One Last Adventure

"They're speaking of my death", Lillith thought to herself bitterly. She was awake, mostly, but her eyelids felt like lead, too heavy to lift. She fought the urge to drift off again.

She sat in the living room, sunken into her late husband’s favorite recliner, facing toward the window overlooking the gardens of the home they had built together. Her family always clustered in the room around her, as if their presence might ease her passing. She supposed it did, though she would never admit it aloud. Mostly, their hovering pressed against her like a weight. She had planned to spend these years journeying around the world. Now, instead, she was trapped here, surrounded, smothered, while they planned for her death.

Still, she was grateful she could spend her hospice in the comfort of her home; it was just that her dependence on her family and nurse chafed at her pride.

Through the window, the moon was starting to show itself bright and silver above the dark edge of the trees. It reminded her, faintly, of stories she had told her granddaughter of paths opening in moonlight, of hidden realms where no one ever grew old. Stories her grandmother had once passed down to her.

"She wanted to leave her locket to Amy," she heard her eldest daughter, Laura, say, voice cracking.

Lillith's chest tightened at the mention of her locket, sharper still at hearing her daughter speak about her in the past tense. The locket had a fairy engraving on the front and held a picture of Lillith and her husband, Malcom, when they were younger. Amy had always liked it, not just because people said how much she resembled her grandmother in that picture, but also because she was the only person here who shared Lillith's love of fairy lore. Something Lillith should have grown out of a long time ago, but she never did.

Her family didn’t even bother to whisper as they discussed what would happen to her possessions after she was gone. She slept so deeply and frequently these days, so they probably had no idea when she was actually alert. She didn't have the energy at the moment to tell them all to take their conversation somewhere else and leave her in peace. Maybe she didn't have the heart to do it either.

This was not how her story was meant to end. She had pictured herself dying peacefully of old age when she was ready. She didn’t consider 73 to be “dying of old age”.

She thought she had done everything right: eating healthy, staying active by swimming laps, practicing yoga, and even fencing. Staying fit and healthy was supposed to extend her life. Then her body betrayed her.

Cancer wasn't fair, she knew that. No one earned it, no one deserved it. But it was also the timing that felt so malicious. And it stung even more that her family didn’t seem to see it as the same kind of tragedy she felt it was.

Her body felt like it quickly deteriorated, as if none of her hard work had mattered, and she sometimes struggled just to find the energy to breathe. The worst part had been the good days, especially early on, after the doctors had recommended she stop treatment. Some days, she'd feel a sudden surge of energy and alertness. She'd feel like herself for a short period. On those days, she'd take walks in the woods and bring her granddaughter along if she was visiting, retelling their favorite fairy stories. They'd search for hidden paths to the fairy realm together, like they used to.

On those good days, Lillith would even be able to make it upstairs to her own bedroom and have the energy to dress and clean herself. And each time she'd be tricked into thinking she'd turned a corner. That maybe her body had healed itself, or the treatment she'd stopped had worked after all. But then it would end, and she'd be back to feeling like a withered shell of herself.

Lillith had never reached the acceptance stage of her diagnosis. She went from anger to bitterness, and that's where she would stubbornly dwell until the day she died.

She had loved her husband and the life they had built together. But he was a safe and frugal person, and Lillith longed for adventure. They did travel, but mostly within the country.

Then Malcom had a heart attack not long before Lillith's diagnosis. After his death, Lillith was mostly alone in the big house they had once raised their children in. She had decided she would spend some time traveling. To go places and do things that she wanted to do, anywhere she wanted to go. It felt freeing, the idea of going on an adventure entirely of her own making.

She planned her trip, bought tickets and hotels, even new outfits. She imagined all the things that she would do, and planned out activities and sites to visit. She was excited and anxious, and could hardly wait. One or two last grand adventures before she would settle down in her cottage by the woods, care for her gardens, raise chickens, and fully devote herself to being a grandmother, and maybe even a great-grandmother someday.

