Page 16 of Rebound

“I’m Stella,” her mom says. “Are you a whore?” she asks me. She looks a lot like Layla with dark eyes and dark hair.

“No, ma’am,” I tell her. “I’m a basketball player.”

Layla huffs.

The old lady runs away to the other side of the house while screaming, “Sethhead!”

“I have to get her in the tub and put her to bed before I lose my shit,” her mother whispers. “Layla, you go ahead and entertain your date.”

“Mom!” Layla yells. “As if I would touch him with a ten-foot pole.”

“Why not?” Stella asks. “You can do a lot worse, and you’re always watching the videos of him and his baby.” Then her mom turns to me. “She will have a sour look on her face when it’s just you, but once that baby comes on the screen, she melts.”

I turn my head to Layla, and she won’t meet my eyes.

“No, I don’t watch him,” she says, but from the blush on her face, I know she’s lying.

Whatever her mother was going to say next is never spoken because the older lady runs through the living room, naked again. Layla’s mother runs after her, grabs her elbow, and pulls her down the hall. I hear a door slam a few seconds later.

Layla has now walked to the kitchen and has put her purse on the table. She has her back to me, and I think she might be embarrassed.

“Is that your grandma?” I ask. I already know the answer. She might be old and wrinkly, but she looks like Layla’s mom. I’m shocked when she answers me with a nod. “Does she always run around naked?” I try to play it light, but I don’t think she appreciates my question.

She faces me, looks into my eyes, sighs, and plops herself down on one of the chairs. I do the same.

“She has Alzheimer's.” She puts her face in both hands. “She’s having fewer and fewer good days.” She stands and says, “I should go help my mom. Gaga can be a handful.” Just as the words leave her mouth, I hear a loud crash from the back of the house.

“Everything’s okay,” Layla’s mom shouts. “Enjoy your date, Lay!” she yells. “I got everything under control!” she yells again.

“As if I would ever bring a date to this house,” she says under her breath. “Thanks for dinner and for bringing me home,” she says again, dismissing me.

“Do you have help with her?” I ask. As soon as I was able, I got my father out of that dumpy trailer and into a new house. He has a housekeeper who also cooks for him. He’s only recently agreed to therapy, but he won’t go to the office. The sessions started out on Zoom, but now I pay a damn premium for the shrink to go to him.

“Between me, Mom, and my cousin, it’s still hard. We all work full-time, and we can’t risk leaving her alone anymore. We had someone, but she got agitated once and hit her, so we have no one for now. We can’t afford any of the good assisted living residences. We can barely afford the shitty ones.” Her shoulders sag, and I wish I could offer words of comfort, but all I can think of is that I’ve found my leverage. I’ve found my way in. Never in a million years did I think I’d find it this soon, but I knew coming inside was a good idea.

“I’m sorry,” I tell her. “It’s not the same, but my father has issues too.”

“Yeah, but you make thirty million dollars a year. It’s not exactly the same, Whorekowski.” She huffs and looks away from me.

“How do you know how much I make?” I ask. I know the info is only one click away. “And it’s way more than that with endorsement deals,” I throw in.

“Whatever.”

“Layla,” her mother yells so loud from the bathroom, it almost makes me jump. “There’s chocolate cake in the fridge.Give some to your boyfriend.” Her mom giggles before she closes the door.

“Oh my god,” Layla whispers. “Can she be any more embarrassing?” She looks away, shakes her head, and then shouts, “He’s not my boyfriend!” Her mother doesn’t respond, so Layla turns to me and says, “I’m sure you don’t eat cake.”

“What kind of psychopath doesn’t eat chocolate cake? I love it.” I sit back in the chair, making no moves to leave. It’s true. I love cake. I might not eat it often, but I never turn it down when it’s offered.

“There’s ice cream too,” her mother screams again.

She scoffs, but a few minutes later, she puts a plate in front of me with a decadent slice of chocolate cake and a scoop of vanilla ice cream. She hands me a spoon, and I attack. She sits across from me and eats her own dessert.

“I’m sorry about your grandma,” I say.

Her head snaps up, and for once, there’s no anger or animosity. Her eyes don’t narrow in distrust either.

“Thanks. It’s been really hard on us, especially since other family members won’t step up to help.”

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