Gravy

Warning: This story deals with the death of a loved one.

When Grandma reached across the table for the gravy, Sadie knew.

It was the movement that had triggered the smell.

The hand floated across the table like a grappling hook struggling to find purchase. It trembled. Sadie retreated into the chair as far as she could—her chin almost touching her chest in a fairly accurate impression of Jabba the Hutt—to make sure the bony claw would not touch her in any way. A small groan escaped her lips, and Pollock threw her a disapproving look before he returned his attention to dinner and the lively conversation between Aunt Gemma and little June.

Pollock was very good at communicating through the smallest of gestures. An eyebrow raised ever so slightly, a finger twitching just once, a tiny flick of the head. A very useful skill in a household with someone as sensitive and attuned as Mom.

Sadie was pretty much the opposite of her big brother. Dad always said her face was like a leaky faucet, dripping with every emotion she felt. He said it lovingly, but she heard the implicit warning behind it. Keep it in check. Don’t hurt your mother.

Maybe she’d imagined it. Maybe it could wait until tomorrow.

Sadie tried to relax a little, but Grandma’s hand was still reaching past her, shaking with exertion. She imagined the hand suddenly diverting from its original route, reaching up to grab her chin instead—as she’d done many times over the years. Or even worse, she might grab her cheeks. She shuddered at the idea of those wrinkled, leathery fingers fondling her skin, the tips of those long greyish nails driving pressing down into her freckles.

But the hand kept going straight...-ish.

Alright, just take a deep breath. Help her get the gravy and you’ll be fine. But by breathing in, another waft of a smell diametrically opposed to roast chicken and steamed vegetables penetrated her nostrils.

Sadie almost gagged. Yep, definitely no denying it any longer.

Grandma... reeked. Sadie felt immediately guilty for thinking this, but it was the truth. She emitted an overwhelmingly foul stench. It smelled like a putrid combination of mould, burnt herbs, spoiled food, and brackish water—and something else that she couldn’t quite place but somehow reminded her of Dad’s neglected tool shed in the backyard.

Of course, the smell in itself wasn’t that strange. It made sense. Grandpa had smelled pretty much the same way last year. That’s just what happened after a while, especially with old people. But in Sadie’s experience—and she had plenty of experience—this was one of the final signs.

Hastily, she grabbed the gravy boat and put it down next to Grandma’s plate, carefully avoiding touching her. She tried to breathe through her mouth as much as possible.

“There you go, Grandma,” Sadie said in a high-pitched voice. The hand stiffened, then retreated as slowly and shakily as it had set out a few moments ago. Sadie watched as Grandma started reaching for the silver ladle. Sadie frowned. This would be a mess. She was in no state to serve herself gravy. And what was she going to do with it anyway? The dinner on her plate had remained untouched, obviously. Must be an old habit, hanging on for dear life in that whittled down grey matter.

She glanced around the table. No one paid Grandma any attention, or—and this was much more likely—they just pretended not to notice what was happening for the sake of Mom.

Finally, she couldn’t hold it in any longer. Still in the same high-pitched voice, Sadie blurted out: “Is nobody going to say it?”

Silence.

Everyone sat frozen. Mom stared at her. Dad frowned and quietly passed the last few vegetables around on his plate. Aunt Gemma looked at anything but her. June studied the faces of the adults around her intensely, sensing that something was wrong but unsure of exactly what was happening.

Sadie locked eyes again with Pollock at the other side of the table. He shook his head almost imperceptibly. She widened her eyes and looked over to Grandma next to her as if to say: look at her. Pollock pointed his fork a few degrees further towards Mom and mouthed a stern ‘No’. She clenched her jaw. He hadn’t smelled the smell yet. He probably thought they were still a few days out from the inevitable.

But someone had to say it. This wasn’t a manageable situation any longer. Another day—maybe less—and she was going to start falling apart. Sadie had made the call with Grandpa, and she could do the same thing now. Mom would be okay. She would be fine.

Sadie stared down at her hands as she said her next words. “I’m just gonna say it. Grandma’s... past her due date. Has been for a while now. I can smell it.”

A gasp. Clattering utensils. Hands being slammed down hard on the table.

“Sadie Theresa Hemingway!” Sadie looked up to see Mom standing at the head of the table, wide-eyed, white-knuckled. Her eyes seemed to be blazing. In fact, they were blazing. Sadie could feel the heat from where she sat. She involuntarily shrank back in her seat.

“Your Grandmother is doing just fine, Sadie. Look at her!” Mom gestured wildly at Grandma, who continued to reach for the ladle, unperturbed by the sudden disturbance of the dinner. “By the name of the Goddess, she’s having herself some gravy! She’s in perfect condition. Hank?”

Dad continued to poke at his food. “Sure honey, she’ll probably last for at least another week. Right?” With that last word, he looked pointedly at his daughter, willing her to agree.

But the genie was out of the bottle. Or rather, the soul was out of the body. Sadie knew she had to press on now.

“Mom, she smells like stagnant water and mouldy earth and... And, and... look!” Sadie interrupted herself suddenly and pointed a little too excitedly towards the gravy boat. Two grey nails floated on top of the thick brown surface. Grandma was unsuccessfully trying to hoist the ladle out of the gravy. “Her nails are starting to come off!”

“No, no, no... By Hecate and all that is holy, you were named after her!” Mom cried out, but the fire in her eyes was gone. Nails were always a telltale sign. Grandma had taught her that herself.

“Mom, I’m so sorry. I know you would’ve liked to keep Grandma around a little longer,” Sadie’s voice softened. Now that the word was out, she suddenly felt very sad. “But she’s had a long, interesting, satisfying life. She was a hundred-and-thirty-four! She taught you everything you know. And—and you’ve managed to keep her around much longer than anyone else. Longer than Grandpa even, and he lasted for two whole months!" She hesitated for a moment. "I—I know this is different. This is your own bloodline. Your sacred ancestor. And the preparations you both did for this worked out amazingly—just look at her. It's been more than half a year! But she did tell us we had to let her go eventually… Remember? Grandma said she would be ready whenever you were ready.”

Mom sat back down slowly. She stared at the remnants of her own mother with teary eyes. Grandma had stopped handling the ladle and just sat there staring blankly ahead, trembling and jerking about slightly. Her leathery, spindly hands sat like two grey spiders on both sides of her plate with untouched food. Although her higher-level brain functions were no longer working, she could still understand some of the communication going on around her. More than most bodies they'd had around the house, even. She seemed content, accepting her fate.

We all sat at the table silently, waiting for Mom to get to grips with what had to happen next.

Then little June spoke up: “So we are putting Grandma Theresa back in her grave now?”

My very powerful necromancer mother suddenly looked very small and fragile. She sighed and smiled a small, resigned smile. “Yes, my sweetest Junie. We’ll be burying Grandma Theresa now. Again.”