[FICTION] Grandma's Greatest Gift

I bury my head in my lap, cupping my hands loosely over my ears to muffle the shrill voices that wash over me.

“Grandma loved me the best. I should get it.” My cousin Stacie’s sharp voice cuts through the thin layers of flesh, bone, and tendon curled around my ears.

“You’re delusional. I’m her favorite.” My sister Kirsten’s equally sharp voice grates on my nerves enough to make me leap from my perch on the edge of the bed.

The movement turns both sets of sharp, greedy eyes to me. I freeze, realizing my mistake as they exchange looks and turn back to me grinning.

“We’ll let Bella decide.” Kirsten offers, stepping toward me.

I shake my head and slide along the edge of the bed toward the door.

“That’s a great idea.” Stacie blocks my egress.

I glance back at the bed, which rests against the wall. No exit there. I sigh and cross my arms, sinking back onto the soft mattress.

“I’m not involved in this. Our mom’s can sort it out.”

“No way!” They exclaim as one.

I sigh again. “Why should I decide?”

The girls glance toward the locked jewelry box that holds the object of their desire, an antique gold chain from which dangles a ball formed of tiny diamonds set in a golden framework.

“Because we all know you don’t want it.”

I frown and stand up. “Why not?”

“Well, you’re not exactly a girl.” Kirsten says and they both snicker.

My lips form a tight line as I push my way through the weak wall of shrill, selfish girls. “I’m going to talk to mom about it.” I fire over my shoulder as I step into the hall.

“Oh come on, Bella.” Kirsten tries to take my arm, offering me a conspiratorial smile.

I shake off her slender fingers. “No. I don’t want to hear it.” I pick up speed as I reach the door. The other girls continue to plead with me as I bound down the steps.

“Girls, stop that. This instant!” My mother and aunt Flora round the corner of the stairwell, glaring up at me.

“Bella, I should have known.” Flora’s thin lips sneer as she glares up at me and shakes her head.

I slow down, taking composed, calculated strides to the bottom of the stairs as my sister and cousin push each other toward the top of the stairwell. Seeing our mothers observing them from below, they step away from each other and hurriedly smooth black skirts with boney hands. They smile angelically and slowly join me. We patiently wait while our mothers survey us, struggling to keep from twitching with the excitement and frustration coursing through us.

My mother is the first to break the silence. “What is this all about?”

“Grandma’s diamond globe necklace.” I blurt out.

Sharp fingers stab into my back on both sides. I glance at my sister who narrows her eyes at me. Her nose flares with suppressed annoyance. I don’t bother to glance at Stacie. I’m sure her face reflects my sister’s unkind emotions.

My mother and aunt exchange looks. My aunt nods as if agreeing with a question asked during their locked gaze. My mother turns her attention back to us, clearing her throat. “Your aunt and I have decided that Kirsten, as the oldest, will get that necklace. We have also already decided who gets each piece of jewelry, so stop fighting.”

My aunt nods agreement, surveying us one more time. “Now go find something constructive to do. There is plenty to clean.”

As they turn away, Stacie gives me a hard jab in the stomach with her elbow. Kirsten pats me on the back.

“Thanks, sis.”

I frown and turn away, making a beeline for the back door. As the door closes behind me, I take in a deep breath and glance over my shoulder. My cousin and sister have disappeared, searching for something else to argue over. Assured that I am alone, I slowly lower myself to the cold concrete stair and let the tears I’ve been holding back cascade over my cheeks.

*

I’m back in my grandmother’s house. She’s not really dead. She can’t be. The rich sweetness of cinnamon crumble coffee cake turns the air to sweet bliss. Only my grandmother knew how to make that particular ambrosia. I inhale again and step forward to offer her a hug. She turns toward me and puts up her hands. Blood runs down them, dripping on the floor.

I scream and turn away.

“Don’t worry. You can help me clean it up.” Her voice cracks bust her smile remains as gentle and sweet as ever.

She reaches for me. Even before she touches me, streaks of blood spread across my skin. I stare down at them as my flesh seems to melt away, revealing black ooze undulating along my bones. As unbearable pain sinks into the core of my being, I scream. My grandmother laughs and I scream again. Her laughter turns to a cackle and I look up to see the same viscous darkness consuming her features.

I scream again. Silently.

