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Chapter 22

“I just visited her a few days ago,” I said, walking back and forth in front of the closet.

“I’m sorry to have to tell you, son.”

“I loved Grams.”

“I know you did.”

“She made me laugh. Her dirty jokes were fucking funny. She was one-of-a-kind. She was colorful and mischievous.”

“She was a spitfire,” my father added.

I went to him, bent over his body, and wrapped my arms around his broad shoulders. I cried long after my dad left, through the rest of the morning, after the light of a new day reached the corners of my bedroom.

* * * *

Later that afternoon, I visited the school nurse—Ms. Stevens, a tall, slim woman in her fifties with a mole the size of an olive behind her ear and a beehive of whitish grey hair. She always wore knee-high leather boots, like she was going to the rodeo. She was filling in for Mrs. Ritter this week.