After we put the food away, we sit beside each other on the couch and play with our iPads. Sydney helps me set up my email and download apps I will really use. We’re both blown away when we discover we don’t need a Wi-Fi connection to get online with them. Callie sprang for the souped-up cellular versions.
We learn each app together, and then we watch each other’s favorite YouTube videos and laugh until we shush each other for fear of waking Callie. Then we shoot selfies of the two of us together. I’ve never taken a selfie in my life before this.
Finally, we realize hours have passed, and Callie hasn’t stirred. I get up to get another glass of iced tea and offer to get Sydney one.
“You don’t have to serve me. We’re not in your restaurant.”
“You look thirsty,” I say.
She gets up. “I’d better go check on Grammy.”
She heads down the hall as I go into the kitchen. As I’m putting ice in the glasses, I hear her calling urgently, “Grammy!”
I turn and step into the hallway. “Everything okay?” I call.
“Grammy, wake up!” Her voice sounds broken, raspy.
I hurry down the hall to Callie’s bedroom and see Sydney bent over her grandmother. Callie looks like she’s still sound asleep, but her face is a pale gray, and her lips are colorless.
Sydney’s crying. “She’s . . . I don’t know what . . . Grammy, please . . .”
I put my arms around Sydney and hold her for a minute. She’s shaking so hard I don’t know how her legs are holding her up. She pulls free and tries again to wake her, but Callie doesn’t move.
I touch the old woman’s face. Her skin is so cold. I don’t want to check for a pulse, but someone has to. I move my fingers to that place on her neck and wait. Nothing. I move my fingertips and wait again.
I turn my helpless gaze back to Sydney, and she covers her face and breathes in a deep, dreadful sob that pulls something from me. I leave Callie and go to Sydney again and pull her against me, letting her weep against my shirt while I bury my face in her hair.
Minutes pass while my brain races for a thought it can’t quite grasp. Finally, I realize we have to call someone. I pull out my phone, call 911, and tell them that Callie is unresponsive. I tell them to hurry, even though I can see that it will do no good. I surprise myself when tears come to my eyes as I tell them she has no pulse.
“I should have been here all day,” Sydney says. “I should have let Steve fend for himself.”
“Shhh,” I say, stroking her hair. “She had the day she’d been looking forward to. She had you here . . . on Christmas . . .”
“And you.”
“She had both of us. She successfully set you up. She gave us gifts and saw how much we loved them. She ate to her heart’s content. She decorated the tree and laughed and sang . . .”
We hear the siren coming up the street, and I let Sydney go and look out Callie’s window. The ambulance pulls to the curb.
Sydney goes to the door to let them in, and I stay with Miss Callie. I lean over and press a kiss on her forehead. “Thank you for including me in this beautiful Christmas, Miss Callie,” I whisper.
My tear falls onto her wrinkled cheek, and I wipe it away with my thumb. I straighten up as I hear footsteps coming through the house.
“And thank you, Jesus, for giving me a second chance.” Callie doesn’t hear me, but I feel like someone does.