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Where one life ends, another is revealed.
Liz Evans is setting out on a cross-country road trip, with her grandmother’s cat, to carry out her grandmother’s final wishes. However, she’s about to learn that the coupon clipping woman who raised her was actually a wealthy, Hollywood icon who had her share of international lovers. Mark Watts is only one of the secrets Liz’s grandmother kept from her. A biographer, he resides in Liz’s grandmother’s Palm Beach home, which Liz knew nothing about. As her guide into her grandmother’s past, Mark becomes a confidant, a friend, and more. Though Liz’s journey is to learn about her grandmother, she finds these lessons turn inward. Content with her life of solitude, Liz is challenged to live a big fat life with no regrets--which just might include a crazy cat, a house in Palm Beach, and a man. |
Enjoy a snippet of Liz's Road Trip
Chapter One:
The inhale is sharp, just as the last three have been. As I hold my grandmother’s hand, fragile, pale, and cold, the inhalation doesn’t expel.
I hold my own breath as the nurse holds a stethoscope to my grandmother’s chest, listens, and then gives me a controlled nod.
Gran is gone.
The breath I’ve been holding on to comes out as a sob. My vision is clouded with the tears I’ve been holding back.
Gran died in hospice. I’ve sat by her side. This isn’t a surprise. Nevertheless, here I am, unable to breathe through the sudden grief that takes hold of my heart and squeezes, the pain is nearly intolerable.
For the first time ever, Gran is in a room and the mood isn’t lifted. She was the kind of woman who lit up a room when she walked in. She loved everyone she ever met, and she loved me the most.
A hand comes to my shoulder and rests there. There is no need for words. The condolence that come from Grace’s touch gives me the calm I can’t give to myself. This is what the love of a best friend can give you—peace when you have none.
I suck in another sob. Since Gran came to live with me when I was ten, after my mother died, I’ve talked to her every day. Even on mornings when we didn’t have breakfast together, we had coffee while we talked on the phone. I’ll never have coffee with Gran again.
Grace sits down in the empty chair next to me. “Can I get you anything?” she asks softly, touching my leg as if to let me know she’s right there.
“I don’t know,” I say on another sob.
“I’m going to give you some time. I’ll go get some tea. You could use a snack too,” Grace says, and I’m grateful she’s here with me in the middle of the night.
I nod. I long ago lost what time it was. I’ve been sitting in the hospice room for days, only leaving to go home and shower—and cry. Grace has kept me fed and hydrated, and I owe her for that. Someday, I’ll be able to repay her, because this too will be her reality. It’s all of our realities. For some of us, it comes at a young age. For others—well, they’re the lucky ones who get entire lifetimes with their parents and grandparents. That isn’t my reality.
The grief squeezes my heart again.
Grace follows the nurse out of the dark room, and they disappear. The night closes in around me, and I let the tears fall freely. My hand is still clasped around Gran’s.
Am I supposed to talk to her? Am I just supposed to sit here until I’m ready to walk away? What’s the protocol?
It’s been twenty years since I sat with my mother as she died. The ten-year-old me cried, yelled, and they’d pulled me away from her—my mother.
It feels the same, deep inside, as I hold Gran’s hand. I want to scream and yell, but what good does that do? Gran is gone. I am alone.
I wipe the back of my free hand over my wet cheeks. I will cherish being here with Gran in this moment of her death as much as I will the past twenty years together.
Gran was more than a caretaker. She was a confidante and a teacher. When I was young, she volunteered at the school for everything. When I went to college, she took the opportunity to travel, since I wouldn’t go anywhere unless we drove. She even wrote articles for the local papers from time to time, and she introduced me to the woman I now work for at a local magazine. I’ve never met anyone who wasn’t taken with her, and I always understood how lucky I was to have her as my grandmother.
She was always my cheerleader, excited when it was my time to shine, and when she disciplined, she tried her hardest to be a hard ass, but usually she caved.
That very thought makes me chuckle through my tears.
Looking down at the woman who was bigger than life, the tears are back. A sickness, which I’ve become very familiar with, stirs in my stomach. It’s the lack of sleep. The lack of food. Too much coffee. Stress of the unknown. All of it, mixing in my stomach. It threatens to turn me inside out. At times it does. Other times, it’s been my strength to carry on—to just get out of bed in the morning.
Now, in this moment, I don’t know what to do with it.
Gran had been sick for the better part of a year. She’d stopped traveling a few years ago, stopped going out all together a year ago, and stopped talking to her friends as her body got weaker. It was as if she’d been dying all this time.
Her mind was sharp, but her body succumbed to cancer, just as my mother’s had when I was little. It scares the shit out of me to think that someday this might be my fate too.
Grace walks back into the room, a cup of tea in each hand and a roll of Ritz crackers in the pocket of her sweater.
She looks at where my hand still holds my grandmother’s, and I can see the sadness resurface in her eyes. Grace has been around Gran as long as I have. I know she feels this loss as deeply as I do.
