Chapter 4

Kimberly

I trudge up the stairs to our eighth-floor apartment— the elevator has been ‘undergoing maintenance’ for weeks—and open the door wearily, sighing as the key struggles to budge in the stiff lock. How I long for our beautiful, detached house back in Charleston, the one we lived in before Gran got sick and we had to move here. While the apartment is homely and tastefully decorated, the apartment block has been falling into disrepair recently. Though that’s probably why the rent is affordable.

I enter, taking in the familiar sights of the apartment, the walls filled with my artwork, Gran’s books that she no longer reads crammed onto the bookshelf, and the cozy couch strewn with brightly colored cushions. The lighting is warm and welcoming and the smell of home cooked food wafts throughout the apartment.

“Kimmy, is that you?” Abigail calls out from the kitchen.

Abigail Williams is the neighbor who helps take care of my grandmother while I’m out, she’s a retired nurse and is the homely nurturing type with ample curves, permanently pink cheeks, and a deep belly chuckle that makes you laugh along with her. I don’t know what I’d do without her. She’s constantly telling me that she’s the kind of person who likes to keep busy, that looking after Gran is no trouble, and that she enjoys having something to do, but I’m eternally grateful for the massive amounts of work she does for little to no money.

Her smile falters when she sees my disheveled appearance and the bandages on my arms and face. “Kimmy, my goodness child, what happened?”

Her sweet, genuine concern almost makes me burst into tears.

“I’m okay,” I reassure her. “I was in a car accident.”

I mean, it’s not a lie, but it’s also not the truth either. But I can’t quite bring myself to explain the strange encounter with Yaroslav nor the horrifying ordeal of being so close to a bomb going off. My ears are still ringing and right now, all I want to do is curl up and go to sleep. If I tell Abigail what happened, she’s bound to have questions. Questions that I can’t face answering even if I knew how to respond.

I allow Abigail to fuss around me, “Oh my lord, thank god you’re alright. You sit down on the couch, and I’ll go fix you a sandwich, Emma’s just finishing her dinner in the kitchen now.”

“Thank you, Abigail, you’re a godsend,” I say, sinking onto the couch.

It envelops me in a warm embrace, and I feel as though I could fall asleep right now. Despite its well-worn cushions and faded color, it’s still a welcome comfort. Abigail beams at my praise.

“How is she?” I ask, not needing to say who I’m referring to.

Abigail hesitates, her smile faltering slightly as she tries to sugarcoat whatever she’s about to tell me. “She’s had better days. But I’m sure she will be happier now you’re home,” she adds. Typical Abigail, always trying to make everyone happy and put a cheerful spin on things.

When Abigail returns a short while later, she has a plate containing one of her awesome grilled-cheese sandwiches in hand. My stomach rumbles and I suddenly realize how hungry I am.

“Thanks, Abigail, you’re the best,” I say taking a huge bite of the sandwich.

It’s only then that I notice that Gran is hiding behind Abigail, peering around hesitantly to stare at me. Her posture seems out of place, more like that of a child than an elderly woman.

“Hey, Gran, sorry I didn’t see you there,” I say, popping the sandwich down and getting up to kiss her on the cheek as I usually do when I get in.

She recoils, eyes wide with confusion. “Abigail, who is this?”

I try not to hide my hurt that my grandmother doesn’t recognize me, I know that this was something that could eventually start to happen someday, that many Alzheimer patients forget their own family. But why did it have to happen for the first time today of all days?

“Gran, it’s me, Kimmy,” I say, trying to keep my voice calm and soothing.

Gran shakes her head vehemently. “My Kimmy is only eight years old. Abigail, this isn’t funny. Why is this woman in my house? Where’s my little girl?”

She starts to get more agitated the more confused she gets. I stand rooted to the spot. I know all the dos and don’ts in this scenario, I’ve spoken with many doctors and read countless books about Alzheimer’s, but now I’m faced with the reality of my own grandmother not recognizing me, I don’t know what to do.

Thankfully, Abigail takes charge of the situation, she’s had years of experience working with people like my grandmother, and she’ll be able to calm her down. She takes her over to the corner and talks to her in a low, soothing voice trying to explain who I am and what’s happening.

“No. No. No! That’s not my baby girl, who took her? Where is she? Where’s Noah? He’ll tell you!” Gran cries, getting more and more agitated.

