CHAPTER 37

  OATMEAL COOKIES

  Inside the house, Darby and I sat at the kitchen table, each of us holding a warm oatmeal cookie and a glass of cold milk. I don’t know what Grandma’s refrigerator was about, but she always had the coldest, richest milk. There’s still nothing quite like it.

  Darby noticed first. Grandma Mimi had turned from the counter and was standing there quietly, watching us.

  “What is it, Grandma?” Darby asked as I continued to stuff the cookies in my mouth.

  “It’s just…” Grandma said softly. “Seeing you two sitting there like that reminds me of your daddy, sitting at this same table, eating these same cookies. He loved May’s recipe.”

  “I love them too,” I said, my mouth still full.

  Darby shot me with a pure disgust.

  The two of them laughed, and I didn’t mind one bit.

  Grandma Mimi turned back to the counter and continued dropping golf-ball-sized scoops of cookie dough onto a baking sheet. The room smelled like sugar and oats and something older memory, maybe.

  Darby asked suddenly, “Who was Grandpa Jack’s dad?”

  Grandma paused. “Why do you ask, dear?”

  “I don’t know,” Darby said. “I was just thinking about who his father was.”

  Grandma sighed. “I never really knew him. I met him once. Grandpa Jack and his father weren’t close. His dad left him and his mother when Grandpa Jack was very young.”

  “How young?” Darby asked. “Like our age?”

  “No. Much younger. Grandpa Jack was just a little older than you when he started working to help pay the bills.”

  “Really?” I asked. “What did he do?”

  “At first, he worked on his uncle’s farm. Then, after his mother died, his uncle sent him to school. He worked while he went, paying his own way.”

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  “His mom died?” Darby asked quietly. “How old was he?”

  “About thirteen. After his father left, he and his mother went to live with his uncle. One winter she became very sick and passed away. His uncle didn’t want him stuck farming forever. He used to say, ‘Farming is no way to take care of a family.’”

  Grandma smiled faintly. “Eventually, Grandpa Jack earned a scholarship and went to college. He was always grateful to his Uncle David.”

  “That’s Dad’s middle name,” I said.

  “I know,” Grandma said. “We named him after Uncle David. Had it not been for him, your grandpa and I may never have met. Not many farm families sent their kids to college back then.”

  Darby hesitated, then asked, “What happened to Grandpa Jack’s dad?”

  “He traveled,” Grandma said. “I don’t know where exactly. He was always looking for something, I think. Eventually, he got sick. We saw him once, just before he died.”

  Her hands stilled.

  “We were on our way to California. Grandpa Jack wanted his father to meet your dad when he was just a baby. We stopped at a hospital in Nebraska. It was the last time Jack saw him.”

  Grandma swallowed and continued.

  “He was lying in the bed, staring up at the ceiling light. Jack spoke first. ‘Dad, it’s me. Johnny.’”

  The man didn’t respond.

  Jack tried again. ‘It’s me. Your son.’

  The old man finally spoke. ‘Kenny?’ He had remarried and had another son.

  Jack shook his head. ‘No. It’s me. John. Johnny. Jack.’

  Nothing.

  Then Jack said, ‘I’m Ruth’s son.’

  The old man frowned. ‘Ruth?’

  ‘Your first wife,’ Jack said. ‘I’m her son.’

  For a moment, Grandma said, there was recognition in his eyes—but it faded just as quickly.

  Jack leaned closer. ‘This is my wife, Mimi. And this is our son, John David. I have a son.’

  The man closed his eyes and turned his head away.

  A nurse came in soon after and told us he needed rest. I stepped back with your daddy in my arms, giving Jack space to say goodbye.

  Jack touched his father’s arm. ‘Dad, take care. We’re going to California. I don’t know when I’ll be back.’

  There was no response.

  Grandma’s eyes filled. “I was so angry. There was no reason for such coldness.”

  I looked at Darby. I knew what she was thinking. The coldness of missing a funeral was worse—but was it?

  Grandma took a breath. “Your grandpa’s father died a couple weeks later. We were starting new jobs. We couldn’t go to the funeral.”

  She stopped then, realizing what that might sound like to us.

  I looked over at Darby. I knew what she was thinking. The coldness of not going to dad’s funeral was worse, but was it?

  Grandma said it was one of the saddest days she could recall from back then. She then remembered the day our dad came to see Jack just days before he would be killed in that car crash.

  Those two days were bookended in her mind as nearly being the same type of day. Grandpa Jack’s dad died only a couple of weeks after that visit. Grandma told us that they were in the midst of their new jobs when the funeral came, and they couldn’t go.

  Grandma paused then. She realized the gravity of that with us now. Throughout all of her telling us this story, Darby didn’t say a word. I thought for sure she would have something to say about missing the funeral, but she didn’t.

  I looked at her, and she seemed lost in her own thoughts. At the time, I had no idea what was going on with her.

  “Funny,” Grandma Mimi said. “I was actually making the same cookies for your daddy as today.”