Page 21 of Wicked Minds
That’s not a lie either, even if I am apprehensive about what changes will come about upon my father’s release. Still, that’s not a problem for today. First, he has to be granted parole.
“Right,” David says tightly, “Well, the lawyers are awaiting your calltoday.”
I glower at him as he exits my office, waiting until my door is closed and his footsteps have disappeared down the hall before I relax back into my chair, unclenching my hand as I begin to twist the scrunchie around my fingers once more.
Before I call my father’s lawyers, I need to pay a visit to my Gran and put these suspicions to bed once and for all.
“Hey, Gran,” I greet as I step into her room, spotting her sitting in her usual armchair, knitting like she typically is when I come to visit.
“Grayson, sweetie, how was school today?”
“It was fine, Gran,” I respond, knowing better than to correct her. Bending down, I kiss her paper-thin cheek.
“Not long now until you can be off to college, and no one there will care who you are.” She gives my palm a reassuring pat, and I merely smile.
I mean, she wasn’t wrong, but I’m fairly certain the only reason no one gives a shit about who I am at Halston is because I’m enrolled under McKinstry—Gran’s maiden name—instead of Van Doren. So nobody other than Logan and Royce, and well, Riley, knows who I actually am. And I like it that way. After being bullied and isolated during my senior year of high school, I was more than happy to become a nameless, faceless person in a sea of other rich, entitled assholes.
“Gran,” I hedge, lowering into the seat beside her and angling so I can see her face. “Can I ask you something… about Dad?”
Her face scrunches, as it always did when I was a teenager and brought up my father. I always put it down to her dislike of him. The fact that they never got along, but the questions swimming around in my head since she showed me a glimpse into her inner fear directed at my father has me second-guessing. The not knowing is driving me crazy.
This and Riley have stolen every one of my thoughts, my sleep, and any moment of peace I could have hoped to obtain over the Christmas period.
When she remains silent, I ask, “Why don’t you two get along?” My tone is pitched, light, and curious as I skirt delicately around the subject to not upset her.
Eyes glued to the television playing some daytime soap drama, she waves away my question. “You don’t need to concern yourself with that, Grayson, dear. We’re just two stubborn individuals with differing opinions.”
Licking my dry lips, I take a moment to gather the questions on the tip of my tongue before allowing them to spill. “He never… did anything to you?… To Mom?”
If I wasn’t seeing it with my own eyes, I wouldn’t believe it—the way Gran blanches, her face leaching of color as all emotion drains from it. Her breathing hitches, and when I drop my gaze, I notice her hands tightly gripping her knitting needles as though they’re the only thing grounding her.
Slowly, her head turns toward mine, and the anguish staring back at me tears me apart. “Freddy,” she croaks, sounding broken. Devastated. “I don’t know what to do. He’s killing our baby girl, and she won’t listen to me. I wish you were here. She needs you. Our grandson needs you.”
My heart slams against my chest, beating a chaotic rhythm as I stare unblinkingly at my grandmother, working to piecetogether her cryptic words. Not wanting to startle her, I lean in slowly, my hand sliding over hers in what I hope is a reassuring manner. “What is he doing to her?” I ask, my voice trembling despite the effort I put in to try and steady it.
For the first time in my life, I watch as my stoic, always put-together grandmother breaks. Her face crumples, her eyes gleam with tears before they overflow, and her shoulders shake with quiet sobs. “He broke our girl. He shattered her heart, and now he’s taking her soul. She’s wasting away before my eyes, and I’m helpless to stop it.”
Dread slices through me, leaving behind a sticky residue that stings my nostrils and sludges like tar through my veins. My throat is thick—with shock or vomit, I’m not quite sure. Rooted in my chair, I’m at a loss for words as my Gran sobs beside me. All I can do is hold her hand in an empty attempt at comfort as I sit in what she has said, turning over every word in an effort to understand the meaning behind them.
“Freddy,” Gran eventually says, my grandfather’s name a whispered prayer on her tongue. “It’s been so long since I’ve seen you. Won’t you dance with me?”
I have so many more questions. I’m more lost now than I was when I walked in, but my Gran is looking at me like I hung the moon, and she gets so few moments with my grandfather that I can’t wrench this one away from her.
“You never have to ask,” I rasp, throat choked with emotion as I help her to her feet and hold her in my arms as we dance in silence in her small room.
She’s sound asleep in her armchair an hour later when I leave her room, stopping at the reception desk to sign out.
“How was she with you today?” the nurse behind the desk asks.
“She was good. At one point, she got a little emotional—thought I was my grandfather,” I admit because sometimesemotions like that can linger. Although Gran was in better form when I left, she might be more prone to melancholy or even aggressive outbursts for the rest of the day. “Does she… Has she ever mentioned anything about my father, her son-in-law, to anyone here?”
The nurse’s lips purse as she thinks. “Not that I am aware. Did she say something tonight?”
I shake my head, not willing to divulge. “I’m not sure. It didn’t really make much sense.”
She nods knowingly. “As you are aware, with her disease, she is prone to moments of confusion and misinterpretation. Paranoia and emotional outbursts can become more recurrent as her Alzheimer’s progresses.”
I wipe a weary hand down my face. Right. For all I know, everything Gran said could be in her head. Perhaps she had seen something on the television earlier or overheard a staff member or resident talking, and her brain had created a falsehood to make sense of her reality.
