He looks thinner than he did last summer. Paler, too, although that’s typical this time of year. Leaning heavily on a cane, unsteady on his own feet.
Last visit ended with a slammed door, so I squeeze through the doorway before he has a chance to repeat that trick. “Hallo, Opa.”
He repeats the same question while I give the first floor a cursory sweep. It’s cluttered, but not a complete mess. His recliner’s in its usual spot. Stacks of books surround it, too many to fit on the stuffed shelves.
I’ve had fans scream and sob when they catch sight of me. My own flesh and blood can’t manage to wipe the annoyance I flew four thousand miles to be here off his face.
“I’m here to drive you to the hospital,” I answer curtly. “Are you ready?”
“Mila is driving me.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose, cursing the headache building at the base of my skull. I think I’m just hungover from the beers I had after Beck dropped me off last night, plus jet lag, but it might be a migraine. The specialist I went to a few years ago gave me a list of potential triggers that I’ve half-heartedly avoided. I might have to make a better attempt.
“Do you have any painkillers?” I ask, continuing into the kitchen.
Scuffing and tapping tells me my grandfather is following me.
“I have a head—” I pull up short, staring at the open bottle of Korn on the counter.
I thought Opa’s clumsiness was due to his bum hip. Another equally plausible explanation is, he’s drunk, just like he normally is.
I don’t remember if he drank before my mom died, but he sure did after. And it’s a destructive hobby he’s stuck with ever since. I don’t know where—or how—he gets his supply since it’s the one aspect of his life I’ve never facilitated, but the cabinet’s always full. I dumped every bottle in the house one summer in my teens. The next time I returned from the academy, it was full again.
“Are you fucking serious?” I ask, glancing at his stony expression. “You’re supposed to have surgery today.”
“I’ll drink whenever I damn want.” Opa limps over to the faucet, adding some water to a half-full glass of suspicious contents.
“Is that how this happened? Were you drinking when you fell down the stairs?” I huff a frustrated sigh, then head into the half bath located off the kitchen.
Once I’ve located and swallowed a couple of pills, I return to the kitchen.
It’s empty.
I groan, aiming a murderous glare at the liquor cabinet as I pass it by.
Opa is in the living room, reclined in his favorite armchair with today’s paper. He reads it cover to cover every single day. Although, based on his blank look whenever I talk about teammates, he skips the football articles.
“Time to go,” I tell him.
I’m not sure they’ll even be able to operate on him in this state, but we’ll find out.
“Mila is driving me.”
I sigh. “No, she’s not. Mila called me, told me about the surgery, and knows I’m here to drive you to it.”
The revelation seems to upset him more than my presence.
Most of the time, I’m relieved that Mila’s role allows me to carry on with limited interaction with my grandfather. Other times, like now, I realize it’s widened the gulf between us. We communicate with each other almost exclusively through her. We didn’t always have that shortcut, and it meant we spoke directly. Not often, but more than we do at present.
“Do you need me to help you get to the car?” I ask, knowing it’ll get him moving.
The only thing Opa loves more than alcohol and arguing is proving people wrong.
Sure enough, he lumbers to his feet a few seconds later. More agilely than I was expecting. He reaches for the glass on the table, but I’m faster, swiping it away.
Opa glares. “A man should get to spend his last day how he wants to.”
He’s scared.