“They say to stay until you’re ready to go. No hurry. I have tea for you and some crackers. I’ll take my tea out into the hallway,” she offers, but I shake my head.
“Don’t go. Stay here with me.” My voice is weak, and so am I.
Grace nods, sets the cups on the tray behind us, and takes the open seat again.
Needing her more than I ever have, I reach my free hand to Grace and she takes it and holds it in hers.
Sitting between these two women who have loved me through every up and down, I bounce between acceptance, graciousness, anger, love, bitterness, and the cycle continues. Grief is a weird and vicious monster, and this is just the start of it.
“There’s a lot to do now,” I say, clearing my throat.
“We’ll work on that later. Whatever you need from me, I’m here,” Grace promises, and I know that’s true. There has never been a time when Grace hasn’t been part of my life, and this is no exception.
“I’ll need your help,” I plead.
“And you know I’m here. Tonight, when you’re done here, we’ll go home and get some sleep. You can make the phone calls you need to make in the morning, and then we can go through her plans and get her funeral situated.”
I laugh weakly, shaking my head. “She doesn’t want a funeral. Not a traditional one,” I say.
Grace leans her head on my shoulder. “You’ll do right by her. You always do.”
I owe Gran everything. In the final act of getting to do something for her, I will make sure she’s honored.
Swallowing hard, I look at the frail woman in the bed. This isn’t the way I want to remember the woman who raised me since I was ten. I want to remember the vibrant woman who sang songs and made up stories. I want to remember the woman, who, no matter how old she was, turned men’s heads. I want to remember the woman who stepped into my world and gracefully eased me into going on with life without my mother.
However, the image before me is seared into place now.
“Cosmo,” I nearly shout out the name as I sit up straight in the chair.
Grace nods slowly and smiles. “I’ve been taking care of him. He’s fine. He’s got food, water, litter, and I hid some snacks around the house. I even turned on the TV.”
I ease back in the chair. Yes, Grace has always taken care of me, especially when I can’t think straight.
“Thanks.”
“My pleasure.”
“I hate that cat,” I say weakly and Grace laughs loudly, and then covers her mouth.
“You do not. And I wouldn’t say that in the presence of your grandmother.”
“Oh, she knows,” I admit. “And she also knows I’ll take care of him.”
Grace grins at me. “That cat is going to be your saving grace.”
I roll my eyes, and then my shoulders. “You know what’s wrong with you? You’re always so damned optimistic.”
“Someone needs to be. Your pessimism is stifling.”
I pucker my lips so I won’t smile, then I rest my head on her shoulder and sit there for just a little bit longer.
We sit in the dark room, in the middle of the night, in silence, for just a bit longer. I know that when I walk out of the room, that’s it. This is the last time I’ll see my grandmother. The last time I’ll touch her. The moment is suspended in time as long as I sit here. I’m just not ready to say goodbye.
The inhale is sharp, just as the last three have been. As I hold my grandmother’s hand, fragile, pale, and cold, the inhalation doesn’t expel.
I hold my own breath as the nurse holds a stethoscope to my grandmother’s chest, listens, and then gives me a controlled nod.
Gran is gone.
The breath I’ve been holding on to comes out as a sob. My vision is clouded with the tears I’ve been holding back.
Gran died in hospice. I’ve sat by her side. This isn’t a surprise. Nevertheless, here I am, unable to breathe through the sudden grief that takes hold of my heart and squeezes, the pain is nearly intolerable.
For the first time ever, Gran is in a room and the mood isn’t lifted. She was the kind of woman who lit up a room when she walked in. She loved everyone she ever met, and she loved me the most.
A hand comes to my shoulder and rests there. There is no need for words. The condolence that come from Grace’s touch gives me the calm I can’t give to myself. This is what the love of a best friend can give you—peace when you have none.
I suck in another sob. Since Gran came to live with me when I was ten, after my mother died, I’ve talked to her every day. Even on mornings when we didn’t have breakfast together, we had coffee while we talked on the phone. I’ll never have coffee with Gran again.
Grace sits down in the empty chair next to me. “Can I get you anything?” she asks softly, touching my leg as if to let me know she’s right there.
“I don’t know,” I say on another sob.
“I’m going to give you some time. I’ll go get some tea. You could use a snack too,” Grace says, and I’m grateful she’s here with me in the middle of the night.
I nod. I long ago lost what time it was. I’ve been sitting in the hospice room for days, only leaving to go home and shower—and cry. Grace has kept me fed and hydrated, and I owe her for that. Someday, I’ll be able to repay her, because this too will be her reality. It’s all of our realities. For some of us, it comes at a young age. For others—well, they’re the lucky ones who get entire lifetimes with their parents and grandparents. That isn’t my reality.
The grief squeezes my heart again.
Grace follows the nurse out of the dark room, and they disappear. The night closes in around me, and I let the tears fall freely. My hand is still clasped around Gran’s.
