The Lost Hours Read Online Free PDF

unopened. I don’t blame you, for I deserve no better.
    But I have loved you like a sister, as I loved Freddie and Josie, and my loss of all of you has killed something inside of me. I only hope that one day you will find it in your heart to forgive me and we can be as sisters again. Until then, I will not rest, nor weep, nor smile, nor love; I cannot, for a heart is required to do all those things.
    Do you remember when we were not much younger and we talked about the men we would marry and the daughters we would have, and the stories we would tell them when they were old enough to hear? I pray that you will have a daughter one day, and that I shall, too.Then we can share our stories with them so that what has happened will never be forgotten and we aren’t so all alone in our sorrow.That is my wish for both of us.
     
    Good-bye, sweet friend,
Annabelle
    My eyes stung with tears I couldn’t shed for a woman I thought I had known. I caught sight of the little blue sweater I had left folded on top of the desk. I lifted it up to my face, smelling nothing but dust and old secrets, and for the first time in my life I realized that my sad, quiet grandmother might have a story to tell me after all.

CHAPTER 3

    I hated the smell of nursing homes: the mixture of antiseptic cleaners, stale cooking odors, and old dreams. I hadn’t learned to hate it until my long stay in the hospital six years before when I’d begun to associate those same smells of the hospital with all of my own lost dreams.
    The nurse on duty greeted me as I signed in and escorted me to the Alzheimer’s wing, where she had to use a code to open the door. My grandmother had a private room, as private as living in a nursing home could be, and it was at the end of the corridor at the back of the building, giving her two large windows to look out and see the gardens. This was what my grandfather told me when we had moved her in, and I never thought to mention to him that every time we visited she sat facing the wall.
    She was asleep when I entered, so I sat in a chair near her bed and watched her sleep. She slept on her side with one hand tucked under her cheek like a child, and her long white hair tied back in a braid that lay on the pillow beside her like a remnant from her past life. My grandmother had always been old to me. I’d seen pictures of her when she was younger, of course, but I could never quite reconcile those pictures of the beautiful bride or young mother with the sad old woman of my childhood.
    She stirred, a word lost on her lips as she struggled between sleep and wakefulness, awaking from dreams she couldn’t remember or share. I often wondered what she dreamed of—if she were reliving happier times before the smiling woman in the photos became the old woman, or if her dreams were as blank and empty as her mind had become.
    I waited as she opened her eyes and gradually came awake. Her gaze settled on me and I held my breath wondering if she would recognize me today. But her eyes continued on to the window behind me as if I had been nothing more than a piece of furniture.
    “Grandmother?” I said quietly, not wanting to startle her.
    Her brown eyes shot back to me and widened, but I knew that she still did not know who I was.
    “Grandmother,” I said again. “It’s me. Piper. I’ve come for a visit.” I stood and helped her sit up, then fluffed her pillows.
    “Yes, Piper,” she said, repeating my words without comprehension. “Where’s Jackson? He said he would come.” She looked at me suspiciously. “Have you seen him?”
    “No, Grandmother. Granddaddy is dead, remember? We buried him on Saturday, at Bonaventure Cemetery, where Mama and Daddy are. You wore your black dress with your mama’s cameo at the neck.”
    Her eyes blinked slowly as she continued to stare at me silently. Eventually her gaze traveled back to the window behind me. “Jackson brings me flowers. He knows that moonflowers are my favorite.” She suddenly