*

I sit up and open my eyes. One hand reaches up to touch my moist cheek, but I keep the other where I can see that pale flesh still stretches gently to cover bone, sinew, and muscle. After a few seconds, I lower both hands. I take a few deep breaths as my eyes adjust to the gentle glow coming through the thin curtains of my bedroom.

“You’re alone. Everything is okay.” I whisper softly.

I open my eyes wider, filling them with the reassuring images of my room. “It was just a dream.”

“Yes. It was.” My grandmother’s voice reassures me and I swear my heart stops beating.

I close my eyes and open them again, turning toward the voice. Standing at the side of my bed, my grandmother smiles down at me.

“You’re not real.” I tell her.

“Of course, I am.” She continues to smile.

“That can’t be.”

She nods slowly, understandingly. “It can only be because I need your help.”

“My help?” My jaw tightens as I force out the words.

“The globe necklace that you girls all loved so much has to go to my best friend. She’ll know why.”

“But my mother said…”

“I know who has it, but she shouldn’t have it. It was meant for Jeannie.

“If Jeannie doesn’t get that necklace, I can’t pass over. I’ll have to be with you forever, for everything you ever do.” She smiles that all-knowing smile that could turn even the most hardened criminal to moldable clay.

I nod my head. “I’ll do my best.”

“Her name is Jeannie Lemmin.”

I nod again but can’t find the strength to speak again.

“Thank you.” She disappears.

I continue to watch the place where she stood as I slowly lower myself to the pillow. I think sleep will elude me after that, but I wake up to find my mother shaking me roughly.

“Bella, what is wrong with you? Wake up.”

“What?” I ask groggily.

“It’s almost noon. Why are you still in bed.”

I force my eyes open and find her worried face inches from my own. A million thoughts dance through my head. Should I tell her? My heart leaps inside me, overladen with the loss of my grandmother and last night’s dreams. I decide to tell her if only to hear her tell me that it was just a dream.

“Mom, did grandma ever talk about someone named Jeannie Lemmin?”

My mother freezes. Her nails dig into my arms. She scans my face questioningly.

“Where did you hear that name?”

“From Grandma…”

“She would never tell you about Jeannie. She only told me about her once.”

As my mother pauses, I ask. “Who is she?”

“She used to be your grandmother’s best friend.” My mother whispers as she loosens her grip on my arms and settles back on the foot of my bed.

I slowly push myself into a sitting position. I lean toward my mother and whisper. “Then why have I never heard of her?”

My mother purses her lips. “They had a falling out about the man your grandmother loved before your grandfather.”

“Oh.” My breath rushes out of me. Maybe, I hadn’t really known my grandmother.

My mother nods as if agreeing with my thoughts. “Even after your grandmother and grandfather were married, she never spoke to Jeannie again. I think Jeannie must have tried once. That’s when I hear about it, but why are you asking about her?”

I tried to explain. The more I spoke, the paler my mother’s face got. When I ran out of words, we sat in silence.

Finally, my mother took my hand. “I’ll handle your sister, but you’ll have to go alone to speak to Jeannie.”

I nodded my assent, not daring to speak for fear of releasing the tears I saw pooling in my mother’s eyes.

*

“Jeannie Lemmin?”

She smiles at me. “That’s me, dear.” She places a finger gently to her lips as she contemplates my face. “Have we met? You do look familiar.”

“No, ma’am. We’ve never met.” My voice gets soft. “You knew my grandmother, Dotty Lynch.”

The smile fades from her face as she looks at me more closely. She doesn’t speak. She slowly lowers her hand and clutches it tightly with the other as we stand in silence.

I clear my throat and reach into my pocket. “She wanted you to have this.”

She slowly raises her hand and I lower the globe gently, watching the chain gently coil into her wrinkled palms as she gazes down at it.

“She forgave me.” Tears flood her cheeks, sending rivers down the deep laughter lines along her thin cheeks. “She really forgave me?”

I shrug. “She said you would understand.”

She nods, tears pouring more profusely down her cheeks. “I do. I do. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” As the words leave my lips, warmth suffuses my body.

My grandmother’s voice seems to echo her friend. I look around expecting to see her, but I stand alone on the porch.

Jeannie smiles at me. “Would you like to come in?”

I shake my head but my feet lead me forward into the cozy living room.

“Let me tell you about your grandmother when she was young. You have her eyes…”

Secrets of the Boss 3

Start Here

Part 2

The landline rings insistently, pulling me out of my thoughts. I reach for it, bringing the receiver to my ear reluctantly.

