Chapter 12
So he took off in his car. It shouldn’t necessarily be alarming for a man in his eighties to drive somewhere by himself. But it feels off to me. He hasn’t driven anywhere the whole time I’ve been here, and I know he doesn’t do his own grocery shopping. Where could he have gone?
Should I call him? Even if he has his phone, I don’t like the thought of him trying to answer the call while driving. The man can barely use his phone while standing still. Sounds like a recipe for disaster.
Before I drive all around Pinellas County looking for him, I try one last thing.
“Hey, Trish,” I say when my aunt answers on the second ring.
“What’s up?”
“Gramps isn’t with you, is he?”
“What? No. I’m at the office. What’s going on?”
“Do you know of anywhere he might have gone today? An appointment or… the library?” I guess wildly.
“No. Mallory, what is it? Have you lost my dad?” She says it in a kind of joking way, but I’m not finding this very funny at the moment.
“No. Sort of. Maybe. I should go. I’ll talk to you later.” I hang up before she can say anything. And then I get in my rental car and drive into town.
I drive slowly past the shops and restaurants of Reina Beach.
I don’t see a Mazda Miata in front of Ken’s Market or the Crab Shack.
This feels increasingly pointless. What if he’s driving down the highway, making a bid for freedom?
I’ll never find him. And I need to log into my work computer soon—it’s almost nine on the West Coast. Maybe there’s some sort of shop for nerds around here, someplace that sells scientific textbooks and chess sets.
That’s where he would go if he were in need of retail therapy.
I’m driving so slowly, scanning the public beach on my left and the shop parking lots on my right, that the truck behind me honks and swerves.
I’m wondering at what point I should give up, or call in a silver alert to 911, when I see it.
A little white sports car parked in front of a strip mall that’s home to a nail salon, a liquor store, and a couple of tourist shops.
I park in the first open spot and hurry over to Gramps’s car.
He’s sitting in the driver’s seat, and from behind, it looks like he’s laughing lightly, maybe to something on the radio.
Trying not to startle him, I approach the driver’s side.
I’m about to tap on the window when I see that he’s not laughing at all.
His posture is rigid and straight, his eyes are closed, and tears are coursing silently down his cheeks.
Oh no. I freeze. Part of me wishes I could run back to my car and pretend not to have seen him. I’m standing there like a moron when Gramps opens his eyes and sees me.
Hi , I mouth. I’ll just… I point to the passenger side, walk around the car, and climb in.
“Hi,” I say again.
Gramps looks straight ahead. His shoulders have stopped shaking, but the tears are still flowing. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a grown man cry before, except for my dad when the Seahawks won the Super Bowl. And my brother-in-law many times, but he doesn’t count.
I consider reaching for Gramps’s hand, or saying something, but finally I just fish around in my purse for a pack of tissues and hand one to him. He dabs at his cheeks and then blows his nose with a sound like a ferry horn.
“You found me,” he says with a wry chuckle.
“Yeah.” I consider telling him the whole saga but settle on “I saw your car.”
“It sticks out, doesn’t it? I considered getting a Honda Accord.
I would’ve blended in, then. But Lottie liked riding with the top down.
” He gestures to the roof of the car. “I haven’t bothered opening it since…
” He chokes on the last word and grits his teeth over renewed, silent sobs.
Something about the silence makes it so much worse.
I would rather he keen like a wounded animal than keep it all bottled inside.
Without overthinking it, I reach over and grab his hand. He grips back, hard. The pressure of my tight squeeze seems to help him calm down again.
“Gramps? What are you doing here? You didn’t leave a note, and…” It feels a bit out of line to say And you never leave your condo, as far as I know . “And I was kind of worried.”
He takes a couple of deep, shuddering breaths.
“I wanted to get you something.”
“Me?”
He looks at me sideways. “Yes, you. You’re leaving tomorrow and I wanted to get you a gift.”
“A gift?”
We both stare straight ahead, and I realize we’re parked in front of a shop called Bettina’s Beach Boutique. In the window are floral cover-ups, bejeweled sandals, and one very glittery caftan.
“Oh,” I say softly. I bite the inside of my cheek to stop the tears that spring to my eyes. “I don’t need anything, Gramps.”
“A gift is not something you need. A gift is to say that I appreciate you.”
Even though he didn’t actually make it inside the store, even though I have no need for glittery caftans, I suddenly feel that this whole trip was worth it for this moment. Gramps and I have never been close. To hear him say that he appreciates me… it means something. It means a lot.
“It’s nice to be appreciated,” I say lightly.
He pats my knee twice. I think the crisis is over now, although he still looks shaken.
“What happened?” I ask. “I mean, did something happen?”
He answers slowly, thoughtfully. “I couldn’t go in. I never set foot in a place like this without Lottie. She loved to shop. I didn’t mind going in stores with her. I liked to buy her things. Going in without her… I couldn’t. I couldn’t get out of the car.”
I nod. “That makes sense.”
“I’m not a solitary person. I don’t work well on my own. And now that you’re leaving tomorrow, well, it hit me all over again, I think.”
“Oh,” I whisper again. His tone wasn’t accusatory, but his words hurt. I came here to help him, not to make him feel even worse. I can’t think of one helpful thing to say.
“I just miss her is all,” he says. It seems like the understatement of the year.
A long moment passes, and I’m about to suggest that we head back home, when Gramps says, “So, can I buy you something?”
“Uh.” I glance again at the storefront. I doubt there’s a single thing in there that I would wear. And yet there’s no way I can say no. “Okay, Gramps. Let’s check out Bettina’s.”
Inside, we greet the saleslady, and Gramps ambles slowly, taking in the displays with his hands behind his back.
“See anything you like?” he asks.
