“Yes, they do,” I whisper, not wanting to tell him the love of his life is gone and I’m his granddaughter. I tried correcting him the first few times, and it only led to confusion, denial and anger. I honestly don’t know how much time we have left together. Every time I come over he seems to have grown visibly older, and I don’t want to waste our visits.
“I voted for yellow daisies.” Mild annoyance crackles in his reedy voice. “But some bastards outvoted me.” He studies my expression, like a child trying to gauge his parents’ reaction to his excuse as to why he didn’t do well on a test.
I give him my best smile. “It’s okay. Sunflowers are beautiful.”
He grins with relief. “I think so, too. Next year I’ll definitely get those daisies.”
“I’m going to hold you to that promise.”
He nods. “Don’t worry, Kat. You’ll love them.” He turns away from the garden. “By the way, shouldn’t we be practicing? The competition’s only three weeks away.”
“Is it?” He must be back in time when he used to compete in dance contests with Grandma. He likes to slip into happier memories, and I try not to pull him out of them.
“Yeah. You should’ve dressed in a skirt.”
I look down. I’m in my slacks. “But I’m in the right shoes.” I show him my Mary Janes.
“And you look gorgeous no matter what you wear.” He looks at me, his eyes shining with endless love.
My throat tightens. How happy Grandma must’ve been to receive this kind of deep devotion. He’s been true to her all his life, even after her death. At that point he was still lucid, still dashing. But he wasn’t interested in anyone else. Once Grandma was gone, it was like whatever love he could give drained out of his heart.
He hums some tango beats, and I dance with him. Despite his age, he moves pretty well. It’s as though his body hasn’t lost its memory. I keep up with him, doing all the fancy steps I saw Grandma do, trying to bite back the tears over how frail he feels, how he’s retreated into his memories to escape from pain. I tell myself it’s great he can still dance so well. That means he’s healthy. He’s going to be with me as long as possible, and I’m not going to be alone in this gargantuan city that cares about no one.
“I missed you so much, Kat,” he says, his voice breaking.
Wait… Does he…?
“I’m so lonely. Don’t leave me.” His hold on me tightens as we reach the climax of the tango. Instead of finishing the dance, he hugs me tightly. “Kat, I’ll do better. Don’t go.” He sounds like a lost boy.
I pat his back, unsure how to console him. When he’s like this, I’m overcome with helplessness. I hate it that I can’t make it better for him. I hate it that I can’t bring Grandma back from the dead. I hate it that I have to leave because I know he’ll be inconsolable when I walk out.
“I’m not going anywhere,” I say finally. I sound shakier than I want, and I inhale to steady myself. “Let’s just keep dancing, okay?”
“Are you going to stay?”
I force a smile. “I’m here, aren’t I? Let’s dance.”
He nods. “Okay. Let’s tango.”
* * *
By the time I leave Grandpa and come in for my shift at the bar, I feel like I’m a hundred years old. He was inconsolable when it came time for me to leave. Even when I promised to be back, he screamed, “Liar! You lying bitch!”
It shocked me to my core. I’ve never heard my grandfather curse like that. His face red with rage, he glared at me like I’d betrayed him. When I continued to stare in shock, he crumpled to the floor. “I don’t wanna be alone. I don’t wanna be alone. Kat… Kat…” He began to sob, rocking back and forth. I didn’t know what to do. The outburst and the immediate breakdown weren’t something I’ve seen before, and I didn’t want to hurt him.
I squeeze my eyes shut. The doctors warned me he’s not going to get better. They also said that Grandpa may exhibit a side of himself I’ve never seen before. That’s apparently “normal.”
But nothing about “lying bitch” coming out of Grandpa’s mouth is normal. It breaks my heart that he’s morphing into someone I don’t recognize.
He’s still the same person,I tell myself.He’s in pain, is all. I put a hand over my mouth to swallow a small sob because I can’t let it out. If I do, I’m going to break down, and grieving freely is a luxury I can’t afford. I have responsibilities—somebody to provide for. I have to do my shift at the bar.
Composing myself, I check my phone for messages from the center, just in case. But there is only a text from Grant.
–Grant: Where are you?
He sent that at 1:23 p.m. The question stiffens my spine. It must be nice to be able to spend his time harassing a girl he screwed over, whose dreams he crushed, because I’ve never been the same after that awful incident. I’ve lost so much more than just my grandmother.
I pull myself together. Stewing in old anger isn’t going to solve anything.