“Theresa?” A familiar voice asks.

“Yes?” I try to place the voice.

“Why didn’t you answer your cell? What are you doing at home?” Cara’s sharp questions help me place the voice.

“I…um…” I don’t know what I should and should not tell her.

“Just get back to work.” She snaps impatiently.

“Why?”

“Something’s going on. A couple of policemen just showed up here. They’re talking to Viviane.”

“Do you know why they are there?”

“Not yet.”

“I’ll be there shortly.” I mumble, hanging up the phone before she can say or ask anything more.

I slip on my shoes sluggishly and grab my purse. I slam the door in my wake and fumble through my keys. As I turn the key in the lock, my eyes scan the parking lot. Nothing seems out of the ordinary. An old man three doors down waves from his usual perch on his tiny, concrete stoop. I nod my head and rush to my car.

*

By the time I reach the library, the buzz has already begun. I walk past the front desk and shake my head as the voices of the small group gathered behind it reach me.

“I hear he was meeting a hooker at the batting cages.”

“I always said that man needed to get married.”

“Too late for that now.”

They laugh lightly, as if they didn’t just hear that one of their peers had been murdered. I roll my eyes and head for the narrow stairway leading up to my office. I make it halfway across the open study 

space on the second floor before being accosted by a familiar face.

“Miss Holden, are you feeling better?” Officer Polsen and his partner effectively block my path.

I offer a weak smile. “A little.”

He offers a disapproving look. “Did you think of something that might help us?”

I shake my head. A skinny man with a baseball cap pulled down over his eyes catches my attention. I quickly look back at the officer, but my eyes wander back toward the other man. With his head tilted toward the floor, his eyes could be peering up into the underside of his bill or at me.

“So who called you?” I turn back to the second officer, reading the name on his tag, Wason.

“Pardon?”

“Someone called you about us being here.”

A warm flush infuses my cheeks as I lower my head and stammer out. “Yes…um…my friend…Cara Nelson.”

Officer Wason grunts in satisfaction.

“We were actually waiting for her to show us to your boss’s office.” Officer Polsen offers me a warm smile as he takes my elbow.

I reflexively start walking toward Larry’s office. As I duck between a couple bookshelves, I glance over my shoulder. The man in the baseball cap has disappeared. I shake my head and turn my attention back to the wooden door on the far side of the shelf.

“He locks his door when…” I begin.

“We have the keys.” Officer Wason jingles them to punctuate his assertion.

“This is the door.” I gesture as gracefully as any model trying to sell a new car.

Officer Wason offers me the first warm smile I have seen cross his face. It passes so quickly that I wonder if I imagined it. He throws the door open with more force than it requires, stepping into the room in a defensive stance. I wait for him to relax before stepping into the room. Officer Polsen joins us and begins rifling through the tall filing cabinet.

“So why didn’t they send detectives?” I ask idly as I look around the room to see if anything looks out of place.

Officer Wason turns away from a bookshelf lined with baseball memorabilia that includes a couple of autographed balls, Little League trophies, and baseball cards nestled in plastic cubes.

“It’s been a busy day.” Officer Polsen offers as he closes the first drawer.

I step closer to the desk to push a couple of sheets of paper around with the back of my finger. My eyes skim a few lines before losing interest. I push a few more pages out of the way to look at the last sheet in the stack.

“Hmmm.” I lean over to inspect the page more closely as I notice my name emblazoned across one margin with an arrow pointing back to the text.

“Don’t touch anything.” Officer Wason steps toward me.

“I think I may know why Mr. Chase wanted to meet me at the batting cages.” I inform him as I draw my hand back.

He reaches past me to pick up the paper with latex-encased fingers. Blue eyes scan the words on the page.

“You may have found something.” He says as Officer Polsen comes to stand at his shoulder.

Continue Here

I bet you thought I wasn't going to post today. I tend to be a holiday slacker, after all. I did get this little piece ready for your consideration. Do you like it? Do you want answers? I do, too, but they aren't ready yet. Soon, my friend, soon.... In the meantime, share your thoughts below:

|  |

|  |

|  |

__|  |__

\        /

\     /

\   /

\/

The Mourners

I feel this offering could be much longer, but we are not ready for a novel yet, are we? I may not have eaten enough chocolate today though, so let me know if I missed a typo or something seems to be in German. Also, I now have 10 followers, counting 2 who must be using RSS feeds, where are the other 15? Doesn't someone want cookies?

