow of her grandmother's living room and her new roommate purring at her ankles, she can see a glimmer of hope.

Sara names him Ansel. It's fitting, what with his grayscale coat and her penchant for photography. Sara likes to think Mr. Adams would approve.