Am I supposed to talk to her? Am I just supposed to sit here until I’m ready to walk away? What’s the protocol?
It’s been twenty years since I sat with my mother as she died. The ten-year-old me cried, yelled, and they’d pulled me away from her—my mother.
It feels the same, deep inside, as I hold Gran’s hand. I want to scream and yell, but what good does that do? Gran is gone. I am alone.
I wipe the back of my free hand over my wet cheeks. I will cherish being here with Gran in this moment of her death as much as I will the past twenty years together.
Gran was more than a caretaker. She was a confidante and a teacher. When I was young, she volunteered at the school for everything. When I went to college, she took the opportunity to travel, since I wouldn’t go anywhere unless we drove. She even wrote articles for the local papers from time to time, and she introduced me to the woman I now work for at a local magazine. I’ve never met anyone who wasn’t taken with her, and I always understood how lucky I was to have her as my grandmother.
She was always my cheerleader, excited when it was my time to shine, and when she disciplined, she tried her hardest to be a hard ass, but usually she caved.
That very thought makes me chuckle through my tears.
Looking down at the woman who was bigger than life, the tears are back. A sickness, which I’ve become very familiar with, stirs in my stomach. It’s the lack of sleep. The lack of food. Too much coffee. Stress of the unknown. All of it, mixing in my stomach. It threatens to turn me inside out. At times it does. Other times, it’s been my strength to carry on—to just get out of bed in the morning.
Now, in this moment, I don’t know what to do with it.
Gran had been sick for the better part of a year. She’d stopped traveling a few years ago, stopped going out all together a year ago, and stopped talking to her friends as her body got weaker. It was as if she’d been dying all this time.
Her mind was sharp, but her body succumbed to cancer, just as my mother’s had when I was little. It scares the shit out of me to think that someday this might be my fate too.
Grace walks back into the room, a cup of tea in each hand and a roll of Ritz crackers in the pocket of her sweater.
She looks at where my hand still holds my grandmother’s, and I can see the sadness resurface in her eyes. Grace has been around Gran as long as I have. I know she feels this loss as deeply as I do.
“They say to stay until you’re ready to go. No hurry. I have tea for you and some crackers. I’ll take my tea out into the hallway,” she offers, but I shake my head.
“Don’t go. Stay here with me.” My voice is weak, and so am I.
Grace nods, sets the cups on the tray behind us, and takes the open seat again.
Needing her more than I ever have, I reach my free hand to Grace and she takes it and holds it in hers.
Sitting between these two women who have loved me through every up and down, I bounce between acceptance, graciousness, anger, love, bitterness, and the cycle continues. Grief is a weird and vicious monster, and this is just the start of it.
“There’s a lot to do now,” I say, clearing my throat.
“We’ll work on that later. Whatever you need from me, I’m here,” Grace promises, and I know that’s true. There has never been a time when Grace hasn’t been part of my life, and this is no exception.
“I’ll need your help,” I plead.
“And you know I’m here. Tonight, when you’re done here, we’ll go home and get some sleep. You can make the phone calls you need to make in the morning, and then we can go through her plans and get her funeral situated.”
I laugh weakly, shaking my head. “She doesn’t want a funeral. Not a traditional one,” I say.
Grace leans her head on my shoulder. “You’ll do right by her. You always do.”
I owe Gran everything. In the final act of getting to do something for her, I will make sure she’s honored.
Swallowing hard, I look at the frail woman in the bed. This isn’t the way I want to remember the woman who raised me since I was ten. I want to remember the vibrant woman who sang songs and made up stories. I want to remember the woman, who, no matter how old she was, turned men’s heads. I want to remember the woman who stepped into my world and gracefully eased me into going on with life without my mother.
However, the image before me is seared into place now.
“Cosmo,” I nearly shout out the name as I sit up straight in the chair.
Grace nods slowly and smiles. “I’ve been taking care of him. He’s fine. He’s got food, water, litter, and I hid some snacks around the house. I even turned on the TV.”
I ease back in the chair. Yes, Grace has always taken care of me, especially when I can’t think straight.
“Thanks.”
“My pleasure.”
“I hate that cat,” I say weakly and Grace laughs loudly, and then covers her mouth.
“You do not. And I wouldn’t say that in the presence of your grandmother.”
“Oh, she knows,” I admit. “And she also knows I’ll take care of him.”
Grace grins at me. “That cat is going to be your saving grace.”
I roll my eyes, and then my shoulders. “You know what’s wrong with you? You’re always so damned optimistic.”
“Someone needs to be. Your pessimism is stifling.”
I pucker my lips so I won’t smile, then I rest my head on her shoulder and sit there for just a little bit longer.
We sit in the dark room, in the middle of the night, in silence, for just a bit longer. I know that when I walk out of the room, that’s it. This is the last time I’ll see my grandmother. The last time I’ll touch her. The moment is suspended in time as long as I sit here. I’m just not ready to say goodbye.