Read the story from the beginning here.
Part 7 by Cherry Odelberg.
“I’m your grandmother, Bree.”
“I know that, Gran. I didn’t ask who you are. What are you?”
“A widow,” I faltered. Not just any widow, Don’s widow.
“So? That’s no big reveal.”
“I haven’t taken to widowhood very well.”
“There are rules about that?”
“I . . . I’ve been trying to cope, I . . .”
Bree studied me for a moment with that frank stare of today’s generation.
“I’ve been under a doctor’s care. A psychiatrist.”
“Peta thinks you’re a crazy lady?”
For a moment, I wished I could tell Bree everything--share with her the way Granny and I did when I was young. Someone should know about Peta and me, about when we were kids, and about Peta and me, and Don as teenagers. Should know about Granny and her magical stories. About my loneliness now. Would Bree believe the Her? I wasn’t even sure how to believe the Her.
“Got hold of yourself yet?” Peta intruded a second time.
A feline yowl erupted somewhere in the vicinity of my right knee.
“A cat!” spat Peta. “You and Don and your shared love of cats.” She sneezed. “Get it out of here.”
Silently, I collected the lid of honey from the counter and followed Hector down the hall to the bedroom. He marched on velvet paws, tail at full mast. I sagged against the door and breathed, “I need a drink.”
I thirst, I thought. Give me to drink. Neachtar.
I filled a tumbler with water from the master bath sink and drank. I flicked a few drops of water into the honey, and swirled the lid. On my knees, I offered it to the fragile being lying in the shoebox.
“What are you?” I repeated the question of the day.
I knew what Granny would say. Fairies, Angels, Mythical creatures, they’re real. They are all representations of someone you know and love-or fear. Maybe they are a figment of who you are, or who you dream to be.
“What are you?” I whispered again.