Grandma Ruth’s U.P. Truck Stop
Short fiction
Rachel’s last semester at the University of Michigan would have been easy if not for the news that reached her six weeks before her final exams.
It wasn’t a phone call — the phone lines were still down from the most recent blizzard to hit Paradise, she guessed. Instead, a rumpled-looking envelope appeared in her mailbox, the ink of her address slightly smeared. She didn’t recognize the return address at first, but anybody mailing her a letter from Paradise must be someone she knew. Paradise was a small town.
Overwhelming curiosity forced her to open the envelope before she could even reach her front porch; in her haste, the sharp edge of the paper sliced into her fingertip, staining the letter with droplets of blood.
“Shit,” she said, sticking her finger in her mouth and sucking. She managed to pull the letter from the envelope with her uninjured hand and flipped it open with a flick of her wrist.
Dear Rachel,
I’m sorry to have to be the one to tell you this, but your Uncle Stuart has passed. I know it’s been awhile since you’ve been home, and this will probably be painful for you. Stu’s service will be on Friday at 10am at Our Lady of Victory. I really hope we’ll see you there.
