Minutes have turned into hours as Mom, Aunt Annie, and I sit in the waiting room, panicking with anticipation. How did she know something bad was going to happen today? We don't even know if Grams is alive, and the feeling of the unknown is making us sick to our stomachs, which is evident since there are no words exchanged between us.

“She was acting kind of strange right before it happened,” I mutter while plucking a loose thread off my torn jeans.

“Like how?” Mom asks.

“I don't know. She was talking about it being more than seventy-four years for something. She seemed confused.”

“Seventy-four years?” Annie repeats.

I place my phone down on the little wooden table in front of us, annoyed by the constant vibrating messages from Facebook, incoming calls, and work emails.

“Who is sending you so many messages?” Mom asks.

“I don’t know,” I mumble against my fist.

“Well, can you tell them you're busy with a family emergency?”

Rather than doing that, I lean forward to shut the phone off completely, but of course, Mike must call at the exact second I'm pressing the power button.

I pick up the phone since I've already somehow pressed the answer button. “What?”

“Really? We're there now?” he asks with exasperation like he’s the one I should be concerned about right now.

“Mike, I don't have time right this second. Grams passed out—we’re at the hospital. We don't know what’s going on. It's just not a good time. We’ll talk later.”

“Oh, shit, Emma, I’m so sorry,” he says. “Which hospital are you at?”

“Mass General,” I say. Not like it matters to him.

“I’ll be right down.”

“Mike, no, its fine—” He disconnects the call. It is neither the place nor the time to try and reconcile our problems. I’m sure he has an apology floating around in that empty head of his, and he thinks he’ll catch me in a moment of weakness with Grams being ill, but I don't want to hear it today.

“Don't tell me he’s coming down here?” Mom groans.

“What was I supposed to do? He hung up on me.”

“Well, call him back and tell him no. It’s family only.”

She's right, and I go to call him back, but just as I find his number, a doctor opens the door to the tiny waiting room we’re occupying. We all stand as if waiting to be sentenced in a courtroom. “Doctor, what's going on?” I ask.

The doctor is young, maybe fresh out of residency, but I already appreciate his bedside manner, seeing the reassuring smile on his face. “Amelia is going to be just fine,” he says.

Without thought, we all lunge at him and wrap our arms around his neck. “Oh my gosh, thank you so much,” I tell him. Out of the three of us, I'm probably the only one who can speak since Mom and Annie are crying. “So, what was it?”

We peel ourselves away from the poor man, and he pulls up a chair as the four of us take a seat. The doctor has kind eyes—a look that emanates ease and comfort. His smile is sort of charming, and it’s clear he knows how to handle a roomful of teary eyes. “First, I'm Doctor Beck.” He places his hand on his chest before leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. “I’ve been the one taking care of your mother—grandmother,” he says, looking between Mom and Annie, then me. “Amelia did have a mild stroke, but we were able to dissolve the clot with a special drug meant specifically for these situations. Fortunately, we were able to prevent the stroke from progressing and doing more damage.”

“But you just said she was okay?” I question.

“What's the damage?” Mom finally asks.

Dr. Beck sits up and leans back against his chair, maintaining a level of comfort, which keeps us calm. “As of right now, there doesn't appear to be any physical damage other than a very slight weakness in her left arm and leg, but she does seem a bit confused, which is normal after a stroke.”

Annie is breathing heavily, losing herself in thought like she often does. I know her well enough to assume she’s going through the long list of “what ifs” in her head. “Will the confusion subside?” she asks.

“In most situations, it resolves itself with time. In my experience, I’ve seen mild cases of memory loss or delusion, but with cognitive therapy, it's something that can improve.” Dr. Beck folds his hands on his lap as he continues to explain everything to us in a way we understand. “To be honest, though, we should be focused on the fact that this could have been much worse, and since you acted so quickly, she has minimal damage.” Mom and Annie place their hands on my back, silently thanking me for being there when this happened. It was just luck, though. I hate to think what could have happened if I wasn’t there.

“When can we see her?” Mom asks Dr. Beck.

“Just as soon as we go over one more thing,” he says. “Amelia has a condition called atrial fibrillation. This condition causes an arrhythmic heartbeat. Basically, when the heart is beating erratically, it can cause the heart to spit out blood clots. The clot can then become lodged in an artery, causing a shortage of blood to the brain, which is more than likely what caused this stroke.”

I feel like I just heard a whole lot of gibberish. “What does that mean? She could have another stroke?” Annie asks. The tone of her voice is one step away from a total meltdown. I can sense it coming.

