Page 13 of I Know How This Ends

I move a pile of folded, unread newspapers from the opposite matching armchair and sit down as my grandfather turns toward

me. There is no face on the planet I love more. He’s like an ancient tree: rooted deeply and shaped by the years. I love the

little white hairs that grow upward and outward, like leaves, and the broken pink veins in his cheeks. I love the wooden strength

of his nose, the brown speckles like lichen on his forehead. I love the pale blue of his eyes, a sky between branches; the

lines etched proudly like oak rings, collecting over time, marking the seasons. I love how permanent he is, how solid, as

if the winds can blow but he will still be there. A place I can return to, always, and sit under, shaded and protected.

I feel him gazing at me as if everything I’m made of is beautiful too.

“I’m so sorry I haven’t visited,” I say, sounding seven years old. “Things got really... busy for a couple of weeks.”

Except I still had time to go on dates that went absolutely nowhere, didn’t I? I still had time to sit and eat pasta and judge

men. I had all the time in the world to spend in the wrong places, with the wrong people.

Somehow, I always do.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” my grandfather says sternly. “I won’t tolerate an apology, Meg. You’re an adult woman and we’ve spent

quite enough time together, as far as I’m concerned. Frankly, I needed the break.”

He winks and I grin. “Enough Margot for one year, huh?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say one could ever have enough. But an exceedingly old man needs to be left alone with his thoughts now and

then. All three of them.”

When I left Exeter, I moved into my grandfather’s spare room and spent my time hanging out with him like a freeloading flatmate.

When I wasn’t building my Instagram page in the garden shed—making my first anxious and wobbly videos—we’d get pizzas and

watch black-and-white films and discuss the flowers in the garden. I felt like a child again, which is exactly what I needed.

There was no part of it I didn’t enjoy, no part that felt like I was doing him a favor, even if I did a little washing up

and cooking now and then. The generosity—as always—was entirely his.

“Are you doing OK?” I lean forward and study him. “Eating properly? Have you been outside? Gone for a walk?”

Grandad has gone back to staring into the garden. Ever since my grandmother passed away a few years ago, he has spent more

and more time here. Sometimes I wonder if he’s waiting or if he’s actually watching. Looking for something. I just don’t know

what.

“Of course. How was your date with Henry?” He doesn’t look at me. “Did it go well?”

“No,” I sigh slightly. I’m guessing Eve told Mum, and Mum told him. Grandad knows all about the Date-a Experiment. In fact,

it was his idea. “But it doesn’t matter. I’ve decided that twenty is probably a bit of overkill. I don’t need that much data, right? I think I’ll just stop at seventeen and stay on my own for a while.”

A sudden memory of myself screaming I don’t want it into poor Henry’s bewildered face. Suffice to say, I collected the data I was looking for and the conclusion was: I should not be dating other humans.

Not now, possibly not ever.

“Date Seventeen, hey?” Grandad smiles faintly, still focused on the garden. “Stick at Seventeen, I think. Seventeen is a good,

powerful number. It represents change and new beginnings, numerologically.”

I smile fondly. “It’s numerology now, hey?”

“Oh.” He shrugs his thin shoulders. “I got interested. Quite a fascinating topic, if a little lacking in scientific evidence.”

My grandfather studies and researches like nobody I have ever met: constantly taking up random topics and becoming an expert

in them almost immediately, like a character from a Steinbeck novel. He is always curious and asking questions; he made me

my first-ever wind gauge from a plastic bottle filled with sand. Everything I’m most proud of, I got from him. Everything

I’m not proud of is entirely mine.

“Have you spoken to Mum and Dad?” My phone starts vibrating and I pull it out of my pocket. “Have they called you from Australia?”

“Oh yes.” Grandad nods. “Relentlessly.”

Then I glance at my screen: suffice to say, people are not loving my new direction.

You look like a literal penis

Sell-out

Unfollowed

I swallow, put my phone away and thank the weather gods that my grandfather has never worked out how to use social media.

His inordinate pride in me is one of the only things left that I actually treasure.

“Margot,” Grandad says abruptly. “Is that squirrel OK?”

Frowning, I turn and peer at the large oak tree. “What squirrel?”

“The squirrel. On the grass. It hasn’t moved for hours and I’m getting a little worried. There’s a drey up there, and I’m worried a baby has fallen out. Do you think you could pop outside, just check it’s OK?”

I stand up in confusion so I can get a closer look.

“Grandad,” I say, glancing at him. “It’s a sock.”

“A sock?”

“It’s a sock. A blue sock. It must have fallen off the washing line.”

“Ah.” My grandfather frowns. “Of course. I see that now. Silly me. I guess blue squirrels are rarer than previously thought.”

I narrow my eyes at him again, then look around the house.

That’s exactly what it is: this house feels frozen, unused, stale. As if he’s not touching anything inside it. I suddenly

realize that my grandfather isn’t looking at me properly. He’s gazing in my direction, aiming toward my voice, but his eyes

are unfocused, misty, slightly blank.

“Grandad,” I say slowly, getting right up close to him. “You haven’t commented on my new nose ring. What do you think?”

“Well.” His bright blue pupils vaguely search my ringless face and he beams. “Gosh. Doesn’t that look quite the ticket?”

How long has his eyesight been fading? How long has he been pretending to read newspapers, moving bookmarks in books he hasn’t

read so that I don’t notice? My eyes suddenly fill: he didn’t tell me on purpose. He didn’t want me to know because I’d never

have moved out or started over. Of course I wouldn’t. I’d have stayed here, with him. He didn’t want that, so instead he patiently

waits as his world goes dark.

“I’m just going to make a cup of tea for myself.” I stand up, trying to keep the emotion out of my voice. “Do you fancy one?”

“I thought you’d never ask,” he smiles. “I’ve run out of biscuits, though.”

Wiping my eyes, I pick up his mobile phone from the cabinet where it’s plugged in permanently, thus rendering it immobile.

Seven missed calls from my parents today, because he clearly can’t work out where the answer button is.

He hasn’t told them either, because they wouldn’t have emigrated if they knew.

No wonder his texts always look like haiku.

They must take him literally hours to construct.

Right: this is going to require a fully-fledged plan.

Seething with anger at myself—what kind of shitty person doesn’t notice that the person they love most is going slowly blind —I clatter into the kitchen and start viciously washing up: scalding myself with hot water, scrubbing at the plates until

they scratch. My grandfather clearly doesn’t want me to know, so I have to find a way to help without giving it away. What

else isn’t he doing? I examine the fridge and dirty plates: it’s stocked, he’s eating, which is a relief. But was he lying

to me? Is he going outside at all?

Abruptly, I go into the hallway, take his favorite shoes from by the door and put them on a shelf. If they haven’t moved next

time I’m here, I’ll know he’s not even leaving the house.

“Idiot,” I mutter fiercely. “You’re a total idiot , Margot.”

“Did you say something?” Grandad calls. “I just remembered there might be some Jaffa Cakes under the stairs.”

At least his hearing is spot on, so that’s something.

“Okey-dokey!” I kick the door, pretending it’s my own stupid face. “Just grabbing them now!”

Muttering more quietly, I open the cupboard and begin rummaging around—wine bottles caked in dust, my grandmother’s coats

still hanging neatly, untouched—when cold suddenly sweeps through me. Everything gets darker.

The world tips and—