Pauline shifted nervously in her seat. It had been so long since she attended a funeral for one of her own people. When Johnson called, she could no longer deny her own faith.  She had to return to the soil. She needed to come back to a life she thought she had cast aside. This time, the dearly departed held too much power, especially in death, to risk offending her. So here she sat, forcing herself to maintain a certain stillness to avoid drawing attention.

No matter how still she remained, she always caught someone’s eye. Having been gone so long, she became the stranger in the room. They acknowledged her with furtive glances and heads bent together in secret consultation. No one approached, but she knew many wished they possessed such courage. As she lowered her head, pulling hopelessly at the hem of her skirt, which she now realized was too short, a pair of shoes appeared next to her own. Polished brown leather with no scuffs and a slight heel stood out in stark contrast to her battered black pumps with shredded points.

“Well, Pauline, I see you braved our anger and rejection for the queen’s funeral.” The soft roll of his voice conjured up a warm summer wind brushing her cheeks as seaweed and salt blended in her nostrils.

“Johnson?” She slowly lifted her head to look into familiar dark eyes.

“It hasn’t been so long then? You remember me.” He offered a warm smile as slender hands with long fingers reached out for hers. He continued after pulling her to her feet and placing a hasty kiss on each cheek. “You always were the most beautiful of us, cousin. If I sit with you, I’ll finally be the center of attention.”

“Not the kind of attention you want, I’m sure.” He continued to hold one of her hands gently as she reclaimed her seat.

He took the seat beside her, stretching out his long legs with a contented sigh. “When you get to be my age in this family, all attention is wanted.”

Pauline shook her head before bowing it once more over clasped hands. Even in the few seconds she had been looking up, she noted how many eyes were focused on her. Despite the occasional giggle, Johnson seemed content to sit in companionable silence while the rest of the mourners watched. Pauline allowed the soft voices spewing gossip to roll over her, feeling her loose, dark curls brushing her cheeks as she shook her head in disagreement or consternation at these stories. She could only dream of living a life as exciting as the ones her relatives clearly envied even though they poked fun at her decision to leave the bosom of the family.

“There she is,” Johnson leaned toward Pauline, brushing her leg with his hand. “The new reigning queen of the family.”

Pauline looked up, scanning the faces of the newcomers. She recognized Millie instantly. Tight, dark curls hung down to the middle of her back, pulled them back with two heavy hair combs studded with pearls. Pauline recognized the combs as well. Her dark eyes narrowed.

“She hasn’t earned those yet. No one knows for sure that she’ll be named the matriarch.” She whispered through a tight-lipped smile.

“Who else could it be?” Johnson’s eyes wandered to the other female faces in the crowd.

Pauline’s eyes also wandered from face to face. “Mable? Claudine? Erica? Anyone but Millie.”

Johnson laughed softly. “Well, she does have the name.”

“Her name means nothing unless she is named in the letter.”

“That’s true. Who do you really think…”

“Shh.” The older woman behind them cut off his words.

Every face in the room turned toward the podium. An old man stumbled toward it with the help of an ornate cane. He began to speak timidly. His voice caught fire as words flowed from his lips. He droned on for some time before he invited another to speak about the life of his late wife. One eulogy flowed into the next. No one summoned Pauline or Johnson to speak. When they were the last two choices, one of the aunts paused in her remarks to glare down at Johnson.

“I invite Johnson to speak now on the life of his great aunt Millicent. I hope he won’t abuse the privilege.” At these words, a wave of nods traveled through the crowd with a few meaningful looks in Pauline’s direction.

Johnson shrugged his shoulders with an apologetic smile for Pauline. “Nothing I can do, cousin. I’ll have to be the last speaker.”

Though her chest tightened and a lump formed in her throat, Pauline offered him a light smile and waved him toward the podium. When attention turned away from her, she allowed silent tears to fall, dabbing them away with the sleeve of her dress.

When everyone rose to accompany the body to the cemetery, she held back. Johnson had already joined the other pallbearers to attend the body in a reverent march from the front of the chapel to the hearse. No one spoke to Pauline or invited her to walk with them. The last to leave the chapel, she pulled the door closed with a final thump and no look back before crossing the dirt lot to her car.

