Turning Points

The knob turned and the door creaked open. The faint smell of vanilla wafted into the room—not strong as to be cloying, but enough to announce her presence. Soft steps padded toward the bed and the mattress dipped as she sat down.

"Karl?"

I didn't answer. I don't think I had the energy to raise my head from my tear-soaked pillow.

Why did she have to come?

Duh. Of course I knew why Kit was in my bedroom—she was my best friend after all.

Part of me rejoiced at her presence. After all, no one could cheer me up like Kit could. She was one of those people whose presence exuded sunshine and rainbows. Being with her was always the bright point of my day. Heck, Kit was the shining star of my life.

But part of me didn't want her here.

I didn't want her to see me like this. I hadn't showered in two days and must stink to high heaven. My usually spotless room was a mess. I'd lost my glasses somewhere in the junk, and my vision was reduced to a blur.

Now that Kit was here however, all I wanted to do was start crying again. Not a very manly thing to do, but Kit would understand. After all, she'd been with me almost every step of the way these past few weeks.

And it had been a really shitty couple of weeks.

It all started when Lola Pacing—my indomitable grandmother—had crumpled in an unconscious heap at my feet. The fruitcake boxes I'd been holding—the ones she'd been instructing me to deliver to her amigas—all tumbled to the floor as I kneeled beside her, my heart in my throat.

Countless hours were spent at the hospital . . . running tests, signing papers, paying bills . . . waiting . . . always waiting. Waiting for results of innumerable tests. Waiting to talk to the doctors. Waiting for Lola to wake up and smile . . . to tell me everything would be okay.

But she never did.

Childishly, I'd hoped that this was all temporary. But Lola Pacing passed away—silently, without issue—so unlike the robust, forceful woman she'd been.

Kit had been there when it happened. One minute we were discussing strategies for Counterstrike, and then suddenly, everything had been a blur of bleeps and shouts.

I hadn't even been able to say goodbye properly.

And that was the crux—the suddenness of it all. Sure, Lola had been old, but she'd been so strong. I'd thought we'd have years still. But now . . . she was gone.

After the funeral, I'd wanted to lock myself in my room to wallow in my grief. But Kit hadn't let me. She'd been in and out of the house, making sure I was taking care of myself, badgering me to eat the meals that Manang Bebot prepared.

I'd been slowly adjusting to my loss, but today had been difficult.

It was the night before Christmas.

Lola Pacing would have turned eighty-five today.

Lola had been big on Christmas (and birthday) traditions. First we'd have lunch at her favorite Chinese restaurant. Then we'd pick up bilaos of pancit palabok and puto for the household staff and neighbors. In the evening, we'd attend mass then have a small snack before opening presents. Christmas Day was spent at home, waiting for relatives and friends to drop by to exchange presents and greetings.

But now, I had no one to do all of those things with.

I held my breath, trying to keep the grief at bay.