Abomination by Bradley Convissar

at the Mayan ruins in a matter of minutes, never once looking down, never once faltering, reaching the summit well before he or his stepfather had.  His grandfather had aged considerably between that trip four years ago and last summer, but it had been the normal, gradual aging of a man in his eighties entering the twilight of his life.  The last couple of months, though, had not been kind to his grandfather, aging the man a decade in a quarter of a year.  He was a dentist, not a physician, but Jamie knew that something was wrong with him besides just grief.
    As if reading his mind, his grandfather said, “Pancreatic cancer, Jamie.  Eating me up from the inside out.  Diagnosed last month.  Aggressive.  Terminal.” 
    Jamie felt tears begin to form at the corner of his eyes.  He looked up at his mother and Steve, and their somber expressions told him that they already knew.   He turned back to his grandfather and opened his mouth to speak, but his grandfather lifted a single finger to his lips, silencing him.  “We’re not here to talk about me.  Or feel sorry for me.  There will be time for that later.  We’re here to remember your grandmother.  No one else knows and I’ll not have anyone finding out now.  There will be time for the living later.”
    Jamie nodded in agreement then studied his grandfather’s desiccated body, saw hints of his own face in his grandfather’s wrinkled features, and he suddenly understood why Steve was so insistent that he speak at the funeral tomorrow.  He was all that was left, the last of the Whitman legacy, the only true family that remained.  His grandfather had no brothers or sisters, no nieces or nephews, no other sons or daughters or grandchildren.  Jamie’s mother and stepfather were family but not in the truest sense of the word.  They were visitors in his grandfather’s life, introduced by chance and circumstance, but they were not bound by blood.  They could sever all relations with Hal Whitman and never look back.  But Jamie couldn’t.  He was blood, and that made all of the difference.
    His mother would speak tomorrow.  Aunt Barbara would, as well.  Other friends would also lend their voices to the memory of Anna Whitman at the small service, and his grandfather would find comfort in their tribute and prayers.  But the sentiments that would mean the most to the dying man would be those that spilled from his own lips.
    Jamie promised himself that as soon as he got back to the motel he would take up his pen and paper again and compose a tribute to his grandmother that would make his grandfather proud.
    “So what exactly happened?” Leslie asked.  She had obviously been waiting for Jamie to arrive so Hal wouldn’t have to repeat the story twice. “You said Anna had a heart attack?”
    Hal Whitman nodded slowly.  “She went up to bed at five last night.  Said she wasn’t feeling well.  You know Anna.  She had no love for drama.  If she said she wasn’t feeling well, it’s more than just a small chest cold or sinus headache.  The woman wouldn’t complain about anything or slow down for anything unless her body physically couldn’t do what her brain told it to do.”  He took a sip from a glass of ice water on the table.  His movements were slow, jerky, and Jamie was surprised he didn’t spill half the contents on his shirt.
    “She had been cleaning up.  The bridge game was supposed to be here last night.  She said she felt short of breath, thought it was just her asthma acting up.  She went to lay down for a couple of minutes to catch her breath.  I was watching the news on the couch in the den.  When I didn’t see or hear from her an hour later, I went to check on her.  I saw her lying in bed, and I knew, I just knew… I knew something was wrong.”  His voice quavered slightly and tears formed in his eyes.  He slowly collected himself as Jamie and his parents watched patiently.  “I went to her and looked at her and I