~~

Despite being the last out of the chapel, Pauline arrived before the slow procession of cars kicked up clouds of dust on the narrow dirt road that circled the cemetery. She staked out a seat next to the newly turned earth. The aunts frowned at her and left an empty seat next to her. As Johnson helped lower the casket, he offered her a hint of a wink as he took the seat at her side.

The bereaved husband rose to speak again, offering his wife up to the soil from which she came. At the conclusion of his words, he produced a yellow envelope from his breast pocket. “I offer these parting words from my wife, Millicent, to the generation that followed her own.”

The aunts stood as one, taking slow measured steps to the approach the casket. The eldest reached fir the envelope examining the seal closely before showing it to the sisters and cousins who crowded around her.

She nodded her head slightly, waiting for a similar sign from the other before turning to address the assembled relatives. “Millicent’s seal remains unbroken.”

“Let her wishes be heard.” The gathered mourners echoed back.

The seal loosened with a slight flick of long, red nail. As a dozen eyes scanned the tight, cursive handwriting on the yellowed parchment, the women gasped. Some mouths hung open longer than others. All eyes turned to Pauline. Most of them narrowed; all looked speculative.

“Read it out.” Millie called out impatiently.

“Dearest family.” The eldest aunt paused to clear her throat before continuing. “I know you will all question my decision in your hearts and minds before you accept the wisdom in it. Our family needs new life and vitality breathed into it. We need a matriarch, a queen, who finds no shame in pursuing what she feels is best. Should she arrive for my funeral, to show her love and respect for our family, I feel that Pauline will grow into that woman.

“As I have faith that she will hear these words read, I name no other successor. To name someone else when I am so certain would only invite a division that our family could never survive. Please welcome Pauline back into the family and respect her and her decision as you have always respected me and mine.

“Love,

“Millicent Harding-Queen”

Silence followed as all eyes rolled back to Pauline. She stood slowly and approached her cousin. Millie leaned away, but her brother pushed her back toward Pauline. As Mille tried to turn her head away, Pauline gently pulled the hair combs loose, kissing her cousin gently on each cheek before pushing her own curls back from her face and placing the combs into place.

“Millicent’s wish is my wish. I ask your forgiveness, so I can be welcomed back into the family.” Her voice lowered as she spoke, but everyone nodded in acquiescence.

“To lead, I must follow.”  She spoke these words with more conviction.

As the funeral director gently lowered the casket into the ground, soft sobbing moved through the mourners. When the casket finally reached the bottom of the grave, two men in coveralls stepped forward to break down the lowering device. As the stepped back with the pieces, mourners stepped forward one by one. Each grabbed a handful of soil from the mound beside the grave and gently sprinkled it over the casket. When she finally stepped forward, Pauline allowed a few tears to mix with the handful of earth in her hand before sprinkling it over the coffin.

As she stepped back, the groundskeepers stepped forward again with long-handled shovels. The other mourners stepped back and began to disperse. The two men began shoveling mounds of dirt over the coffin without comment. The taller of the two men paused. He leaned a shovel against his legs and pulled up his shirt. His eyes scanned the receding crowd as he wiped the sweat from his forehead with the tail of his shirt. Noticing that Pauline and Johnson still stood with bowed heads beside the grave, he resumed his work. Soon the mound of dirt covered the casket instead of the slightly wilted grass beside it. The two men patted the mound down and hurried away.

Johnson knelt next to grave, placing a hand in the loose soil. As he stood up, Pauline knelt beside him, whispering a few last words to her great aunt. Then she followed the lead of her cousin, placing one hand palm flat on the loose dirt. Johnson turned to go and she joined him, glancing over her shoulder. Her handprint waved back at her as she walked away and the weight of her family settled around her slender shoulders.

Loving Legacy

Someone asked “Who Is Bella?”  For me, Bella epitomizes the timelessness of what an independent, loving woman could be in multiple existences. I have written her into medieval worlds, modern ones, even the realm of gods and goddesses. Now I offer you a chance to analyze Bella’s potential response to the impending end of her existence in a modern life.

Three weeks. Just three weeks. What can I do with just three weeks?

My head spins. My heart pushes against the walls of my chest until my breath catches. The blood pounding in my ears washes over me like waves crashing on the shore of these last three weeks of my life. I can see the doctor’s lips moving as he consoles me or explains my options, but I hear only the oddly comforting sound of the ocean of death coming to bring me home.

