White Powder - White Powder

I shut the door to Granddad’s guest room and changed from my black dress to a white nightgown. Empty silence rang throughout the house. Smells of the funeral home and graveyard still clung to me, permeating the otherwise scentless space.

Night – what an odd time to hold a funeral, I thought. A whole day of stress, planning, waiting ... and then a night packed with grief. How was anyone supposed to sleep afterwards?

I would sleep fine, given an hour or two to unwind. Sleep in the room that was now mine. Sure, I would miss him now and then – he was a sweet, trusting old man (dangerously so, at times) with whom I’d spent countless days and nights, feeding him, clothing him, bathing him, checking on him in his sleep. And he’d trusted me the whole time, never questioning, never criticizing ... even when he saw me put the powder in his drink.

I’d left him by the porch window – inside where he wouldn’t catch cold – and gone to the kitchen for his glass of water. I ground up two white pills and sprinkled them in, mixing with a spoon until they dissolved. I turned to find Granddad in the entryway, sharp eyes boring into me. I knew he could maneuver that chair quietly. I just hadn’t known how quietly. I also knew that he saw.

I smiled and held out the glass. “Here you are, Granddad.”

With a trembling hand, he accepted, maintaining his suspicious stare. I thought of him during my childhood visits, when he could still walk, still talk, and his gruff voice barking out my ‘trouble name’: Missy, as in “Get down from there, Missy,” and “This is your last warning, Missy.” And that’s how he said it – in warning, never in anger. A stern warning, though. One I would never disregard. I could hear it now, in his gaze. But instead of confessing and taking the glass, I peered at him in concern.

“Is anything wrong, Granddad?”

He raised the glass without lowering his gaze and took a hesitant sip. I’d fooled him, as I had my whole life. Now he was gone. And everything was mine.

I sat on the bed, a small smile on my lips gradually becoming a grin, until something brushed the back of my heel.

I moved my foot, I thought, without realizing. But I felt it again – a nudge this time. I knelt. Half emerged under the sheet was a tiny pill bottle with the lid off. The tiny pill bottle. It tipped forward, spilling white powder on the gray carpet. I lifted the sheet, and there was Granddad’s sallow, wrinkled face. His blue eyes, though sunken back in his skull, blazed razor sharp, black suit now stained with dirt. I screamed and staggered back, falling against the wall. He grinned a gaping, toothless grin.

“Don’t forget your pills, Missy.”