Just Colleen

“Sometimes people knock on the door with cakes and secrets at the same time.”

It was around four o'clock — when the sun starts crawling sideways across the fence, turning everything golden and long-shadowed — that there was a knock at the front door.

Mack and I both looked up at the same moment. The doctor. It must be the doctor Grandma had been waiting for all day. The one who was supposed to help Grandpa. Mack's hand moved instinctively to his backpack beside the couch.

A soft knock. Three short taps. Not demanding, but purposeful, like whoever was there had thought carefully about how loud to be.

Grandma froze at the sink. The tea towel she'd been twisting between her fingers hung limply, a damp flag of surrender. Water continued to run, forgotten, from the tap.

She looked at the door like it had spoken to her in a language she didn't trust. Her eyes narrowed slightly, and a muscle in her jaw tightened.

Then she smoothed her apron with trembling hands, straightened her back like she was preparing for a photograph, and walked down the hall. Her slippers made soft shuffling sounds against the carpet, and she paused once to check her reflection in the small oval mirror near the hall table.

Mack and I followed, quiet as shadows. We pressed ourselves against the wall where the hallway met the lounge room, half-hidden but with a clear view of the front door. My heart was thumping fast, though I wasn't sure why. Doctors were supposed to make things better, not scarier.

When she opened the door, it wasn't a stranger in a white coat with a stethoscope around his neck. It wasn't Dr. Matthews with his medicine bag and bushy eyebrows that always made me think of caterpillars having a meeting.

It was Colleen — Grandma's friend who sometimes brought over scones or wore big sunglasses even when it wasn't sunny. The ones with purple frames that made her look like a glamorous bug. She used to teach music at the primary school before she “retired from all that nonsense,” as she'd once told me while demonstrating how to play “Chopsticks” on Grandma's old piano.

“Hello, Dawn,” Colleen said, her voice low and careful, like she was approaching a nervous animal. “I was just... in the area.” She clutched her handbag a little too tightly, her knuckles whitening around the faux leather strap.

“You live three streets away,” Grandma replied, not unkindly, but not like usual. Not with the warm, welcoming tone she normally used for visitors. It was cooler, more closed, like a door not quite slammed but definitely not wide open.

“I thought I'd check in. See how Greg's doing.” Colleen's eyes darted past Grandma's shoulder, scanning what little she could see of the hallway. Her lipstick was slightly smudged at one corner, a small imperfection that somehow made her seem more worried.

Grandma's eyes narrowed, just for a second. A split-second reaction, there and gone so quickly you'd miss it if you weren't looking. “He's resting.”

Colleen leaned slightly to the side as if trying to peek into the lounge. The movement wasn't subtle; it reminded me of how Mack tried to look around corners when we played hide-and-seek.

“He's not been himself lately. Hasn't popped down to the chemist. Thought I'd pop by and bring this.” She held up a brown paper bag — from the bakery, probably. It had the familiar grease stains at the bottom that always appeared when something good was inside. The smell of cinnamon wafted faintly from it, sweet and comforting.

“Thank you,” Grandma said, not taking it right away. Her hand remained on the door frame, as if she needed it for support.

There was a pause. One of those long ones that grown-ups think children don't notice. The kind filled with unsaid things that hover in the air like invisible smoke.

“I heard,” Colleen said slowly, “that some people have been asking around about the older folks. Health checks or something. You know how this town is — everyone suddenly a doctor.” Her voice dropped even lower on the last sentence, barely audible from where we stood.

Grandma's face didn't move. It was like looking at a photograph of Grandma rather than Grandma herself. “We're fine, thank you.”

Colleen nodded. “Of course. Just thought I'd say. Some people have been visited. Men with badges. Not police, exactly.” Her fingers tapped nervously against her handbag, a quick staccato rhythm like raindrops on a tin roof.

“Noted.”

Another pause.

The air felt thick, like before a thunderstorm. A magpie warbled somewhere nearby, the cheerful sound at odds with the tension in the hallway.

Then Grandma reached out and took the bag. “Appreciate it.” Her voice softened slightly, a small concession to their friendship.

Colleen looked over her shoulder, past Grandma, and spotted us lurking in the shadows. Her smile appeared suddenly, like a mask being put on. “Hello, Rose. Hello, Mack.”

We both mumbled “Hi” from behind the wall. I pressed myself closer to Mack, suddenly shy under her too-bright gaze.

Colleen gave a tight smile, the kind that doesn't reach your eyes. “Well. Let me know if you need anything.”

Then she was gone, her sensible shoes making brisk clicks on the path as she hurried away. I noticed she glanced back once, her expression unreadable from a distance.

Grandma closed the door softly.

She locked it.

Top and bottom.

The sound of the locks turning was unnaturally loud in the quiet hallway. Click. Click. Final and certain.

Then she turned and saw us, standing there like guilty eavesdroppers, which I suppose we were. Her eyes were tired, the skin beneath them puffy and darkened, as if she hadn't slept properly in days.

She opened her mouth, then closed it again. Whatever she'd been about to say was swallowed back, replaced with something safer.

“Time to get ready for tea,” she said instead. She held up the paper bag. “Colleen brought some cinnamon scrolls.” The words were meant to sound cheerful but fell flat, like a balloon that had lost most of its air.

“What about the doctor?” I asked, looking past her toward the door as if he might materialise behind it.

Mack's eyes were fixed on Grandma's face, watching carefully for her reaction.

Grandma's smile faltered, just slightly. Her fingers tightened around the paper bag, crinkling it. “No, petal. That was just Colleen, as you saw.”

“But the doctor was supposed to come at four,” Mack said, his voice quiet but firm. “You said he'd be here by four.”

Grandma glanced away briefly. Something shifted in her expression—not just worry, but a new kind of resolve forming behind her eyes. Her gaze darted toward the front door, then back to us. She seemed to be making a decision, weighing something important in her mind.

“I’ll... I’ll have to cancel the appointment,” she said finally, her voice carefully measured. “Dr. Matthews won't be coming today. Or tomorrow.” She straightened slightly as she said it, as if bracing herself.

“But what about Grandpa?” I asked, the question slipping out before I could stop it. “He needs the doctor.”

Grandma's face softened then, a flash of genuine emotion breaking through the careful mask. “I know, love. I know.” She reached out and brushed a strand of hair from my forehead, her fingers cool against my skin. “We'll take care of him ourselves for now. It's better that way.”

She turned and headed toward the kitchen, the paper bag clutched to her chest like something precious, her steps more purposeful than before. “Come on now. These scrolls won't eat themselves.”

Mack and I exchanged glances as we followed her. His expression was serious, his eyebrows drawn together in that way that made him look much older than ten. His eyes darted briefly toward the locked front door, then back to me, a silent question passing between us.

“Something's wrong,” he whispered, so quietly I barely heard him.

I nodded, though I wasn't entirely sure what “wrong” meant in this situation. Just that everything felt off-balance and strange, like trying to walk on a floor that kept tilting unexpectedly.

In the lounge, Grandpa hadn't moved. My get-well card had slipped from the armrest and now lay face-down on the carpet, its bright yellow colour a jarring note in the quiet, shadow-filled room.