“Ma’am,” she said, almost hesitating. She checked a piece of paper in her hand. “Are you the woman who helped an elderly man on Thursday?”
It took me a moment to catch up—my mind immediately went to all my patients from Thursday. Had I missed a dosage? Had someone filed a complaint?
“At the grocery store,” she added for clarity, seeing my confusion.
“Oh,” I said slowly, the memory of Dalton washing over me. “Yes, I did. Is he okay? Did he get home alright?”
She nodded once, but it was tight and measured. She took a deep breath, composing herself.
“My name’s Martha. The old man, Dalton, is my grandfather. He asked me to find you. We need to talk—it’s important. It’s about his final request.”
I stared at her, completely thrown off balance by the formality of it all. Final request? The words hung in the humid morning air.
“Wait… how did you find me?” I asked, instinctively putting my hand on the door frame, a barrier between my home and this strange reality intruding on my Saturday. “I didn’t give him my name.”
She let out a breath that made her shoulders drop just slightly. The professional facade slipped, revealing a tired, grieving granddaughter.
“After he told me what happened, I went back to the store yesterday. I asked the store manager if we could look at the camera footage. Once I explained the situation, he didn’t hesitate. Rick said your name was Ariel and mentioned that you helped his wife after surgery a while back. He said he knew it was you right away because—and I quote—‘that’s just the kind of thing Ariel does.’”
My hand tightened around the edge of the door. Rick. I’d have to thank him later, or maybe scold him for giving out my info to strangers in suits.
“He mentioned,” she added gently, seeing my wariness, “that when you and your daughters were sick a few months ago, he sent groceries over. So he still had your address on file in the delivery system.”
I blinked slowly, my heart hammering. Martha’s expression had softened, but there was something urgent beneath it—not pressure, exactly, but a desperate need.
“I know this is a lot,” she said. “I know this is strange. But he’s not well, Ariel. He’s dying. And he was very clear. He wants to see you. He hasn’t asked for anything else in days.”
“Now?” I asked, glancing past her toward the street where a sleek black sedan was idling. “You mean, right now?”
“If you’re willing, Ariel. But it’s what he’d like… and frankly, I don’t think he has much time left.”
I hesitated. It wasn’t because I didn’t want to go; it was because the weight of the moment felt larger than I could hold. I was just a woman who bought peanut butter for a stranger. I wasn’t a hero. I wasn’t family.
Then I looked down at myself—slippers, an old sweatshirt with a bleach stain, yesterday’s fatigue still clinging to my skin.
“Just give me one second,” I said, stepping back inside.
Ara was sitting at the kitchen table, finishing a bowl of cereal, scrolling on her phone. Celia was curled on the couch, flipping through channels without watching anything, looking bored and restless.
“I need to step out for a bit,” I told them, grabbing my coat and swapping my slippers for shoes. “There’s… something I need to do. Someone needs help.”
“Is everything okay?” Ara asked, looking up with a frown. “Is it Mrs. Gable again?”
“No, it’s… a friend. I think it will be okay,” I said, kissing the top of her head. “Lock the door behind me. Do your homework. I won’t be long.”
