A/N: It's not a happy piece, but something I had to do, for myself (and please, excuse me for taking a pic out of order). Those who follow me on Tumblr know what an emotionally straining time I've been through lately. My 88 year old grandmother, who lived with us since I was born, has been to the hospital four times in the last seven weeks, her health fast deteriorating. She is there right now, too, and she might not come home again. She might be already dead as I'm writing this. I don't know what I'm feeling, what I should be feeling, but I can write, so that's what I do.

Goodbye

The moment Ellie walks out of the school and her father is waiting for her in front of the building, she knows something is wrong (he hasn't picked her up since middle school, not without agreeing on it first). She doesn't even have to ask; she just swallows, and steps between his arms, burying her face in his shoulder.

She hates hospitals; she absolutely loathes them. The sterile, off-color walls and the pungent smell of sickness and death, the impersonality… She wants to turn around and run, but she just can't.

Haylie and Ada are there too – one back from the Academy for the day, the other missing her afternoon classes at the university – sitting on either side of their mother in the hallway, Haylie gripping her hand, Ada resting her head on her shoulder. And their mother, who seemingly always smiles, and ever ready to crack a joke, just stares ahead with red-rimmed eyes.

For a moment Ellie is scared they are too late.

But then her mother looks up and sees her, a faint, sad smile appearing on her face. She stands, reaching out for her youngest, and Ellie's not sure who hugs the other first. Not that it matters.

She is not too late – not yet. They have been just waiting for her.

It's worse inside the room – it might be that the smells are stronger here. Or it might be the machines. Or the person lying in the bed.

It's hard for Ellie to see her Papa Cal in that frail, old man, with his sparse, white hair and thin, shaking hands, his eyes looking, but not seeing what's in front of him.

The Papa Cal she remembers is strong and cheerful. He laughs loudly and whispers conspiratorially behind her parents' back. He lifts her on the counter and lets her pet all the cute animals at the clinic.

(But she was six then, and now she is sixteen, and it hurts.)

It takes a couple of moments and her mother's gentle coaxing for Papa Cal to notice them – but when he does, his eyes light up with sudden joy, a pathetic shadow of what he used to be.

"You brought the girls," he grins, his eyes moving from her mother to her and her sisters and back. Then he rises a little, pointing at the bedside table. "There's… there's candy for you, in the bottom drawer…"

(Haylie clutches her hand; Ellie's not sure she does it to support her, or because she needs support herself.)

There always used to be candy for the three of them in the bottom drawer of the receptionist's desk at his pet clinic – always three packets, one from each of their current favorite. He always seemed to know what their favorite was. But the clinic closed when Ellie was ten, and he hasn't kept candy in the bottom drawer ever since.

Papa Cal is there now, in the past – with them, and yet beyond reach.

(Ellie sees her mother wipe away a single tear.)

They stay for a while, the four of them sitting around his bed, their father hanging back.

Papa Cal talks a lot in his frail, barely audible voice. One moment he's clear, asking Haylie about the Academy, the next he's inquiring about Captain (he was her parents' first dog, rescued from a shelter; he died when Ellie was just a baby), and calls Ada Daisy.

Her mother nods along, holding his hand as he recounts some old anecdote every one of them knows, mixing up all the details. Ellie's having a hard time keeping her tears at bay, but she can see in the set of her mother's mouth that she is close to crying as well.

When Papa Cal starts dozing off, her mother says it's time for them to go.

Ellie stand with shaking knees, waiting for her turn – being the youngest – to get to her grandpa. When it's finally just her and him, she leans over the rails of his bed and presses a kiss against his forehead (his skin is paper thin, dry and cold; nothing like she remembers), and whispers to him, "Love you, Papa. Bye."

"I love you too, sweetheart," he answers in a faint voice, groping blindly for her wrist.

Outside the room Haylie, being the great big sister she is, draws her close to her left, pulling Ada to her right, hugging both of them tightly as they walk down the corridor.

"It was the final goodbye, right?" Ellie mumbles, not meeting her sister's eyes.

Haylie takes her time to answer, kissing her cheek (once upon a time, she always used to kiss the top of her head; she can't do that anymore, as they are nearly the same height now).

"It was," she says softly at last. "But it'll be better for him there."