“Feeling any better?” Grandma asks. She’s holding two full mugs of tea.
“Not really,” I lie. I’m good at playing sick. I once got out of an entire month of school using the hot-water-on-a-washcloth bit. Though I had no other fever symptoms, Oksana was happy to have me home with her where we’d play games of checkers, and then she’d put on the afternoon soaps while she dusted and I mindlessly texted Bentley.
Grandma hands me the brown mug with gingerbread men dancing around the perimeter. The sweet gesture pokes a hole in my resolve. I sip slowly, getting notes of pumpkin and cardamom. She sits down in the old rocking chair with anooffollowed by anahh. Comfort comes in the unassuming things for her.
“You know, we really are happy to have you here.”
“Happy to be here.” Thoughhappyis another one of those relative terms likebad.
She sighs. “You know I’ve been around the block with your mother, so I know fake sick when I see it.”
My stomach squeezes. I know she hasn’t done anything wrong, this isn’t her fault, and I shouldn’t be deceiving her like this, but telling her the truth will only upset her more. Aren’t I saving her the heartache? I should be sainted for this chivalrous display.
“No, really, I’m…”
She holds up a sun-spotted hand. “It’s okay. I get it. You want your space. I’m sorry we can’t give you more privacy, but Hector is a good person. He comes across a little stern at first. Just like someone else I know…” She’s clearly talking about me. It’s been a good bit since someone has called me a good person. A spoiled person? Constantly. A privileged person? Always. But a good person? Maybe the one time I volunteered for the Trevor Project right after I came out? Since then, my goodness has been buried under a barrage of bad press.
I guess that’s one thing my parents did semi-right for me: tried to save me from the onslaught of internet trolls over the island, even if it mostly is for their benefit.
Grandma continues. “I know your parents can be a bit…” She looks around, trying to catch the right word.
“Much?” I ask.
“Sure.” She laughs. “A bit much. But I think underneath it all they usually mean well, and I think they try to do right by you when they can, so if they believe you need to be here, then I trust that you need to be here. Does that make sense?”
Nothing makes sense. I’m almost twenty-two years old. I don’t need two babysitters. A metaphorical flick on the ear is what I usually get for stepping out of line. There’s more to this story, and I think Grandma knows something. “Did they say anything?”
“It’s not for me to divulge.”
I set my tea down and press the heels of my hands into my eyes. “Dad has been talking about buying resort property for years. It’s not like I bought a yacht I’d never sail or an exotic pet tiger I wouldn’t take care of. I had a whole plan…”
I shake my head, but even that feels like it’s too much work.
Misery loves company, yet it’s clear by Grandma’s pursed, chapped lips that she’s not going to play accomplice to my flights of woe-is-me.
“Sometimes space to reflect and reset with family is exactly what you need.” Her hands are shaky, but her voice is a steady calm. “I’ve been telling your mother that for years, but those books and that business are her family now.”
I would say I agree, but what would be the use? I’ve come to terms with my place in the family hierarchy. Flesh and blood does not outweigh cold, hard capital or heavy, tangible books.
I hold space for Grandma to say more on the topic, but she doesn’t.
“I think you’ll find Wind River to your liking and the gala to be a worthy project while you’re here.”
“Maybe,” I huff.
“Maybe? All right. ‘Maybe’ is fine for now.”
I tell her I’d like to sleep, and she says she should do the same. She comes over to hug me, but stumbles on a stray LV luggage tag poking out from beneath the bed. I clock her gaze as it lands upon the repacked suitcases, but if she thinks it odd, she doesn’t say anything, much to my relief. After a quick kiss atop my head, she disappears up the stairs.
I burrow myself down into the blankets, hoping to strike that conversation from the record. I don’t want to build up any more guilt. I start planning a fake event in my head—a Getaway Go-Go Party.
Each detail comes with difficulty and varying levels of clarity. Teased hair.Inhale. Count to ten.Caged dancers.Exhale. Inhale. Count to ten.A Belinda Carlisle performance.Exhale. Inhale.
Count to ten… Count to… Count…
My mind is racing too much to keep track of the numbers. I start at four and end up going to twelve, and then starting over without much more success. The thought of hearing “Heaven Is a Place on Earth” live doesn’t even calm me down. That’s how bad this must be.
To try to clear my head, I flip through the book I pulled from Hector’s collection. I realize it’s a copy ofA Christmas Carol, but not just any copy. It’s the copy I borrowed from Gramps at ten years old. Gramps allowed me the privilege of leaving pencil notes in the margins of his books when he lent them to me so he could track my thoughts. I doodled ghosts and lit candles, questions about differences from the movie versions, and exclamation marks where I was scared or surprised by the action.