She found the lump a month before she was supposed to leave on her first trip. She wanted to go anyway, then treat the cancer when she returned, but her family and doctors urged her to start treatment immediately. So she cancelled her plans, hoping she would still have her adventure after she was better. The cancer was too aggressive, though, and now she was at home, in hospice care. Her adventure was cut short before it had even begun.

She tried to remind herself of how well she had lived her life, the things that she had done, the people she had known and loved. But it still hurt to feel like her life was cut short, even though she was apparently considered old; she still had more life to live.

She heard her younger daughter, Mary, saying the word "remains".

Remains, she thought to herself, bitterly. This was too much. She let out a groan and a yawn, feigning just waking up. The conversation around her cut off, replaced by awkward murmuring about how late it was.

Her daughters helped her to the guest bedroom on the same level, where she was now staying. It was too difficult and risky to try to get up to her bedroom. She still had a view of the gardens and the forest from the guest room, at least. And they had moved most of the belongings she cared about into the room.

They helped her to the bathroom, assisted her with undressing, and settled her into her nightclothes. Lillith was both humiliated by their help and grateful for it.

Her daughters said goodnight, and Mary closed the bedroom curtains before she left, leaving Lillith wondering where she had gone wrong that her own daughter didn't know that she liked to keep the curtains open at night. She didn't have much else left to enjoy, but looking at the stars and the moon as she drifted to sleep at night made her feel some peace.

Luckily, only a few moments later, her granddaughter, Amy, opened the door and tiptoed in. She opened the curtains wide and stared out at the moon.

“The moon is full, Grandma Lilly,” Amy whispered, “you can see it over the trees," she pointed, which was unnecessary, as the moon was large and clearly visible over the trees at this point. Gently, though, Amy helped turn Lillith onto her side so she faced the window, and she let her. "The skies are clear, too,” she beamed down at her grandmother.

Lillith agreed it was magnificent, but all she could muster was what sounded more like incoherent moaning.

"Mom said it's a supermoon tonight, too.”

Lillith smiled up at her. Amy smiled back, in a pitying way.

"I miss sneaking out on moonlight walks through the woods with you," Amy said, coming to stand next to her bed, "looking for secret paths to the fairy realm," she leaned over and whispered, conspiratorially, as if her mother might still hear her.

They would have to sneak out for their moonlight walks because after the first time they had done it, Amy's mother had thrown a fit. Lillith had agreed it was reckless and not to do it again, but Amy begged and pleaded. So they would meet by the back door and sneak out together on full moons whenever Amy visited. Lillith would pretend to see signs of fairies, and they'd walk together, hand in hand, telling stories.

"I miss our walks, too," Lillith croaked. She wanted to reach up and touch her cheek, but couldn’t lift her arm enough. "You should get to bed," Lillith told her.

Amy shrugged, then leaned down and kissed Lillith's forehead, like she remembered kissing Amy’s forehead at night when she put her to bed.

"Goodnight, Grandma Lilly. I love you," she whispered.

"I love you too, fairy princess," Lillith winked.

Amy grinned genuinely, then left as quietly as she had come.

A tear escaped from the corner of Lillith's eye. Amy knew just how to soften her bitter heart.

She missed being the one taking care of others. Now she was the one needing comfort and taking care of before bed.

She thought of the stories she had shared with Amy. Her daughters never showed much interest, but Amy enjoyed them. Fascination with magic and fairies seemed to skip a generation.

Lillith herself had never really given up believing in magic; she had always held out hope to see real magic someday. Maybe that was why she always loved forests; they carried their own mysteries and secrets. It was for their love of forests that they had chosen this house, perched on its hill, gazing over a forest she liked to think was enchanted. They planted wildflowers and gardens to draw in the wildlife a little closer. It was its own bit of magic in the world to see something like a herd of deer out her window on a foggy morning. Or an owl perched on a tree branch framed by the moon. She realized these were some of the little things she would miss dearly.

And then suddenly she felt wide awake. The sleep she had had most of the day must have done her some good, because she had a bit of energy for once. She stood carefully, shakily, and moved to a bench next to the window, leaning her head against the wall. She wanted to enjoy what could possibly be her last full moon.

