Grandmother’s blue lips struggled. “Go to the White Mountains.” Her voice rasped through her ventilator mask as if sinking into sifting quicksand. The cold blue-veined hands gripped mine. “Your fate is in the White Mountains. Go now!”

The sterile white of the hospital room intensified the dark circles under her blue-grey eyes which lacked their usual sharpness. This was not a request, it was an order.

Her frail hand raised toward the corner of the ceiling, her other hand pointed one trembling finger at me, and she mumbled, “They need you.” Although a hardy woman her whole life, she’d experienced a massive heart attack during church services one week ago. Three strokes followed, and now Grandma Bridget lay close to death. 

I had never met anyone from the White Mountains of New Hampshire. She’d never ever mentioned knowing anyone—family or friend—who lived there. “Grandma, you live on a farm in Iowa.” My voice broke with sadness. “What’s in New Hampshire?” Holding onto my grandmother’s thin hand, just as I had my entire childhood, I glanced at the nurses. “She must be confused.” I didn’t know what to think. Could this sudden notion be a hazy childhood memory or a delirious dream?

“No. Listen.” Grandma squeezed my hand even tighter. “Promise me!” She fought her tubes and wires and tried to raise her head. “My mother’s family needs help.” With one last piercing look into my eyes, she waited for my nod, then released my hand. My one rock breathed no more.

*

My favorite person in all the world had died and left me alone. When her sparkling eyes closed for the last time, my entire world stopped. She would no longer laugh at my daily experiences or encourage me to work hard on a problem. 

However, my grandmother’s last, gasping words constantly echoed in my mind. Her voice vexed my work during the daytime and thwarted my dreams at night. 

Eight difficult years later, after working three part-time jobs and spending my evenings in college libraries, I graduated with a legal degree and worked as an attorney advocating for the protection of defenseless adolescents. I enjoyed my position, but last year’s long hours of investigations and exhausting battles with obstinate judges, exasperating attorneys, and defective parents had threatened my sanity. 

There had been no time for romance, let alone a sexual relationship. Sure, I enjoyed an occasional hook-up at a party or from a bar. The sensual play and then sexual release helped me through draining days of interviews and trials. But the casual trysts lacked romance. Honestly, the lack of a permanent relationship resulted from my lack of commitment. I couldn't let myself be vulnerable. As a result, a grey cloud of loneliness hung over my life.

“Ginsburg, I need a relaxing vacation with lots of quiet time for reading flaming romance novels and hiking.” The rumbling purr of my black-and-gray cat relaxed my mind as I slid deeper into my used leather couch and massaged my temples. I had to act on Grandma’s request—or should I say, coercion. The hauntings had intensified over the past year. Grandma’s incessant words wormed around in my head and whispered in my ear. 

I was a single child—Grandma and my parents completed my family in Iowa. Repeatedly, I probed my childhood memory bank but never remembered Grandma sharing stories of her past. In fact, she closely guarded or avoided details regarding her relatives. She evaded questions as if hiding a big secret or perhaps a past disgrace. I couldn’t ask my parents. They’d died in a car accident five years before Grandma.

Thanks a lot, Grandma Bridget O’Brien Jackson. Thanks, a whole lot. I had pushed her insistence to the back in my mind until lately. I conceded that my grandma wouldn’t relent until I heeded her request. 

“For goodness’ sake, Grandma, okay!” Ginsburg jumped off my lap with a yowl, frightened by my frustrated tone. “I don’t know any distant cousins or where I should I go. But okay, I’ll go. I’ll go!”

*

Scrutinizing brochure after brochure, I decided on the small town of Wolfeboro, New Hampshire, described as The Oldest Summer Resort in America. On the airplane, I reread my brochure, Wolfeboro Inn, first built in 1812. The pamphlet bragged about breathtaking views of Lake Winnipesaukee on one side of a connecting piece of land and Lake Wentworth on the other. I didn’t want a reservation during autumn when camera-ladened tourists flocked to New England. Wisely, I reserved a room for early June.

When the plane neared Manchester, New Hampshire, I studied out the window onto the variegated green forest. Small villages nestled, hidden and isolated, among the trees and granite outcroppings. What am I looking for? My mind raced, excited yet apprehensive.

Lurking in the hidden regions of my mind, the idea of a rendezvous with fate or romance seemed a possibility. A hunk of a lumberjack could appear and sweep me off my feet or at least share his muscles for a few days. I hopped on a shuttle headed for the historic Wolfeboro Inn and Tavern. On the way, an unsettling anxiety slid over my skin.

Stop it, Meredith! You might meet your country cousins, learn local history, and hope Grandma Bridget sends hints about what you are looking for. In the meantime, read a juicy book and entertain your fantasies.

*

The next morning, I plaited my hair, slathered on sunscreen, and donned a big-brimmed hat. Grabbing a water bottle, I headed out for the Cotton Valley Rail Trail. Brochures reported the historic railroad once linked Brookfield, Wakefield, and Wolfeboro to larger cities like Boston. I hoped to work kinks out of my back and get some sun along the way.

The railroad trail, now used for hiking and biking, meandered around Wentworth Lake, over wooden train trestles and beside wetlands. Ready for a new adventure, I strolled along and contemplated a plan for finding Grandma’s relatives.