Larry hugged the backpack tighter.
“I didn’t want Mom to get rid of it.”
My eyes went straight to Tom.
“Get rid of what, sweetie?”
“I don’t know.”
Larry unzipped his backpack.
He moved aside a math book, a pencil case, and a crushed packet of crackers.
Then he pulled out an old brass hinge.
I knew what it was before he’d even finished lifting it from the bag.
My legs suddenly felt unreliable, and I grabbed the edge of the bed.
Robert had replaced that hinge twice because the pantry door always sagged.
“Larry.”
“It’s from your door, Grandma.”
“What happened to my pantry door?”
His chin began to tremble.
“Mom took it off.”
I looked at Tom.
“What?”
He stepped farther into the room.
“I thought you knew.”
“Knew what?”
“Melissa told me this was temporary rehab. She said you’d be here a couple of weeks.”
“That’s what she told me too.”
Larry interrupted.
“She said you’re not coming home.”
The room went silent.
“She said that?”
“Yes.”
Tom pulled the visitor chair closer.
“I went to your house this afternoon because Larry wasn’t home when I got there. I found him in your kitchen with a contractor.”
“A contractor?”
“They’d taken the pantry door down.”
Larry raised the hinge.
“I asked them not to.”
My fingers closed around the piece of brass.
“Why were they taking it down?”
“Mom said she’s making things safer,” Larry said. “Clearing things out. Replacing a few things.”
“What things?”
“I don’t know yet.”
Larry wiped his nose against his sleeve.
“The man said the old door was going away.”
Tom handed him a tissue.
Larry ignored it.
“Grandpa’s writing is on it.”
I turned the hinge slowly in my palm.
My eight-year-old grandson had decided that a piece of hardware needed rescuing.
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