The sting of the fact that she is asking for my brother, the one who upped and left us when things got too tough, is a hard pill to swallow. It breaks my heart to see her go through this, to watch this disease eat away at everything that made her the person she was. Emma Walsh was always such a vivacious, intelligent woman. A college lecturer of law and an incredible grandmother who raised me and my older brother Noah singlehandedly and without complaint, after our parents were killed in a car accident when I was only four.

This woman could quote the Bill of Rights in one sentence while discussing the latest kids’ trends we were into in the next. The grandmother I remember would dance around singing Bob Marley while making time to feed us feasts for dinner that taught us about our Jamaican heritage, all while marking grade papers. She’d regale us with tales of what life was like in the south when segregation was still enforced and tell us that we should never allow ourselves to feel less than because of the color of our skin.

I looked up to her, my strong, powerful grandmother who marched right alongside other civil rights activists. Who fought to create a better America for her descendants than the one she was raised in. She was the kind of guardian who never missed Noah’s football games and encouraged me to take extracurricular art classes when she learned I had a passion for it.

Sometimes I think it’s a blessing that she forgets how different our lives have become. How Noah left us two years after her diagnosis when I was eighteen. He claimed he couldn’t handle the pressure of caring for the woman who raised him, saying he was a twenty-three-year-old man and wanted to live his life without the burden of being a carer—leaving me to shoulder the weight of it all. How we had to sell the beautiful home she worked so hard for and move to a small flat in Atlanta just to pay for her treatment. I know she’d be heartbroken if she understood that I gave up on my dream of studying interior design in New York so I could take care of her, too. These are the things that I try to convince myself of as I watch the woman who means more to me in this world than anything else.

Abigail continues to talk to Gran, so quietly that I can’t make out what she’s saying, and eventually, she calms down.

“Emma is going to go upstairs and get some rest now,” Abigail says, her hand resting gently on Gran’s shoulder as though afraid she might lunge at me or run away.

Gran nods, her eyes glassy. “Yes, sorry I feel a little out of sorts, it was nice to meet you again…” she hesitates not knowing my name.

“Kimberly,” I reply softly, forcing a small smile even though my heart is breaking.

“Ah, I have a granddaughter called Kimberly! She’s eight,” she declares proudly before adding, “I think when she grows up, she might look a little bit like you, such beautiful hair… Come to think of it, you look similar to her mother, my daughter-in-law,” she muses thoughtfully.

“Thank you,” I reply, unable to stop the small tear that escapes as Abigail ushers my mother into her bedroom. Hearing her say I look like my mom makes me feel sad and happy all at the same time. I mourn for the mother I don’t even remember and knowing that some part of her lives on in me is a comfort.

I look at the grilled cheese sandwich and find I have lost my appetite. I head to the kitchen and wrap the plate in clingwrap, popping it in the fridge for later. I spot my grandmother’s phone on the table—we decided it would be a good idea for her to be able to contact me, Abigail, Noah, and her doctors in an emergency, so those are the only numbers on there. So far, she’s not used it other than to pocket dial or make generic calls when she’s lucid. The one time she did get confused and wander off, she forgot it anyway. That’s why Abigail is having to come around more and more often these days.

I pick it up and start punching in Amelia’s number. I should call her to apologize and explain what happened. She must think I’m a terrible friend for missing her birthday, and her twenty-first no less, but I can’t face it. Instead, I send her a text.

Hey, it’s Kimmy. I am so, so, so sorry I missed your party. I got into a car accident on the way there and then there was an explosion.

I’m completely fine, just a mild concussion and some scrapes and bruises, but I had to go to the hospital and give a statement to the police. Plus, my phone’s broken, hence why I’m messaging on my gran’s.

I’m super tired and just want to go to bed and rest, which the doctors said I need to do. I will call you tomorrow to tell you everything. I really am sorry. I promise I will make it up to you soon!

It’s at this point that I realize Amelia’s gift is likely strewn all over the street, destroyed by now. All that effort. I’ll have to come up with an incredible gift and fast if I stand any chance of her forgiving me. I mentally tell myself not to be so silly, Amelia and I had years of friendship behind us, while it’s only been a month since we reconnected, she knows I’m a good person.

As I curl up in bed, I’m surprised that the events of the day—the crash, the explosion, Gran not remembering me, the worry that my best friend won’t forgive me—all slowly melt away. But for some reason, as I’m falling asleep, the only person I’m thinking about is the handsome stranger, Yaroslav.