Megan Hart - The Favour

“You’ll have plenty of time to get yourself situated.” Nan paused in the hallway, one hand on the basement door frame for support as she turned. “And honey, I’m so glad you’re here. So glad. You’ve been gone such a long time.”

I promise to visit soon, Nan. I promise.

But she never had. The years of phone calls, cards, letters, all the same. Reminding her she had a place here in Nan’s house, that she was always welcome. No matter how far she’d run—dancing as a chorus girl in Las Vegas or selling newlyweds their first town houses in California—Janelle had never been able to leave this place and that year behind. And yet she’d allowed herself to be kept away by what had happened.

“I’m glad, too, Nan.”

It was almost even true.

SIX

FIRST THINGS FIRST. That was the way to go about any set of tasks. One at a time, prioritize, get the work finished.

Or sit in the middle of the complete chaos that was your bedroom, with open packing boxes all over the place, and look at your old yearbook while you listened to records on a player that hadn’t seen the light of day since...well, since she’d left Nan’s house, probably.

Janelle had found the player and the milk crate of records tucked into one of the dormers. They’d belonged to her dad, though she’d made them her own during her year here. Lots of classic rock, punk like the Sex Pistols, some New Wave stuff including Siouxsie and the Banshees. He’d also had an entire shoe box of random 45s he’d bought from some discount store. None of the songs had ever hit the radio, at least not that Janelle had heard, but she’d listened to a few of them over and over back in the day.

“Don’t Get Fooled By The Pander Man,” by Brinkley & Parker. The black record with its orange label spun on the turntable as she flipped the pages of the yearbook she’d found in a box of books she thought she’d left in storage.

Oh, God. Her hair. Her natural color had darkened to a deep auburn over the years from the strawberry-red she’d hated as a kid, and she wore it just past her shoulders with a few layers around her face. Most of the time she pulled it back in a ponytail, low maintenance, wash-and-go. That’s who she’d become. Someone’s mom.

In this picture, she’d not only dyed it black but also cut it asymmetrically so that one side was shoulder length and the other cropped at chin level. She vividly remembered the mornings she’d spent with a curling iron, the barrel the girth of her pinky, and an industrial-size bottle of hair gel. All those hours she’d spent on her hair, her makeup, her clothes...

It seemed so ridiculous now.

The song ended and Janelle got up to take the needle off the record. She winced at the creak in her joints. If looking at the old photos hadn’t made her feel ancient, that crackity-crack of her neck sure did. She’d been at this since Bennett left for school, with only a few short breaks to check on Nan. He’d been home for about an hour, and from his room came the sound of much more modern music, some rap song she’d let him buy, but only the clean version. Ninety percent of the song was bleeps.

“Hey. I’m going to get a snack. You want something?”

Bennett looked up from his bed, where he was leafing through a stack of comics. The rest of his room looked as if a tornado had blasted through it. She opened her mouth to scold, but stopped herself. Pot, she thought, have you met kettle?

“Okay.”

“I’m going to check on Nan first. Why don’t you wash your hands. With soap,” Janelle added as Bennett hopped off the bed. He rolled his eyes, but didn’t argue.

Downstairs, Nan dozed on the couch in front of the TV. It was showing a religious program—at least there was a nun painting in watercolors, but she wasn’t talking about Jesus, so it was hard to tell. Janelle didn’t wake her grandmother. They’d have dinner in a couple hours, and by then Nan would probably be up.

“How about cookies and milk, buddy? I’ll make dinner in a little bit.” Janelle found the ceramic cookie jar tucked back in a corner by the paper towel holder. Nan always kept cookies there, a constant like the tides. Or political scandals.

The jar’s handle was a squirrel missing its tail. The paint had worn off its fur. Nostalgia swept Janelle again as she lifted the lid. How many times had she helped herself to cookies from this jar? Too many to count.

Inside were the homemade chocolate chip cookies she was hoping for. “Mmm. These are gonna be so good. Grab some glasses, bud. Get us some milk.”

“Should I take it to the table?” Bennett held up the two glasses he’d filled.

She thought of Nan, still napping. “No, let’s just eat them in here.”

Bennett looked around the small kitchen. “Standing up? What?”

Janelle laughed. “Um, yeah. Are your legs too weak to hold you, or what?”

“You always tell me not to hover around dropping crumbs,” he protested. “You always tell me to sit down at the table like a human being, not a cow at a feed trough.”

This was true, but Bennett’s prickly reaction was unusual. Janelle offered him a cookie. She wasn’t sure she could deal with a breakdown at the moment. Everything felt too close to the surface—the move, this house, the past rising up to bite her like a snake. Nan on the couch, so still and silent Janelle thought she ought to have checked to make sure she was breathing. If Bennett, who hardly ever gave in to an emotional display, started up, Janelle wouldn’t be able to help him through it. She’d dissolve right along with him, and probably worse.

“Cookie,” she said firmly, and handed him one. “Milk. It’s good, Bennett, just try it.”

The look of horror he gave her after he bit into the cookie he’d dunked in the milk seemed like a joke—until he bent, choking and spitting, over the sink. “Mom!”

“Oh, Bennett, c’mon. What?” The cookie she snagged was a little burned, but rock-hard. The milk would fix it.

Unless, of course, the milk was sour. Janelle spit her own mouthful into the sink, then ran the water to rinse her mouth. She looked at her laughing son. “You think that’s funny, huh?”

Bennett shook his head, but grinned. “Gross.”

Janelle checked the date on the milk. Sighed. It was expired by two weeks. “Was this open when you took it out?”

“Yes. But I didn’t do that to it!”

She laughed, loving him so much it hurt. “I know you didn’t.”

The carton was almost full, even taking into account the two glasses Bennett had filled. Which meant the milk had been opened but barely touched. Joey had told her that up until her fall, Nan had still been able to get around on her own. In the three months it took for Janelle to tie up her business in California and get out here, she’d assumed someone had been checking on Nan at least weekly—though seeing her now, it should’ve been daily. Janelle opened a pantry cupboard, studying the contents. Canned soups, dry cereal, plastic bins of pasta. The fridge was also crammed with plastic containers, but the first few she pulled out were expired, too. Clearly, she needed to take a good inventory.

“What are you doing?” Nan sounded hoarse, but her eyes were bright. “Oh, are you hungry? I can make some sandwiches....”

“Nan. No. That’s okay, I’ll make dinner in a little while.” If there was anything to make dinner with. “When’s the last time anyone brought you some groceries?”

“Oh.” Nan shuffled forward, paused with a fingertip to her lips, thinking. “That would be Deb and Joey. They came for New Year’s dinner. Donna and Bobby, too, along with the kids. And Joey a few days before that to bring me the turkey and my pills from the pharmacy.”

Janelle made a mental count. “So...a week or so? Did they bring you stuff for New Year’s, and other groceries, too?”