“I guess that’s it,” Celia says, setting her tape gun on top of the box. That box is the last of a small stack stuffed with Gran’s personal belongings. Things neither of us want but don’t have the heart to get rid of. The rest of her stuff is now sitting in a thrift shop, waiting to belong to someone else. It’s unbearably depressing. And it makes me wonder what Gran would think, if she knew. If she would care that her memories are being given away to strangers.
“I guess so.” Looking around at the empty room gives me a stomachache, so I walk to the window and peek out at the front yard. Gran’s lace curtains are gone, packed away somewhere, but her ancient venetian blinds are still in place.
Celia comes up beside me. “I should probably have someone come and do something about the garden,” she says, sighing heavily at the brown grass and dying rhododendron. “It looks awful.”
My shoulders tense. This is a dig at my dad, at his complete lack of interest in keeping the place up. Even though he hasn’t lived here in weeks.
Out of habit, I start to defend him—Celia did kick him out, after all—but it’s hard to argue against the truth. My dad stands to benefit from the sale of the house, too, so leaving all the grunt work to us isn’t fair.
“My mom probably knows someone,” I say, and Celia nods. She gets along well with my mom, always has. In fact, every time she comes to town, she stays with us. Even when Gran lived here, Celia preferred our guest bedroom. She didn’t want to be around my dad.
That’s part of the reason I’m so protective of him. I’m the only person, aside from Gran, who’s ever on his side. No one will cut him a break, especially in our family. It’s like they can’t see past his mistakes to who he is. They don’t see the good in him anymore.
“Let’s get these out to the car.” She lifts a box marked FRAGILE. I packed that one, so I know it’s filled with porcelain ballerinas and other knickknacks that Celia is convinced might be worth something someday.
She holds the door open with her foot while I grab a couple of old tennis rackets and a crystal lamp that was too awkward to cram into a box. The front porch is bare—Celia hauled the wicker porch swing to the dump last week. The thought of it decaying with piles of other junk bothers me. Gran and I spent a lot of time in that swing, drinking lemonade and trading stories. The memory kicks me in the chest, and my hands start to shake. I have to tighten my grip on the lamp so I won’t drop it.
Celia’s rented van is parked in the driveway, the rear door open. She slides the box across the gray felt carpeting so it butts neatly against the backseat. “Just put that stuff over there,” she says, gesturing to a patch of grass. “We’ll put it in last.”
I carefully set the lamp on the lawn, then toss the tennis rackets down beside it. I insisted on keeping them, despite the fact that the duct tape on the handles is fraying and they need to be restrung. Gran played tennis for years and there’s something so depressing about getting rid of her rackets, even if they are in crappy condition and will probably continue to molder in the back of my closet.
It takes us less than ten minutes to finish loading the rest of the boxes, and then we’re standing on the porch and Celia is locking the front door. My heart breaks a little. I can’t believe this is the last time I’ll ever be at Gran’s house. All my memories of her are here. And I won’t be making any new ones. At least, not any that I’ll want to keep.
I still haven’t been brave enough to go to see her. But the plan is to drop everything off at the storage locker Celia rented a few miles away and then visit her at the home.
When Celia suggested that we visit Gran, I couldn’t think of an excuse fast enough. I guess Celia, like my mom, figures I’ll regret it later if I don’t make the effort. And maybe I would. Or maybe I would be happy to not have to remember Gran the way she is now. But it seems unbelievably selfish to admit that.
“Hop in,” Celia says, heading over to the driver’s side. I climb in beside her and buckle my seat belt. It’s grossly hot out but she won’t turn on the air-conditioning—she says it’s terrible for the environment, which is ironic considering she’s driving a van—so I roll down the window and let the warm air rush over me.
We drive through the neighborhood, past cute little houses with flowerpots in the windows. Down Broadway and onto Madison, neither of us saying much, just listening to Willie Nelson—the only musical choice when you ride anywhere with Celia. I don’t really mind. There’s something comforting about his voice.
