I quickly shut the sketchbook as she sticks her head in. “I knew I heard your voice. You’re up already?”
I shrug. “Figured we can get started on the museum early so we can get a lot done.”
She nods. “Okay, but the museum isn’t really that big, not like the Met. That was your favorite museum in New York City, wasn’t it?”
I nod, looking away. I used to go to the Met with my parents every so often.
I get to my feet, sliding the sketchpad into a drawer of my end table. Then I follow my grandma into the kitchen, where she made breakfast. We don’t really say much. I think about those weekends with my parents and I bet she’s thinking about my dad, maybe about his childhood years.
Once we’re done eating and tidy up a bit, we make our way to her car and head for the museum. My phone is on my lap, my fingers hovering to text Artemis. But what should I say?
Grandma talks about different things as we pass through town, the history and the buildings, some memories of her growing up here. She’s never once left town, never even been to New York to visit Mom, Dad, and me.
“What happened between you and my dad?” I ask. “He told me you guys grew distant over the years, but is it more than that?”
She sighs. “Honestly, it happened so long ago it’s hard to remember. He met your mom in college in New York and wanted to move there after he graduated. I wanted him to stay here, in the town he grew up in. I wanted him to raise kids here. We started arguing and he told me he never liked living here. He said he hated this town. I took offense to that because this town was a big part of me. We said some more hurtful things and the nextminute, he was gone from my life. He only sent me letters and pictures when you were born. And on your birthdays. I always…I wish we could have rekindled our relationship. I always dreamed we would. And now it’s too late.”
I stare out the window, swallowing the rock lodged in my throat.
Grandma rests her hand on my knee. “It’s okay to talk about them, Ryan.”
“I’m fine.”
She doesn’t say anything, focusing on her driving. After a few minutes, she starts telling me about Dad’s life here. “I see so much of him in you,” she says, voice laced with pain. “He was so kind and thoughtful. Was a good person and a great friend. His memory will live in your heart.”
I continue staring out the window because I can’t bear looking at her. When I was little, I wanted to be just like my dad. Brave like him, kind like him. I wanted to be compassionate like my mother. I don’t know if I’m anything like them, but at least I’ll always have something to strive for.
“Despite what happened, Ryan,” Grandma says after a few minutes, “I’m glad we have the chance to get to know each other now.”
I nod, my throat too tight to talk.
We reach the museum and enter. It’s empty because we’re early, but that just means we’ll have more time to dedicate to each gallery. Grandma was right—this museum is nothing compared to the Met in New York City. But there’s something nice and sweet about it.
Grandma listens intently as I read the small descriptions under each painting. She’s either really into this, or pretending to be since this is my thing. I’m leaning toward the former.
We spend the entire morning checking out painting after painting. Then we settle down at a restaurant near the museum. Both Grandma and I order the same pasta dish.
She smiles at me. “Your father loved pasta, too.”
I nod as I remember Mom making his favorite pasta dish for their twentieth anniversary this past year. I wonder if they’re together now, in the afterlife or wherever people go to after they die. I wonder if they’re looking down at me. If they’re disappointed at how I turned out.
Grandma squeezes my hand that’s on the table, giving me a wide smile. I wish I couldreturn one, but my lips feel like they’re made of cement.
“Any plans for the rest of the day?” Grandma asks as we buckle up in the car half an hour later.
“Yeah, I’m going to watch a movie at a friend’s house.”
She blinks at me like she didn’t hear that right. “A friend? Who is he?”
“Her name is Artemis.”
A look shines in her eyes, and I bet she’s forming all different theories in her head. “Oh. I didn’t realize you two were hanging out.”
“She’s just a friend, Grandma. We hung out a bit at the Ball.”
She gets that same look. “Artemis is a sweet girl. She used to grab handfuls of my cookies every year at the festival.” She laughs. “Oh, she was so adorable. She still is. And her parents are good people.”
“She’s just a friend.”