She searched the trees, half hoping to spot a deer, and secretly, just a little bit, hoping for one last trace of magic before she died. She still couldn't believe it at first when she actually saw something.

A strange blue light was barely visible between the trees. She brushed it off as moonlight at first, or someone walking with a flashlight, but realized this was something else. The moonlight cast a silver glow, and this was distinctly blue. Yet distant, and she'd only catch glimpses of it, flickering like a blue flame between the trees.

Her heart pounded. She knew deep in her core that this was it; at last, she was seeing something magical.

She seemed to have been gifted one last surge of energy and alertness, something that she hadn't experienced in weeks. This was her final chance. She made her decision without question or hesitation and pulled on a jacket and slip-on shoes from her closet, and checked her scarf wrapped around her head in the mirror.

She opened the door to her room carefully and listened, but the house was silent. Tiptoeing out as her granddaughter had, she made her way to the back door. She looked upstairs one last time and gave a little wave and a kiss before leaving.

When she shut the door to the house behind her, she felt a thrill of excitement. She felt like a child sneaking out at night, rather than the owner of the house.

As she made her way through her gardens towards the forest, the wind picked up suddenly as if it were trying to push her back, to tell her to go back home to her soft bed and die like the feeble old lady the world thinks she is.

"No, I most certainly will not turn back," she insisted, leaning forward into it. She hoped she would not run out of energy before finding what she was looking for, and the sudden wind was wearing her down. But when she made it into the woods, the wind seemed to give up on her.

The moonlight streamed through the trees, reflecting off leaves and pebbles, casting an unnatural silver glow along her path. She worried her vision was blurring, which probably wasn’t a good sign. She ignored the thought that wanted to trickle up; all of this was just a hallucination.

Then she found it. She gasped, and tears welled in her eyes. An irridescent, blue light emitting from a strange source. This was no hallucination, she knew triumphantly.

She approached it slowly. It looked like a thin fabric billowing in a breeze she couldn’t feel. She held her hand out near it but felt nothing, as if it wasn’t there. It seemed as if the moon’s light exposed a small part of something larger and otherwise invisible.

She didn’t know what to do suddenly. Her excitement had given way to the fear of the unknown.

She scoffed at her own hesitation. “Really, Lilly? You’re afraid? What’s the worst that could happen? You have a more interesting death?” The thought almost made her laugh. She straightened her shoulders, adjusted her coat over her nightclothes, and checked her scarf wrapped around her head. “Well, I didn’t come all this way for nothing,” then, before she could change her mind, she stepped through the veil.

Amy woke to chaos the next morning. The hospice nurse had arrived for her morning visit, only to find Grandma Lilly’s bed empty. Soon, the whole house was in an uproar, shouting her grandma’s name, even searching under beds.

Her aunt checked the security footage, and they couldn’t believe what they were seeing: Grandma Lilly wandering towards the woods in the middle of the night. They all gasped. Amy only smiled.

The family searched the woods themselves before calling the police. Neighbors joined in, then half the town, but no trace of her was found. The news said it was likely an episode of terminal lucidity. The theories about what happened to her after were grim.

Everyone was very confused and distraught, except for Amy.

The family held a funeral for Grandma Lilly, though no body was ever found. They found it unsettling that Amy never cried or mourned for her grandmother the way they expected. Sometimes she even smiled, as if she was keeping a secret. She tried to tell them all that Grandma had found a path to a fairy realm, and that she was still alive. They told her there was no such thing, and that the stories were make-believe. She eventually gave up on trying to convince them. As her grandma used to tell her, the fairy realm could only be found by true believers. And true believers wouldn’t need convincing.

Her parents took her to a grief counselor, thinking she was just struggling to come to terms with the death of her beloved grandmother. The counselor assured them she was likely in denial and that she would accept her grandmother’s passing in time. So they let it go. They told themselves she would outgrow this childish fantasy someday, and she would stop searching for secret paths to hidden realms in moonlit forests, and finally accept her grandmother was gone.

But she never did. She was only biding her time until the right full moon opened the path for her, too. Then she would find where Grandma Lilly had gone.