She stops in front of the industrial-looking building where what’s left of Gran’s life is kept behind a rolling metal door. We hop out and reverse the task, unloading the boxes into an already almost-full storage locker. It takes some creative juggling to get all the new junk stuffed inside, but we finally do, and by that time I’m cranky and hot and my shirt is sticking to me.
We climb back into the van and Celia starts to babble about Gran, how the new medication she’s on makes her drowsy and not to be surprised if she doesn’t seem like herself. I know she’s trying to prepare me, but she shouldn’t worry. I already know that Gran’s not herself. She hasn’t been for a long time. And in that moment, I sort of hate Celia for making me do this.
We pull into a circular driveway in front of a squat, colorless building half hidden behind a bunch of maple trees. The trees are tall and leafy and aren’t letting in a lot of light. I step out of the car and it feels dark and murky, like we’re lost in the middle of a forest. Which is perfect because it exactly mirrors how dark, murky, and lost I feel inside.
I’m not sure what I was expecting, but it was definitely not this. This place is so, so different from Gran’s house. And not in a good way.
I know Celia feels bad enough about sticking Gran in here, so I don’t want to add to her guilt by telling her how much I already hate this place. How much Gran would hate it, too, if she understood where she was. She never wanted to be a burden, but I doubt she knew what not being a burden really meant. It doesn’t make me feel better to know that she’s receiving the round-the-clock care that we couldn’t possibly give her.
Celia walks up the cobbled path to the glass doors. I expect them to whoosh open automatically as we approach, but they stay closed until she pushes a small white buzzer mounted on the stucco wall.
“They keep the doors locked,” she says. “The residents … sometimes they wander.” It’s for their own good, she adds, and I’m sure it is, but it still makes me feel like I’m visiting a prison.
The buzzer sounds and the doors slowly swing open. We step inside and the air conditioner is turned up so high it’s like walking into a freezer. I guess, unlike Celia, the people who work here aren’t too concerned about wrecking the environment.
The place smells weird, like Lysol and old people, and I breathe through my mouth, hoping I’ll get used to it. While Celia stops to speak to the nurse behind the reception desk, I pretend to study the native art lining the lemon-yellow walls to try to calm my thundering heart.
“She’s in the rec room,” Celia says, taking my arm. My legs feel wobbly as she brings me down the hall, to the entrance of a narrow room. “You ready?” she asks.
I nod, even though I’m not ready. I’ll never be ready.
She tugs me into the room. A handful of residents are grouped around a big-screen TV, watching some soap opera. Some of them are sitting in wheelchairs, some of them on a puffy brown couch, scrunched together like crows on a telephone line. No one pays us any attention, and I’m glad, because right now I don’t want to be noticed. Celia leads me toward a wall of windows with a beautiful view of a lake. This, at least, is something good. Something to hang on to.
And then I see Gran. She’s sitting in a recliner, her feet propped up. She’s wearing hand-knitted slippers with little pom-poms on the toes and the fuzzy blue cardigan I got her for Christmas a few years ago. Her sparkling ruby hairpin is pinned in her white hair, right above her ear. This, at least, is familiar. My grandfather gave it to her when they were first married. It makes me happy/sad to see her wearing it. Like even though she can’t remember him with her mind, maybe she still does with her heart.
“Mom?” Celia says.
Gran gives her a polite smile, the kind you give someone you don’t know very well.
“I’ve brought Quinn with me.” Celia gently pushes me forward so I’m standing in front of Gran. My lips quiver as I try to coax them into a smile. My heart suddenly feels too big for my chest and I really, really want to be anywhere but here, trying to think of something to say to the person I love best in the world, who clearly doesn’t remember that she loves me best back.
I search Gran’s face, hoping to find some flicker of her behind her placid expression. But there’s nothing. And I know it was a mistake to come here. I should never have let Celia talk me into this. I should never have let myself hope that, by some miracle, Gran would remember me.
I shake off Celia’s arm. And then I run.