“What I'd like to do is place a pacemaker in her chest cavity, which will hopefully keep her heart beating in a regular rhythm. Doing this will help lessen the chances of another stroke.”

She's ninety-two. This can't be a good idea.

“What if we decide against the procedure?” Mom asks.

Dr. Beck pulls in a sharp breath and holds it for a second before continuing. “Honestly, the likelihood of another stroke is moderate to high,” he says.

I look over at Mom and Annie who appear to be struggling with the decision. “Do it,” I tell him.

“Emma!” Mom snaps.

“It's the right thing to do.”

“What about the risks involved in the surgery?” Annie questions.

“In my opinion, the risk of inserting a pacemaker is small, but the risk of another stroke without a pacemaker is concerning,” Dr. Beck says. “You can come on back and see her now. Talk everything over with her, and let me know when you’ve made a decision.”

We follow Dr. Beck through the door and into the ICU. The sounds of odd beeps and air pumping through machines behind closed curtains are noises that I never want to hear again after today. My chest tightens as we reach the end of the hall, knowing how hard it’s going to be to see Grams lying helpless in a hospital bed.

She has been a force of nature my entire life. Nothing has ever slowed her down or kept her from doing the things she's wanted to do. Up until now, she has driven her own car, shopped, taken walks, and she even goes out for dinner with friends. I can only hope I'm the same way at her age. Now, though, when I enter the room, she's lying quietly in a hospital bed, asleep, with wires hooked up to various parts of her body. She's pale, and her hair is a mess—this is not the woman I know. My heart breaks at the sight of her, and I grab my chest as if that will help me hold its broken pieces together.

“Grams,” I say softly, making my way to the side of her bed.

“Mom,” Annie follows.

Grams opens her eyes slowly as a tentative smile presses against the corners of her lips into the dimples of her soft powdery cheeks. “My girls,” she says, sounding so frail. “I thought today was going to be the day.”

“We're not letting anything happen to you,” I tell her, taking her limp hand within mine as I stroke my thumb across the wrinkled skin on her knuckles.

“Where is Charlie?” she asks as her forehead furrows with concern?

“Who is Charlie?” Annie asks Grams.

“Oh, you know Charlie, girls.” She laughs at us as if we're ridiculous for not knowing this man.

Grandpa's name was Max, so I don't think she'd be confusing the names. “We don't know anyone named Charlie,” I tell her.

“Oh, sure you do, silly. Of course, you know Charlie Crane.”

I share a look with Mom and Annie, each of us as confused as the other. Dr. Beck has been silently standing behind us, patiently waiting to check in with Grams. “This is the confusion I mentioned,” Dr. Beck says. “She was sharing some stories from the past, and I'm not sure she understands what year it is.”

“You all have such beautiful hair,” Grams says, struggling to lift her hand before twirling one of my waves around her finger. “So…beautiful.”

I don't understand why she’s talking to us this way. “Thanks, Grams,” I tell her, taking her hand back within mine. “You're going to be okay.”

“I know, but you three may not be if you don't get out of here soon. I don't want the Nazis to find you in the sick bay.”

That word fills my chest with a dark fear. We know little of Grams's history, mainly just that she survived the Holocaust, but her story stopped there. She didn't want us to know details or to live through the same nightmare she did, so we promised never to talk about it.

“Emma,” Grams whispers, pulling me down toward her face. “Get my book, will you, sweetie?”

“Book? Grams, I don't know what book you're talking about.”

“My special book,” she says louder. “Please.” She’s clearly agitated with my confusion, but I've never seen any unfamiliar book in her house. The only books I’ve seen are the mystery thrillers she used to read, and I don’t think she’s referring to one of those. “Please find it and bring it to me.”

Dr. Beck places his hand on my shoulder, and as I glance over, he nods his head for me to follow him into the hallway. “I'll be right back, Grams.”

Mom and Annie don't seem to notice the exchange or the fact that I've followed the doctor out of the room, but I may have an easier time finding out more information without their emotions getting in the way. After walking around the corner, we stop, and Dr. Beck's eyebrows rise a bit. “I'd like to do this surgery immediately. The faster we can do it, the safer she will be.”

I inhale heavily and release the air slowly through my pursed lips. This is so much to take in at once. “I understand. I'll do what I can to convince my mom and aunt that it’s what’s best. I don't think either of them are thinking clearly.”

