May 26th, 2016 - Kelly Fauth

The rat’s been here again. Although my brain wants to deny it, the evidence is unmistakable—the shoebox peeking out from under my bed has been chewed. A gaping hole stares at me from the middle of the cardboard. A gaping hole with shredded edges, ones that could only be made by tiny teeth. Sighing, I kick the box further under my bed. I can’t touch it; rats are notorious for carrying diseases.

After dropping my bookbag in the middle of the floor, I sneak quickly into the bathroom. Scrubbing my hands vigorously with soap and hot water, I don’t dry them. Instead, I tiptoe back into my room and grab my personal towel. This one is clean, safe. On my dresser stands a box of graham crackers. Thank God rats can’t climb. Or can they? Fear pierces my heart before I convince myself the box is untainted, whole. Standing by my dresser, I grab one graham cracker at a time, eating slowly, trying to savor the taste. Each time I eat one, I am transported back in time: to the beach with my grandparents eating marshmallow fluff and peanut butter graham cracker sandwiches, to nights after track practice dipping a graham cracker in tea before bed, to lunches where graham crackers were a substitute for sweet treats when Ho Hos and Fudge Rounds became too expensive for my mother to buy.

As I stuff the last graham cracker in my mouth, I grab my water bottle out of the sleeve of my backpack and take a long swig. It’s almost empty, and I’m still hungry. What am I going to do? Going downstairs means possibly running into one of them.

When I first found this room in a two-story blue house on the cheap side of town, I was so happy. Finally, I could get out of the repressive townhouse I’d been sharing with my friend. One month ago, I could feel us getting more and more annoyed with each other with each passing day. When she asked to renew the lease, I knew I had a choice—keep my safe, comfortable place to stay or keep our friendship.

When the room popped up in my Zillow searches, I jumped at the chance, citing money as my reason for leaving. Which, technically, wasn’t untrue. I was barely making any. My grad school career was over, and my two part-time jobs—watching Becky, a little girl with autism, after school and transcribing interviews for my friend—weren’t quite cutting it. So yes, this room is cheap, but it’s also full of strangers. I hate strangers.

Taking a deep breath, I walk downstairs, not too fast. I want my footsteps to be light, noiseless. In the kitchen, I fill up my water bottle, trying not to picture all of their germs hiding in the sink, crawling onto the faucet, spraying out with the water. Once it’s filled, I race back upstairs. Spying a banana I left in here earlier, I eat that too, throwing the peel in my tiny trash can and knowing I’m just inviting the rat to live in my room forever. Oh well, some things can’t be helped.

Glancing down at my watch, I see that it’s only 1 p.m. I don’t need to leave to pick up Becky for another hour and a half. What am I going to do until then? I could go on a walk, but then again, the last time I went on a walk, a group of men followed me down a street, cajoling and catcalling until I started to run. So, no walk then. How about a book?

I walk over to my small black bookshelf, an IKEA buy that is as cheap as its price. But it at least does what it advertised, holding and showcasing my most precious possessions so that I can select the right one for whatever mood I’m in. As my fingers reach for a spine, vibrations shoot through my leg. I stick my hand into my pocket to pull out my phone. Dad’s calling.

Dad’s calling? At 1 p.m.? I sit down on the bed, thoughts flashing quickly. I’d known this day was coming. My Nana had gotten her Alzheimer’s diagnosis about ten years ago. It was time.

“Dad?” I ask.

“Susie. I have bad news.”

I knew it.

“This morning your grandfather was on a walk.”

Grandfather?

“He collapsed. The neighbors called 911. The EMTs got a pulse back. Said he was the healthiest eighty-year-old they’d ever seen.”

Wait. What? What is he trying to tell me?

“I’m sorry, hon.”

“Dad? What? Is he okay?”

My dad’s voice is tight. A tremor I’ve only heard once before in my life.

“No, sweetie. He’s…he passed away.”

I know it’s cliché, but if I hadn’t already been sitting, I’d have fallen over. This is the wrong grandparent. This is not right.

My brain keeps repeating this over and over. My dad is still talking, but nothing is registering.

“…come home.”

That gets through.

“I can leave right now.”

“No, sweetie. There’s nothing left to do. Your mom was with him, but now…” He trails off for a moment. “We’ll make arrangements. You just need to come up for the funeral. It’ll probably be next week sometime.”

“I’ll come up tomorrow.”

He hesitates but then says, “Okay, take your time packing. Text us when you leave.”

“How’s Mom?”

“I’ll have her call you later, okay?”

“Okay.”

“I have to go now, kiddo.” There’s noise in the background, other people talking. “I love ya.”

“I love you too, Dad.”

Dropping the phone beside me, I stand abruptly and run over to my bookshelf. On top, there is a letter. A letter I kept telling myself I could reply to tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow.

Now it’s too late.

I read the last line.

Enclosed is a comic I thought you would enjoy.

Love, Pop-Pop.

I put down the letter and begin to sob.

Epilogue: Summer 2026

Every summer I reflect on my grandparents’ deaths. I say grandparents because my Nana died about a month after my Pop-Pop did. They left this world the same way they left every party: my Pop-Pop rushing out the door to get home and my Nana staying to talk to just one more person. Though more distant now, the punch of loss still finds me at unexpected times: driving down the road when “Coal Miner’s Daughter” comes on the radio or walking into my new blue house and seeing the picture that hung in their basement for years now hanging in my dining room.

Rats don’t live i

n my home anymore, just as germs don’t live in the forefront of my mind. When I chop vegetables and cook meals in my own kitchen, I don’t need to rinse my hands every ten seconds. I drink water from the tap without a care in the world. Time has dulled both my intense fears and the sharp pain of loss, but while I pray the fears fall away completely, I hope the memories of their love never do.

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Born and raised in Maryland, Kelly came to North Carolina for graduate school, met her husband, and never left. She works in the field of special education and also enjoys being a track and cross-country coach. In her spare time, you can find her reading, running, writing, and spending quality time with her friends and husband.