My grandmother still lives in the house she grew up in as a child in the early 1900s. I was fresh out of college when they found the mass. I moved in to take care of her and the house when she started chemotherapy a few months ago. I’ve taken over the cleaning and cooking for the most part, but she still insists on cleaning her own room and putting away her laundry. It always seems perfectly reasonable to let her do that. We have a lightweight vacuum that isn’t too much trouble for her to wield, and she does let me help with putting the sheets on the bed. I try to encourage her to do her hobbies, like putting together puzzles and reading, so that she can focus on recovering. Some days are better than others.

I’ll freely admit that housework has never been my strong suit. Luckily she is quick to remind me to wipe down baseboards and to dust the tops of the curio cabinets. I’m sure there’s a part of her that is enjoying bossing me around, but I hardly mind. It’s been rough on her to lose so much strength and freedom. Sometimes she won’t come out of her room until almost lunch time, but the doctors say that she should start gaining back strength after the treatments are finished. They have high hopes for her recovery. 

This morning she was particularly late getting up so I knocked on her door to see if she was awake. When there was no answer I began to worry and cracked the door open, calling out to see if perhaps she hadn’t heard me. There was no reply and I didn’t see her anywhere in the room. Panic began to set in as I stood in the empty room. Where could a frail old woman have disappeared to without leaving her room? 

Her laundry basket caught my eye, turned over next to the door of her walk-in closet. The door wasn’t completely closed and I flung it open envisioning seeing her collapsed on the floor. No grandmother. I called out for her again and noticed my voice sounded like it echoed. 

Pushing aside pant suits and dresses, I found the back of the closet was an open doorway with a set of stairs leading down. There was a soft glow of light at the bottom coming from a room behind the drywall that enclosed the staircase. I began the descent while my heart climbed up into my throat. 

My shoe kicked a rock from the chipped cement floor as I stepped off the last stair. I heard the scrape of a wooden chair as I took a deep breath and rounded the corner. There was my grandmother sitting comfortably in an armchair looking surprised, but certainly no worse for wear. Standing next to her, having just stood up, was a man I had only seen in photographs because he had disappeared before I was born. It was my grandfather.