“Understandable,” he says. “I'm sorry you're going through this.” The kindness and sincerity written across his face breaks through the last of my strength I tried to maintain for Mom and Annie’s sake. Tears fall uncontrollably from the corners of my eyes, and I cup my hand over my mouth as I squeeze my eyes closed, wishing this wasn't happening.

“I'm sorry,” I choke out.

Dr. Beck wraps his arm around my shoulders and walks me down the corridor, stopping in front of the restroom. “I'll make sure to take good care of her, okay?” He dips his head down to grab my attention and focus. “I promise.”

“Thank you,” I whisper. “You’ve been really kind and I appreciate it.” Most doctors I’ve been around haven’t had such a passionate understanding of how difficult these sorts of events are for families.

“Emma!” As the slightest bit of turmoil briefly lifts from my chest, another heavyweight drops down on the same spot, compressing all my organs into a painful mess. “Emma, there you are.” I glance down the hall toward the sound of his voice, wishing I was imagining it as I stifle a groan. Mike is jogging down the hallway with a phony appearance of worry written on his face. Is this a new act he’s trying out?

Dr. Beck lifts his hand from my shoulder and presses his lips into a firm smile. “Well, I'll give you some space. I'll be back to check on your grandmother soon.”

“Thank you,” I offer with sincerity as he takes off in the other direction.

Mike’s out of breath as he forcefully pulls me into him for a hug. “How's Grams?” he asks while cupping his hand over the back of my head. The exchange feels awkward and unnatural.

“No,” I tell him. “Don't do that.”

“Do what?”

“Don't pretend like you suddenly care.” He knows I’m weak right now, and that’s his game.

He places his hand on my cheek, making a scene, here, in the intensive care unit’s hallway. “I love you. What more do I need to say? I just want to show you that I'm here. I want to be here.”

And I want to be alone.

After a nearly sleepless night mixed with worry and hope, I got up early this morning to search every nook and cranny of Grams's house, searching for the “special” book. Mom and Annie told me not to worry about it—that she must have been confused like the doctor said, but I sat awake for hours last night replaying her words in my head. They must have been right though because I don’t see any book out of the ordinary.

I put everything in Grams’s room back the way I found it before heading into the hallway. As I place my hand on the doorknob of her bedroom, another tear falls from my eye as I consider the day we’ll need to clean this room out. I can’t bear the thought of losing Grams.

Just as I’m closing myself out of the bedroom, my focus settles on a small wooden box beneath the bed. I've seen it there for years, but it never spoke to me until now.

I reopen the door, fall to my knees, and crawl forward a few feet until the box is within reach. It's heavy and full, but I pull it out and find that it isn't just an old box. It has intricate carvings alongside the brass hinges and brackets. The wood is tattered and soft as if it had been touched a thousand times before, yet I get the feeling it has sat here, sealed shut, for years.

Feeling a sense of guilt for prying, I remind myself that she asked me to find her book, and as vague as her plea was, I want to honor her request. I run my fingertips across the aged cover before releasing the clasps, then tug the lid open, listening to the groaning creak fight against the weathered metal springs.

Inside the box there are stacks of old photos and a soft, worn leather-bound book with a red ribbon draped over the top. My heart races at just the sight of the book, wondering what it contains, and questioning what Grams may have hidden from us all these years. I'm not one to spy or eavesdrop, and this feels just like that, so I’m nervous to do much more with the contents. As much as I want to know what this is and what's inside, I carefully pull out the book and hold it against my chest, inhaling the scent of aged parchment paper. Beneath the book are several more Polaroids of Grams in what looks like her early twenties, standing in front of the Statue of Liberty with her beaming smile that has apparently never changed.

I have begged for her story, wanting to know what her life was like, but she was never shy about refusing to discuss the past. She always said, “The future is the only thing that matters.” In truth, I'm afraid of what I'd learn if she were ever to fill in the gaps of her life, but I also fear the day that her story could be buried alongside her.

Leaving the rest of the box behind, I stand up with the leather book and eagerly make my way out to the Jeep.

Less than a minute passes after settling into my seat when I feel the book staring at me—begging to be opened and brought back to the life it left behind.

My phone rings, and I’m thankful for the distraction as I pull it out of my purse, finding Mom's name on the display. I answer the call with a clear sense of urgency masking my attempt to sound calm. “Is everything okay?” I ask.

“Yes, yes,” she says. “We've gone ahead and scheduled the surgery for tomorrow morning. I just wanted to let you know.”

Relief overcomes me, knowing I won’t have to argue with her about this decision. “I’m glad you agreed. I think it’s best.”

“Me too,” she says, still sounding unsure.

“Oh, by the way, I found Grams's book,” I tell her.