* * *
I run all the way home. I stop short of going inside, though; my mom worked a night shift and I don’t want to wake her up, but I also don’t want to have to explain how I’m the worst granddaughter ever. I don’t know if I can even talk without crying. In fact, the tears are already coming as I turn away from the front door. I decide to hide in our spider-infested shed where no one would ever think to look for me until I’ve calmed down. I’ll probably be in there a very long time.
I’m about to walk around to the backyard when someone calls to me from across the street. In my haste to get home, I didn’t notice the group of guys playing basketball in front of Ryan Anderson’s house. A group of guys that includes Wesley James.
Great. Wesley is the last person I want to see me upset. I wave, hoping he’ll go back to his game, but instead he takes the gesture as a sign of encouragement and jogs over, a basketball tucked under his arm. I keep my eyes on the ground so he can’t see my face.
“Q?” His voice is laced with concern. “What’s wrong?”
“N-nothing. I’m fine.” I sniff.
“You’re clearly not fine,” he says gently.
I swipe at my eyes. “All right, I’m not fine.”
Wesley steps toward me, like he’s going to give me a hug. I back away. If he touches me, I’ll completely lose what’s left of my composure. I don’t want to totally break down in front of him.
“Whatever it is, you might feel better if you talk about it.”
“That won’t make anything better,” I say. “There is no better.”
This is the time to tell him about Gran. I know I should—he loves her, too—but I don’t. Even if I wanted to tell him, and I’m not sure that I do, I couldn’t do it without ugly crying.
I’m pretty sure Wesley will only follow me if I try to make a break for the backyard, so I sit on the porch steps and take a few deep breaths.
“Wes, you coming back?” Ryan yells.
Wesley hesitates before tossing the basketball at him. “Go on without me for now,” he says. Ryan shakes his head, but doesn’t argue, although I can tell he’s wondering why Wesley’s giving up a game of hoops to talk to me.
I’m wondering that myself.
“You don’t have to stay,” I say as he sits down beside me.
“I know.”
We watch in silence as the guys continue the game without him. Nothing but the sound of the ball hitting the pavement and the occasional grunt or swear word. Wesley leans forward, his forearms resting on his knees. He’s wearing black basketball shorts and a wrinkled blue T-shirt. He’s sweaty—his shaggy blond hair is sticking to his neck—but it’s the good kind of sweaty. The sexy kind of sweaty.
Wait. Why am I noticing his sweat? Why am I noticing anything about Wesley James? I should be focusing on my master plan to get him fired, not about how sexy he looks or whether or not he smells good.
“Remember when we used to hide out in that old apple tree in your gran’s backyard?” he asks.
I pause. “Vaguely,” I say. This is a lie; I remember everything about that summer, but I especially remember what happened the last time we were in the apple tree, when I almost kissed him. He wanted to kiss me, too, I know he did, but he backed away at the last second and made some stupid joke. I was humiliated and dealt with it the only way I knew how: by getting mad.
Mad enough to tell him that I was glad he was moving.
Mad enough to break his magic wand.
Shortly after that, Wesley opened his big fat mouth and blabbed to my mom about my dad losing his job, and we instantly went from friends to enemies.
That’s what we are now, I remind myself.
Enemies.
“Remember when we carved our names into the bark?” he asks.
“Gran was so mad at us for wrecking her antique butter knife.”
He smiles. “You mentioned she’s moved?”
Without even knowing it, he’s given me the opening I need to tell him Gran’s in a home. But the words stick in my throat and before I can find a way to break it to him, Ryan yells, “Hey, James, quit flirting and get over here!”
Wesley shakes his head good-naturedly, but the tips of his ears start to turn red.
Flirting? Is that what Ryan thinks we’re doing? Is that what Wesley thinks we’re doing?
I am so not flirting with him.
Am I?
“You know what? I’m going to go inside,” I say coldly. Let Wesley go back to playing basketball with his Neanderthal friends. He has no business being nice to me and making me feel things I shouldn’t be feeling.
When I stand up, Wesley’s brow wrinkles. I can see he’s trying to work out what just happened. “Uh, okay,” he says. “See you later?”
Unfortunately. I will never not see him because he’s everywhere. And that has to change, because I just can’t take it.