Finally, he realizes. His lips stop moving. He comes around the desk and offers me his arm. I shake my head and stand to go. My mind races faster. I have three weeks. I have twenty-one days. I don’t want to waste a second. I may have just enough time to complete ten more tasks before I die, but what tasks should I choose?

I spend my first day writing down everything I ever wanted to do. I rule out anything that would take more than a couple of days. I won’t learn to paint. A guitar will not know the caress of my fingertips. The world will not have time to be healed by words from my lips. Some of my ideas prove so shallow that I don’t even write them out completely before crossing them off. What am I left with?

Start a chain reaction of acts of love.

Only this goal made it to my final list. I have one simple task left to complete before I die, but how do I do it?

I’ve seen the movies where someone does something nice for someone else and the second person promises to return the favor by doing the same for someone. I’ve even participated in events to promote small acts of kindness. I’ve seen the good that they can do, but that small bit of light in the world wouldn’t leave the legacy that I desire.

As I stare down at the words written by my own trembling hand, I feel tears begin to flow down my cheeks. I should have done more. I should have started sooner. I shouldn’t have waited until the last minute to make a difference. I cross my arms on the desk, letting my head rest on them as my chest heaves around sobs I cannot control.

Wearied by my emotional struggle, I must have fallen asleep at my desk. Upon waking, I brush my hand against my face to find the list clinging to my check. Clutching it in my hand, I stare out the window at a dark sky. In the distance, I see a billboard with a scantily clad woman promising that I can find true happiness inside a blue bottle of perfume.

I stand up slowly, feeling the weakness in my legs as I shuffle toward the window to close the blinds. As the world outside disappears, a thought races through my brain. I shamble back to my desk, flipping on a small green-globed lamp. Under its soft glow, my shaking hands lift the telephone book and flip through the pages. Finding the page I need, I pick up the phone.

Four phone calls later, I realize that I have been standing for a half hour. My legs have locked in place and my hips feel as if someone has stabbed them with an ice pick. I gently lower myself to the chair, rolling it over to my bed, so I can crawl under the covers.

When I wake again, someone has summoned the doctor. He fusses over me, muttering that I shouldn’t be progressing this fast. A thin man with a hint of a mustache stands behind him with a briefcase in hand and a worried look on his face.

“Bella, I’ve told you to take it easy. There is no reason to make your last few weeks more painful.” The doctor picks up a prescription bottle from my bedside table, peering through the orange plastic discerningly at the pain medication he prescribed. “Have you been taking these?”

“I told you I wouldn’t.” I look past him toward the other man. “Mr. Wenzel?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

The doctor snorts impatiently before shaking his head and hurrying out the door. I can hear him talking to my home health nurse, but I can’t make out the words. I don’t need to hear them to know his lecture involves me taking my medication by whatever means are necessary.

I turn my attention completely to Mr. Wenzel, who nervously adjusts his tie. “You brought the paperwork I asked for?”

“Yes, ma’am. Mr. Ryder said you’d know where to sign.”

I nod, reaching for the papers. Instead of handing them to me, he opens the briefcase to extract them and then sits the briefcase on my lap.

“You can write on this, ma’am.” He offers distractedly as his eyes skim the sheaf of papers in his hands.

“Is there a problem?” My arm wearily sinks to my side.

“No, ma’am. I’m just wondering why you would set up a trust like this.”

“I’m dying. I don’t want other people to waste their lives when they could be leaving a legacy of love.”

“So, this trust essentially loans money to people who are pursuing causes that help other people. Then they pay money back into the trust to be used for the same purpose.”

“That sounds about right. It’s the best I can do on short notice.” I smile at him as I extend my arm again.

He places the papers in front of me. “I hope it does what you want it to do, ma’am. You should read through it and make sure it is what you want.”

I smile weakly. My eyes are already scanning through the heavy language on the first page. A near eternity of reading passes before I finally sign my name to the last page.

“I wish I had done this sooner. I’d like to see if it makes a difference.”

Mr. Wenzel opens his mouth to speak, but dizziness carries me away from the sound of his voice into a troubled sleep. My dreams revolve around the fate of my trust. I will never know if it made a difference.

Moral: Begin building your legacy now so you have a chance to see what the outcome of your actions will be.