Kansas
The manager at the nursing home said it was almost time, so Meg picked up Allie on the way and they drove up there. It was winter; their grandmother was near death. She was holding on and making attempts to talk, but her lungs were too wet for sense and the nurses didn’t have time to listen, anyway. It stung Meg to hear such an admission from the manager – she wondered if the woman had spoken out of turn. On the drive over to Allie’s house it made her weep to think that, even at the end of a woman’s life, a bed-pan or a bed sore took priority.
“I don’t think the manager meant to tell you that,” Allie said, smoothing down her skirt as Meg bounced the car up country roads. “Maybe she said it to get us there quickly.”
Meg sniffed. The heater rattled out a thin dribble of warm air an