I tear my gaze away from a white crocheted bikini that costs $150. “My suitcase is so small, I don’t have much room for…” I gesture to a lavender polo shirt that reads BEACH BABE .
He nods, and then his eyes light up and he walks a little faster toward a jewelry display. It’s home to seashell earrings and dolphin necklaces that I would have loved when I was twelve. There are a few dainty gold earrings that might be okay.
But then Gramps says, his voice excited, “How about one of these?” He’s pointing to a row of beaded bracelets. They’re made with round stone-like beads of different colors. Gramps gently removes one and holds it up, gesturing for my wrist.
I hold out my left hand and he slides it on, his hand shaking slightly.
It’s made of marbled white beads, with a small gold charm shaped like a heart.
I look from the bracelet to Gramps’s face, which is grinning with encouragement.
Well, at least he didn’t choose the turquoise one with the dolphin charm.
Back at the car, I admire the way my new bracelet catches the sunlight.
“Thanks again,” I say.
“My pleasure.”
“I’ll meet you at home? You won’t take off anywhere else?” I tease.
“I’ll see you there.”
“By the way.” I pat the roof of the Mazda. “I wouldn’t mind driving with the top down sometime.”
“Yeah? You would like that?”
“I would love it.”
Over a lunch of turkey and lettuce sandwiches, with my laptop open on the table next to me in case someone pings me, we mostly discuss the weather.
We’re expecting a thunderstorm this afternoon.
I can tell that Gramps doesn’t want to talk about the emotional scene in the car, and neither do I.
We’ve had enough drama for one day. But there is one more non-weather-related thing that I need to talk to him about.
Gramps carries our plates to the sink. I follow him and load them into the dishwasher. As he wipes the crumbs from the table, I broach the topic I’ve been avoiding for the last two days.
“So, Gramps.” I lean against the sink. “I know I was out of line when I tried to schedule you for therapy before. But I was wondering if you might consider it. I think it might be helpful for you to talk to someone.”
“What, now that you’ve seen me cry you think I’m a whack job?” He steps around me to toss the crumbs into the sink.
“That’s not—technically, we don’t call people whack jobs anymore, and no. It’s because I think a grief counselor might be able to help you process your feelings.”
He stops on his way to the fridge, turns, and looks at me. “Mallory, in my day, the only people who went in for psychotherapy were serial killers and people with an Oedipus complex. As far as I can tell, I am neither of those things.”
There are so many things wrong with this statement, I’m stunned for a second.
“That may have been true,” I say slowly, “but now, in the twenty-first century, it’s very common to see a therapist. People with all kinds of mental health issues benefit from having someone to talk to. Even people without issues—like yourself.”
He snorts. “Nice try.” He opens the fridge and grabs a can of seltzer.
“The doctor I found sounds like a great fit for you, Gramps. She specializes in grief.” And old people , I add privately.
“Grief.” He shakes his head, like such a tidy word could never encompass everything he’s feeling.
“Talking to her might make you feel better. At the very least, it might make you feel less alone. Can I make the appointment for you?”
“I think today has demonstrated that I can’t be trusted to take myself anywhere.” He laughs lightly.
He has a point there.
“What about a virtual appointment? She sees patients over Zoom, too.”
Gramps just looks at me, one side of his mouth hitched up in amusement.
“Mallory, if my computer disconnects from the Wi-Fi, I have to call someone to fix it. I wouldn’t know where to start with a Zoom appointment.”
Right. Did not think of that.
“I could show you?”
“Sure, you could show me today. But what about next time, when some unexpected problem occurs? How will you show me when you’re not here?”
I blink.
“And I guess Trish is usually pretty busy…”
“Trish?” Gramps gives me a strange look. “Trish won’t be here to help.”
“Huh?” I have absolutely no idea what he’s talking about. He appears surprised at my confusion.
“Did no one tell you that Trish and Ron are moving to North Carolina?”
“North Carolina?”
“They’ve been building their so-called dream home up there in the mountains. They’ll be gone by the end of the summer.”
It is so like my mom to forget to tell me important family updates like this.
And it’s hard to believe that Trish would up and leave when her dad is all alone and only going to need more help as he gets older.
But I guess you can’t plan for everything in life, and if it’s her dream house…
I’ll have to think about all this later.
I try to return to the thread of our conversation.
“Maybe you could Uber to your appointment? Or take a taxi?” I can hear the pointlessness before the words even leave my mouth.
“I appreciate the thought, but I don’t think it’ll work for me. Now, I’m going to take a nap. Enjoy your afternoon. Maybe work on your tan before you go back to the city of clouds.”
“Have a good nap.”
I decide to do as he says and hit the pool.
After all, I don’t have any more meetings this afternoon, and I’m only here for one more day—might as well enjoy it.
As I’m changing into my bathing suit, I rehash our conversation.
As much as I would like Gramps to go to therapy for his mental health, something else is bugging me.
And then I realize: He’s saying he can’t take himself anywhere.
Anywhere? What if he needed to see a doctor?
What if he needed some kind of urgent appointment, let alone regular checkups?
Is there some kind of shuttle service here to help the elderly residents with things like that?
They have medical assistants on staff, but I think they’re mostly here to distribute medications.
Downstairs at the pool, I spread my towel on a lounge chair. Maybe he doesn’t need therapy. Maybe I can be the person he talks to. Obviously, I can’t provide real, professional counseling, but talking to me is better than nothing, right?
I lay out with my book and can’t ignore a nagging worry.
The man had a panic attack in front of Bettina’s Beach Boutique.
Do I really think he’ll be fine with a few extra emails and phone calls from me?
I’ll just have to keep in close contact with Trish—while she’s still here—and do the best I can from home.