I scan the kitchen island. Cake, knife, paper plates, forks. What else am I missing?
            Candles! Where are the candles? I rummage through the kitchen junk drawer for the candles I bought when I picked up the cake.
            “Time to sing happy birthday!” I yell over my shoulder. I should be trying harder to disguise the irritation in my voice but it gets harder the longer these people are in my house.
            They’re your family, Sara.
            My husband slaps my ass on the way to the fridge for another beer.
            “Kevin, where are the candles?”
            He pops the tab on the can and gives me a blank stare like he’s never heard of candles before.
            “Uh – you asked me to mow the lawn. You never mentioned anything about,” he stops short when he clocks my irritation.
            “Would a flashlight work?” he asks, treading carefully now, “There’s one in the garage if you, “
            “You can’t put a flashlight on a cake, dumbass,” I mutter, pushing past him.
            Why do I bother?
            My mom and my cousins were supposed to help me plan this birthday party for our Nana. Mom had grand ideas about a cassata cake and a photo collage. All the details like cooking, cleaning, and arranging to pick Nana up from the nursing home fell to me. I mean, I get it. Candace is busy running her coffee shop and Amy is so pregnant now that she can hardly move. But I’m a busy person too. I have a job and a toddler and…
            I freeze as I see said toddler standing by the dessert table eating M&Ms by the handful.
            “That’s enough candy for now, Nolan,” I say in my best Calm Mommy voice.
I pick him up and carry him out to the porch. My dad sits on a lounge chair and spits sunflower seeds into a plastic cup.
            “Dad, can you please watch Nolan for a few minutes?” I ask.
            He pulls Nolan onto his lap, “Are we having cake soon?”
            “As soon as I find the candles. Please don’t give Nolan any sunflower seeds, okay?” I turn back toward the door, not waiting for my dad’s inevitable argument.
            I walk into the living room. Nana is sitting in a reclining chair in the corner. The TV is on in front of her but she stares blankly past it.
            “Mom,” I call, “where are the candles?”
            My mom has Amy cornered on the couch. She is in deep conversation with herself. Amy gives me a pleading look, her hands cradling her massive belly. I feel for her, but I don’t have time to save her from my mom’s diatribe about big pharma.
            “Mom!” I snap.
            She holds up a finger to silence me.
            “Looking for these?” Candace appears behind me. She pulls the candles out of a paper bag.
            I take them with a grateful smile.
            “Could you please help me get everyone in the kitchen so we can sing to Nana?” I ask.
            Candace gives a sharp whistle and the room falls silent.
            “Sara wants you all in the kitchen now!” she barks.
            Moments later, we are all gathered in my tiny kitchen. There isn’t enough space or oxygen for all the bodies in this room. I can feel sweat pooling in my bra.
Let’s just get this over with.
            “I just need to light the candles – does anyone have a lighter?”
            There are mumbled excuses. Deadbeat cousins patting pockets.
            “Matches? Anything?” I hate how tight and shrill my voice has become.
            “I’ll find some myself,” I shoulder my way through the crowd.
            This party has been a pain in the ass from the start, but I desperately want to do it right. Nana deserves that. Only a few years ago, she was swimming laps every morning, going line dancing with her friends, and volunteering at the library. Now she spends her days in a locked memory care facility. I can’t bear to visit her there and I hate myself for it. Giving her a good birthday party while she still knows my name is the least I can do for her now.
            The shelves in the closet are packed tightly with the detritus of my life. I stick my head into the closet and reach as far back as I can, feeling blindly for anything that feels like matches.
            “We can’t find Nana!”
            I jump, knocking my head against a higher shelf. I yelp and massage my throbbing head. I can feel tears building behind my eyes. I turn to face Amy, who is white-faced and panicked.
            “What do you mean you can’t find Nana! You were supposed to be watching her!”
            “I tried,” Amy cries, “But your mom was going on about her anti-vax shit. And Nana was right there watching TV until she wasn’t and,“
            “Jesus Christ, do I have to do everything?” I snap, “How do you think I felt when Nolan was born? She used to slip pamphlets into my diaper bag. You’re going to be a mother, so grow a backbone!”
            Amy’s eyes fill with tears. I should apologize.
            I run up and down our street, yelling for Nana. Where would a 75-year-old with Alzheimer’s go?
            I stop in front of a brick ranch with a giant oak tree in the front yard. Its branches go nearly all the way to the ground, a perfect tree for climbing. Amy and Candace loved to climb trees when we were children. They would compete with one another, daring each other to climb higher and higher until I felt sick just watching them. I always stayed close to the ground.
            I should call the police. I should go back for my car. I should call her memory care facility. I should. I should. I should. But what’s the point? My eyes sting as sweat and mascara run into my eyes. Maybe tears too, I don’t know.
I freeze – my breathe caught in my throat. I hear a voice. Someone singing?
            “Let me call you sweetheart. I’m in love with you.”
            “Nana?” I call.
            I walk toward the oak and the singing gets louder.
            Then I look up. Nothing that has happened so far today could compare to what I see now, my 75-year-old grandmother sitting in a tree. She sees me looking up at her and gives me a cheerful wave.
            Oh God, she is really high up. Twenty feet maybe?
            “Nana,” I say cautiously, “How did you get up there?”
            “I climbed, silly,” she laughs, “You should join me!”
            I should call 911.
            I reach into the pocket of my dress for my phone and find that it’s empty. I briefly consider running back to the house for help. But she could fall. She could die. There’s only one choice: I need to climb the tree too.
            I kick off my sandals and hoist myself up on to the first branch. I scale branch after branch, never taking my eyes off Nana. Finally, I settle myself on the branch directly across from her.
            “Greta, you made it!” Nana cries, “We should ask Daddy to build us a tree house up here!”
            “Nana,” I say calmly, “It’s time to come down now. It’s your birthday and there’s a cake waiting for you at home.”
            Nana claps her hands and the motion upsets her balance. She shrieks and pitches forward. I lunge toward her and grab her arm. Nana looks at me and there is fear and lucidity in her eyes.
            “It’s okay,” I say softly, “We have to climb back down. I’ll go first. Just go slow.”
            She nods. We descend one branch at a time. I lower myself down, then take her shaking feet and hands to guide them. When we reach the ground, I am shaking too. My breath comes in hitching gasps, but it’s not enough air. I’ll never have enough air.
            Gentle hands are guiding me to a front porch step. A voice telling me to sit. To breathe. Amy must have come. She’ll know what to do. She’ll help me get Nana back home and everything will be…
            I look over and see Nana sitting next to me on the step. She reaches into her pocket and opens her palm, offering me a smile…and a book of matches.

Hillary Short is a fiction writer. She lives with her family in Cleveland, Ohio.