“What have I got to do with this?”
“That stuff is bad for you.”
My father scoffs – in exactly the same manner as Skylar – then does as she says.
“Now I’d appreciate it if everyone would go and wash their hands before dinner.”
“Are she serious?” Skylar asks me, gesturing towards my mother.
“It’s best not to argue with your grandmother,” my dad advises her, wrapping his arm around her shoulders.
Skylar glances up at him, a look of disgust on her features, but she says nothing.
“Come with me. I’ll show you where the bathroom is.”
“I’m not senile, I remember where the bathroom is,” she snaps, making something burning and unpleasant explode in my stomach.
Skylar and my father step back into the house, as I patiently wait to hear my mother’s final sentence.
“You should’ve come here sooner.”
She isn’t accusing me. She seems more concerned than pissed off.
“The situation is worse than I’d feared.”
I can’t do anything but hang my head and agree with her.
Niall
Everything seems a little better once we’re sitting at the table; Dad eats, one eye occasionally darting over to the flickering TV in the living room; Mum talks, although no one is listening; Skylar scoffs, her mouth open as she noisily chews her food; and I’m enjoying the quiet, until the next storm breaks.
“So you still haven’t heard anything from school?” My mother turns to me. She must have realised that Dad has been sucked in by the second half of the match.
“I have a meeting with the head teacher on Monday.”
“And he hasn’t told you if…er…”
“If she got in? You can say it out loud, Mum.”
“Yeah, we have no secrets here. Especially not when it comes to blurting out everything that goes on in my life.”
“They’re your grandparents. They have a right to know what you’re up to.”
“Oh, really? Then where have they been, these past few years?” Her sharp, accusatory tone reaches my father’s ears, piquing his interest.
“We’ve always been here, honey,” my mother responds, calmly. “Ready to welcome you at any point.”
“So you’re telling me it’s his fault?” Obviously, she’s pointing at me.
“Your father works very hard…”
“Heusedto,” Skylar points out.
“You lived in Dublin, you both had your own lives…”
“Which we don’t have anymore,” she concludes darkly. “Becausehe,” she says, raising her voice, “practically handcuffed me and dragged me here, to a place I don’t know, with people I don’t know. I have no friends, I have no…” She stops herself, suddenly; she never wants to put her true emotions on display. She shakes her head for a few seconds as we all wait in silence, hoping that she’ll open up, say something that will let us help her. We want her to yell at us, tell us to go to hell, spit out my mother’s cooking. She needs to cry, to let it all out.
She jumps up, the chair screeching back behind her as she slams her palms down on the table.
