The sheriff leads us inside, closing the door behind us all, the solid click of the latch.
And now, in this metal box with its flickering fluorescent light and scuffed walls, we wait for my grandmother to explain what the hell is going on.
I pull out a chair for her, the metal legs scraping against the floor. “Sit,” I say, not a request. “And start talking.”
Meema sinks into the chair, her eyes finding Sydney’s engagement ring—her ring—still on Sydney’s finger. Something passes across her face, a flicker of emotion I can’t quite read.
The Sheriff sighs, like he can’t believe he has to tell us this. “Caught her in the basement of the Sparkling Spuds Laundromat. Playing the slots.”
“You weregambling?At a laundromat?” My head’s spinning. That can’t be right.
“No, genius, it’s a casino in the basement. Try to keep up.” Maisie’s chin goes up, defiant. “And it’s a damn good one, too. Pam runs a tight ship.”
The sheriff levels a flat look at Meema, then at us, like we’re all in on the same joke and he’s just the guy forced to explain the punchline. “It’s also damn illegal,” he says, slow and pointed.
Maisie sniffs, folding her arms across her chest. “Prohibition didn’t work for booze, and it sure as hell doesn’t work for penny slots. It’s a victimless crime, and the sheriff knows it.”
“Not the point, Maisie,” Ford growls, though there’s a smirk lurking at the edge of his mouth. “You’re lucky you’re not being charged. Yet.”
Sydney looks from me to my grandmother and back, eyes cartoon-wide, like she’s landed in a parallel universe. “I thought you hated real gambling, Maisie. You won’t even buy a lottery ticket.”
“That’s different.” Meema’s voice wobbles. “Scratch-offs are a tax on the mathematically impaired. Slots, though—slots are about psychology. Edge, timing.”
When we both stare at her, wide-eyed, she says, “And if you’re both going to stand there gawking, at least bring me tea. This place is a desert.”
“Why weren’t you at your chemo treatment?” I finally get back on track.
She presses her lips together, refusing to answer. Ford’s keys jingle as he shifts his weight, the universal sound of a man running out of patience.
“Sheriff?” Sydney steps forward.
Ford eyes us both, his weathered face giving away nothing. “That’s for Maisie to tell you.”
I turn back to my grandmother, who suddenly looks smaller than I’ve ever seen her, her shoulders slumped in defeat. “Meema.”
For a long moment, she still says nothing, her eyes darting between Sydney and me. Then she sighs, a deep, soul-weary sound that makes my stomach clench. “It’s a long story,” she says finally, “and not one I’m proud of.”
Her voice is steadier than I expected when she says, “So, as it turns out, I’m not actually dying. Well, yet. Hopefully not anytime soon.”
The words hang in the air, absurd. I stare at her, certain I’ve misheard. “What?”
“I’m in remission.” Meema meets my hard gaze.
The room tilts, and I grip the edge of the table to steady myself. Next to me, Sydney makes a small, shocked sound.
“But the doctor’s visits,” I manage, my voice barely above a whisper. “The treatments. The medications.”
“Meds are real, still have to take them. I still have check-up visits, just no treatments,” Meema admits, her hands folded tightly in her lap.
“You fakedhaving cancer?” The words taste like ash in my mouth. “Who does that? What kind of person—”
“A desperate one,” Meema cuts in, her chin lifting. “A grandmother watching her only grandson destroy himself, pushing away everyone who cares about him, drowning in secrets and self-loathing.”
The air seems to vanish from the room. I can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t process the magnitude of this betrayal. Beside me, Sydney is equally stunned, her face astudy in disbelief.
“You let us think you were dying,” I say, the words hollow. “You let us worry, plan, grieve.”
Meema’s eyes fill with tears. “I wanted you to be happy,” she says simply. “Both of you. To stop denying what was right in front of you.”
