Maybe he decided to take your advice and leave you alone.
No. Sad to say, that wouldn’t be like him at all. I wish he’d just stay an asshole. That way, I’d know how to properly respond. I don’t know what to do with this nice Grant. Maybe he’s plotting something. I hate it that I can’t imagine what he could be doing to screw me over this time. Or how it will affect me and my grandfather. Grandpa is all I have left.
Furthering my anxiety is the fact that Grant is extraordinarily busy. He has meetings that aren’t on the calendar I manage. And that only ups my anxiety. If he isn’t trying to screw me over, why is he hiding them?
I spend the rest of the week feeling like I’m standing on a wafer-thin sheet of ice. But the precarious peace holds. Grant stays pleasant the whole time. It’s like a nice, rational twin took over, except I know he doesn’t have a twin. But I can’t fathom why he’s acting like he doesn’t have a grudge or resentment over my being at the firm. At the same time, I’m afraid to ask him why he’s being decent, in case that triggers his evil side again. As unnerving as it is, I prefer him being nice rather than nasty.
On Saturday, I visit with Grandpa. Unfortunately, he’s having a bad day. His temper’s all over the place, and he shouts nonsense, claiming “they” are going to get him because “they” are jealous of him and Grandma. I try to tell him there is no conspiracy, but that’s no use. He can’t name who “they” are, but that doesn’t matter. At the end, he accuses me of being on “their” side.
“You’re going to put them over your family? Your own flesh and blood? Is that what this is about?”
“Grandpa, no,” I say, trying not to cry.
“Don’t you call me that! You’re no granddaughter of mine!”
His furious words stab into me, making me feel cast aside and unwanted—truly alone. He’s confused. When he calms down, he’ll hug me and smile, but right now he’s not the grandpa I remember and love.
Fucking dementia, taking the only one I have left. It’s a cruel disease that preserves a lookalike husk of the man I knew, while everything that made him who he was gets stripped away piece by piece.
“Maybe it’s best if you come back later,” one of the nurses on the floor tells me, her eyes full of empathy. “There’s no reasoning with him when he’s like this.”
“I know.” I draw in a steadying breath, trying not to give in to my own frustrated grief. It isn’t Grandpa’s fault, and I have to cope with his condition. Still, I resent it that we don’t have a ton of time left—every day, dementia takes another sliver of him.
Having to cut the visit short puts me in a gloomy mood. But I listen to some music and clean my apartment, trying to pull myself out of the funk. I can’t impose my crappy mood on the customers at the bar. It isn’t professional, and I need the tips.
My phone buzzes on the kitchen counter where I left it. I pick up and see a text.
–Jenna: Can you come in about half an hour early?
–Me: Sure.
–Jenna: We have some changes at the bar. Can’t text.
Changes at the bar? What does that mean, and why do I need to show up early?
Apprehension rears its ugly head. Jenna might want to let me go because she needs a bartender who can do more hours. Or maybe she has some issues with my recent performance. Although I got better after Grant quit forcing me to run in the morning with him, when I was sleep-deprived I made quite a few mistakes, the kind not even a new bartender would make.
But if that were it, why wait all this time to complain? I hate not knowing. Although she asked me to come in half an hour early, I go in almost forty-five minutes early to see what’s going on.
When I arrive, Jenna bustles over. “You’re already here.”
“What’s up?” I ask, scanning the bar area to gauge the bartenders’ mood. Satoshi’s stoic as usual. Zack is handing a huge margarita to a blonde woman and seems utterly relaxed.
“We need to talk.” She gestures to Zack, who whispers something to Satoshi and leaves the bar to follow us into the employees’ locker. “We have a new owner,” she says as she shuts the door behind her.
Whew.So this isn’t about my job performance, although the news is still surprising.
“Since when?” Zack says in shock.
“Since today.”
“I thought Owen wasn’t selling.” I heard from Satoshi that Owen had offers, but he didn’t want to give up the bar. “This place is a cash cow.”
“I know, but he decided to sell it on Wednesday.”
“And we already have a new owner? Isn’t that kind of fast?” I know nothing about buying and selling bars, but wouldn’t it take longer than three days? It isn’t like buying an umbrella.
“The new owner paid cash,” Jenna says in a hushed tone. “Apparently, it was a generous amount, far more than the bar’s worth.”