“What book?” she asks.

“The one she was asking for.”

“I know, but what is this book?” Mom asks.

“I have no idea, but it’s old and looks like it contains a lot of stories or memories. I’m taking it over to her now.”

“Mike isn't with you, is he?”

“No,” I respond through a groan.

“That was very nice of him to stop by yesterday, but we don't need him hanging around the hospital right now.”

“Mom,” I say, trying to stop any further incoming comments on the subject.

“Emma, you know how I feel about him.”

“I do. It’s not like you’ve been subtle about your hatred for Mike. I understand and partially agree with everything you feel.”

“I'm glad to hear that,” she says. “You should probably stop stringing him along then, and just break it off.”

“Mom.”

“Emma,” she counters.

“I'll only be at the hospital for a little while. I have a deadline for a client this afternoon, and if I don't get the ad design to her, she’s going to find someone else.” Business doesn’t end at 5 p.m. in my world, and therefore, neither do my contracting hours of operation.

“And why can't you tell them you have a family emergency?” she argues.

“Mom, it's my business, and I can't cancel all of my jobs. I'll handle it all, don't worry. I'm going to be right by your side tomorrow morning and whenever you need me to be with you.”

“Okay,” she sighs. “Just wait there until I get back, so she's not alone. I need to take a quick nap and a shower.”

“No problem,” I tell her.

Since my phone call lasted the entire drive to the hospital, it broke up the eagerness to open Grams’s book, but now that I’m here, excitement is rushing through me as I slide my hands along the warm leather binding. I need to know what’s inside.

I guard it within my arms like a lost treasure as I make my way into the hospital and over to the ICU.

As worried as I was yesterday, I must not have noticed how far the walk to the ICU was, and I'm out of breath by time I reach Grams’s room. Though, it’s perfect timing as I nearly run right into Dr. Beck.

“Emma,” he greets me.

“Oh, hi, Dr. Beck. How is she today?”

“That woman…” he points behind him, “she is a spitfire.” He laughs and looks over his shoulder at her. “She's doing well.”

“Thank you for taking such good care of her,” I tell him.

“It's my job,” he says. “Will you excuse me, though? I have to tend to another patient right now.”

I'm left without words, a bit mesmerized by his sparkling eyes and engaging demeanor, as well as the noticeable fact that he has the most perfect butt that I probably shouldn’t be staring at while he’s walking away. However, I've never actually seen a man's butt fill out a pair of scrubs so perfectly before.

“Emma, is that you?” Thankfully, Grams’s voice interrupts my inappropriate stare and thoughts, and I enter her room.

“It’s me, Grams. I found your book, I think.” I rush to her side and gently place it down on her lap. The corners of her lips perk into a smile as she keeps her focus set on the ceiling above our heads.

“The nice doctor told me I might not be able to see very clearly for the next few days, but you know what?”

“What?” I question.

“I can see he's very handsome,” she says through weak laughter.

My cheeks burn, knowing Mom is a replica of Grams in every way. Both want nothing more than to point out the obviously attractive men in this world, constantly reminding me that I'm still not married and don’t have children. It's becoming a running joke—one with an underlying meaning I've gotten good at sweeping under the carpet. “Anyway,” I try to change the subject, “I hope this is the book you were referring to.”

“It is,” she says, glancing down at it. She lifts the cover, and the spine crackles against the tug as she flips through a couple of pages. Grams appears to be reacquainting herself with the pages as she runs her fingertips down the center of a handwritten page that looks like a diary entry of some sort.

“What is it?” I ask.

“I wrote this after I arrived in New York, back in 1945. It's so hard to remember the details now, but that's precisely why I wrote everything down while the memories were fresh in my mind.”

“Memories?” I question. I know Grams arrived in New York around 1944 or 1945, just after the end of the war, but beyond that, I know very little.

She tries to lift the book, but her hands shake while attempting to do so. “Would you mind?”

“Mind?”

“Yes, Emma, would you please read me this page.”

I take the book from her hands and turn around in search of a place to sit. I pull the blue plastic bucket chair over to Grams's side of the bed and take a seat. With the book resting on my lap, I scan the page, admiring her beautiful handwriting along the yellowed lines of the cream-colored paper. “Are you sure, Grams?”

“Why wouldn't I be?” she asks, sounding confused.

“You have never wanted to share much of your past with me,” I tell her, assuming that's what is contained within these pages.

“It’s time I tell you what happened,” she responds without hesitation. “So, please, please read my words. I need to remember Charlie.”