The Spawning Grounds by Gail Anderson-Dargatz Page B

screwing a shelf back in place above the bed. The man stopped his work and pulled an earplug from his ear. “I’ll be done in a minute,” he said.
    Hannah turned back to the hall. “Where is he?” she asked Annette.
    “Stew was restless,” she replied. “He yanked the shelf down in the night. We thought it best to give him a change of scene. He’s sitting in the visiting area down the hall.”
    Hannah found her grandfather parked there with several other elderly patients, his head down, his body curled over his tray. She squatted down beside him and took his hand. “Hey, Grandpa. I hear you went for a walk.”
    Stew searched her face without recognition.
    Annette caught up with her. “We have him on morphine for the pain in his hip and knee,” she said, maybe to explain his lack of response.
    “He shouldn’t be left out here,” Hannah said. “He hates people looking at him.” She turned again. “Grandpa, it’s Hannah.”
    When she touched his arm, Stew startled as if he had just woken. “Where am I?” he asked.
    “You’re in the hospital,” said Hannah.
    “My hat?”
    “It’s at home,” said Hannah. “Along with your wallet and keys. They’re safe.”
    “Bran? Where’s Brandon?” The worry on his face.
    “Bran is okay,” Hannah told her grandfather. “Everything is all right.”
    “No! He’s lost! Look. Look!”
    Hannah turned to the window, to where her grandfather was pointing.
    “He’s there. His ghost is by the lake. Don’t you see him?”
    “His ghost?” Hannah glanced at the nurse. “Grandpa, Bran is alive.”
    “He may be remembering a dream,” said Annette, “or hallucinating from the morphine. Try not to take what he says seriously. They often confuse fantasy with reality.”
    They
, thought Hannah. “Can we just have a moment to ourselves?” she said to the nurse. “I need to talk to Grandpa.” She looked around at the other patients in the visiting area. “Privately.”
    Annette nodded. “Yes, of course.”
    “I’ve got to get home,” Stew said.
    “You can’t go home. They won’t let you.”
Dad won’t let
you.
    “I’ve got to go!” Stew pushed at the wheelchair, trying to get it to move. He slapped the tray, then tried to rip it off.
    Annette said, “I’ll get him another dose of morphine. Take him back to his room and give him a really big bear hug so he feels safe.”
    “To control him, you mean.”
    “Yes.”
    Hannah wheeled Stew back to his room, parked the chair beside the window and hugged her grandfather as Annette had asked, as Stew strained to remove the tray that confined him. “I’ve got to help Bran,” he cried. “I’ve got to get home!” He slapped the tray with each repetition: “Home! Home! Home!”
    “Bran is okay,” she said, though of course he wasn’t. She knew it, and her father had already booked Bran’s appointment with his doctor. Stew fought her until she was nearly in tears. “Bran is okay,” she insisted again. “But I need to ask you something.” She hesitated before continuing. “Alex told me about Eugene Robertson’s wife. His Shuswap wife. He said her name was Libby.”
    “Libby, yes.” Stew stopped struggling.
    “Alex said the boy in the grave the construction crew dug up on the benchland was Eugene and Libby’s child. Is that possible, Grandpa? Dennis had told Alex a story about how their boy was buried with a nugget of gold in his hand, just like that boy in the grave.”
    Stew didn’t seem surprised. “The boy’s name was Samuel.”
    “Your great-grandfather’s name.”
    “Eugene named him after his first son.” To remember him by, perhaps, or, more likely, to make amends.
    “I had no idea Eugene and his Shuswap wife had a child together,” said Hannah. “You never told me.”
    “I told you. You weren’t listening.”
    “I don’t remember. I must have been very young at the time.”
    Stew grunted. He wasn’t sure now what he had chosen to tell Hannah and Brandon—or Jesse—and