Marta Novak kept her eyes focused out the windshield. The feel of the urn in her hands, the weight of it on her lap, presented as much as she could handle.
“How are you ever going to manage?” Darcy turned her parents’ almost-new 1974 Chevrolet off the gravel road onto the driveway of her friend’s home. At 15, Darcy handled the car like a pro. Both Darcy and Marta had spent their early teen years driving unlicensed, sampling the edges of adulthood.
Raised by her grandparents, Marta had gradually taken over household tasks as her Gram had descended into dementia. Those duties would be expanded even more now that the death of her grandfather would leave his wife fully in Marta’s care. She clenched her fingers tight on the urn. “We just barely got by with him bringing in a little money when he could.” She squeezed until her fingers ached, fought against her breaking voice.
Darcy asked again, insistent. “What are you going to do?”
Marta sighed, fearing the years ahead. “I don’t know. But I can’t—I won’t—let anything change for her.”
“Just don’t be in a rush when you give her the urn.” Darcy stopped the car and turned toward Marta on the bench front seat. “If you talk too fast, she’ll get confused.”
“Thanks.” Marta knew her reply came out nasty, but she couldn’t help herself. Darcy was just like everyone else. Always spewing advice, but never any real help. Marta had always been alone and knew she was going to have to face this new ugly future the same way. She jerked her head toward the side window, to the ragged grass of the unkempt yard.
“No problem.” Darcy’s tone mirrored the nasty. Probably not intentional, but they both let it hang there as if it belonged.
Marta took a deep breath. Cradling the urn, she forced herself up the steps to the run- down wrap-around porch and crossed it into the darkened entryway of their rented Victorian.
In the dimmed sitting room, Marta pulled an ancient wooden chair close to her grandmother and offered the urn. Darcy held back, stood silent at the door, faded into shadow.
The old woman received the ashes into her hands, placed them on her lap, stared. “What is this?”
“Gramp’s ashes.” Unable to predict her grandmother’s response, Marta added, “I can put them on a shelf for you.”
The old woman clutched the urn with fingers turning white from pressing, locked into place beyond hope of release. Clearly confused, she asked, “What should I do with this?”
Marta reached out and placed her hands on either side of the urn, covering those of the old woman. The rigidity of her grandmother’s hands beneath her own brought home to Marta the immensity of what lay ahead. “Gram ...” Marta heard her own voice, that of a child calling for the return of a parent already too far away to hear her.
Behind her, Darcy’s steps crossed the room, creaking floorboards beneath the faded rose carpet.
“Miss Doris?” Barely a whisper.
Gram raised her face toward the voice.
Through high windows, trees stood undisturbed by movement of air. If traffic passed on the road outside, no sound carried from it.
“Miss Doris?” Darcy spoke soft and with emotion, her voice suddenly mature, maternal. Foreign to Marta’s ears. “Why don’t you just hold it for now?”
Marta watched her grandmother’s fingers loosen on the urn, cradle it. As Darcy’s hand settled on her shoulder, Marta’s fierce independence began to loosen its lifelong grip. She sensed that perhaps Darcy had always been willing to help. For the first time in her life, Marta wondered whether others might be as well.
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