Hannah found the criticism intimidating.
She called her mother frequently.
She called Greta every Sunday.
At first, her grandmother answered with the same questions.
Had she eaten?
Was the room warm enough?
Did she need more socks?
Had she remembered to compare grocery prices?
Hannah laughed.
“Grandma, you’re impossible.”
“And you’re eighteen. That’s a dangerous age to be unsupervised in a supermarket.”
Hannah smiled.
They spoke about classes.
Greta asked to see photographs of her work.
Hannah sent them.
Sometimes Greta called back with questions about small details.
Other times, she simply said the drawings were beautiful.
Hannah began keeping her grandmother’s notes in a folder.
The list of household advice.
Birthday cards.
Recipes written on scraps of paper.
A note explaining how to remove a stain from wool.
She liked seeing Greta’s handwriting.
The letters were slightly slanted.
The capitals were careful.
She had never thought of handwriting as something she might miss.
Three weeks after Hannah began her course, Greta was admitted to hospital after worsening breathlessness and weakness.
Pieter telephoned his daughter that evening.
Hannah was in her room, preparing a portfolio submission.
She answered immediately.
“Dad?”
“Hello, sweetheart.”
Something in his voice made her sit up.
“What’s wrong?”
“Grandma’s in hospital.”
Hannah stared at the wall.
“What happened?”
He explained.
Her heart condition had worsened.
The doctors were treating her and monitoring her closely.
“Is she going to be okay?”
There was a pause.
“They’re doing everything they can.”
Hannah looked at the sketchbook on her desk.
“Can I come home?”
“Of course. But don’t travel tonight. It’s late, and you’ve been working all day. We’ll speak to the doctors in the morning and make a plan.”
Hannah swallowed.
“Does she know?”
“Know what?”
“That I’m coming.”
“I’ll tell her.”
After the call, Hannah sat on the edge of the bed.
The room suddenly felt unfamiliar.
She looked at the small screwdriver Greta had packed.
It lay beside her desk lamp.
She had used it twice already: once to tighten a loose cupboard handle and once to repair a chair.
She picked it up.
Then she began crying.
Not because of the screwdriver.
Because she could suddenly imagine the possibility of never hearing her grandmother complain about buying new furniture again.
Hannah travelled to Graz the next morning.
Pieter met her at the station.
He looked tired.
They drove to the hospital in silence.
Greta was in a quiet room with a window overlooking a courtyard.
She looked smaller than Hannah remembered.
Her silver hair was brushed neatly.
A pale blanket covered her legs.
Medical equipment stood beside the bed.
Hannah stopped in the doorway.
Greta opened her eyes.
“Well.”
Her voice was faint.
“Look who’s come all the way from Vienna.”
Hannah smiled through tears.
“Hi, Grandma.”
“Shouldn’t you be studying?”
“I can study later.”
Greta frowned.
“That doesn’t sound like a very good attitude.”
Hannah laughed.
She moved closer and sat beside the bed.
“How are you feeling?”
“Tired.”
“Are they looking after you?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
Greta examined her granddaughter.
“You look thin.”
Hannah rolled her eyes.
“Grandma.”
“Are you eating?”
“Yes.”
“Properly?”
“Yes.”
Greta nodded.
“Good.”
Hannah reached for her hand.
It was warm but much lighter than she expected.
For a while, they sat quietly.
Then Greta said, “Tell me about your classes.”
Hannah looked up.
“Now?”
“Why not?”
So she did.
She described a typography project, a difficult instructor, and the girl from Salzburg who had become her closest friend.
Greta listened.
Occasionally she asked questions.
Once, she closed her eyes for several seconds, then opened them again.
Hannah stopped speaking.
“Are you tired?”
“A little.”
“We can stop.”
Greta shook her head.
“Finish.”
Hannah continued.
When she reached the part about a professor criticising her latest design, Greta smiled faintly.
“Did he have a point?”
Hannah laughed.
“Probably.”
“Then listen.”
“Grandma.”
“What?”
“You’re supposed to be on my side.”
Greta smiled.
“I am.”
Hannah felt a sudden rush of affection so strong it almost hurt.
She leaned forward.
“Thank you.”
Greta looked confused.
“For what?”
“Everything.”
Her grandmother studied her.
Then she squeezed Hannah’s hand.
“You’re welcome, darling.”
Greta’s condition remained serious.
There were periods of improvement and setbacks.
The family spoke with her doctors about treatment, comfort, and what was realistically possible.
Hannah returned to Vienna briefly for essential coursework, then travelled back whenever she could.
She sent voice messages.
She mailed drawings.
She called her grandmother’s room when Greta felt well enough to talk.
During one call, Greta asked whether Hannah had found a proper winter coat.
“It’s September, Grandma.”
“Winter comes every year.”
Hannah laughed.
“I know.”
“Then prepare for it.”
“I will.”
Greta was quiet.
Then she said, “Hannah?”
“Yes?”
“Are you happy there?”
Hannah looked around her room.
The desk was cluttered with sketches.
Her roommate was laughing in the kitchen.
Outside, a tram bell rang.
“Yes,” she said.
“I think I really am.”
Greta exhaled softly.
“Good.”
Hannah smiled.
“Why?”
“Just wanted to know.”
That was their last long telephone conversation.
Greta died in October, a little more than a month after Hannah began university.
Hannah was in a design workshop when Pieter called.
She stepped into the corridor.
By the time he finished speaking, she had slid down against the wall.
A classmate found her sitting on the floor, holding her phone.
Hannah could not immediately explain what had happened.
She kept looking at the screen.
Her father’s name was still visible in the call history.
The world around her continued.
Doors opened.
Students passed.
Someone laughed at the far end of the corridor.
A vending machine hummed.
Hannah stared at her hands.
She had known Greta was ill.
She had visited.
She had spoken to her.
She had told her she loved her.
None of those things made the news easier to understand.
