5. Grady
CHAPTER FIVE
Grady
Scratching wakes me, soft and faint. My eyelids feel heavy as I force them open, like they’re not ready to take in the world yet. I know I’m not.
Yesterday’s nightmare replays, kicking up my heart rate and making my head spin.
Then, I remember holding her hand, and the anxiety whirlwind stops. It centered me, made me feel needed, and allowed me to do something for her.
I scrub a hand over my face, wanting to be there for her again, but knowing I’m not that guy.
My sister Marigold sits beside me with her sketch pad open, working a charcoal pencil against the thick paper. Her fingers are black from smudging, and a charcoal mark wisps across her cheek.
“What are you doing?” I grumble.
“Drawing.”
“Why?”
“The Shadow Man has bad dreams,” she says, matter-of-factly, like reading a thought bubble over one of her comics. “I wanted to capture it.”
I groan. “Let me see.”
She twists the sketchbook, revealing a hard-lined, gray and black version of me. Not a bad likeness except for the pinched and wrinkled brow and my wiry fingers tucked in at my chin.
“Damn, Marigold. I’m thirty-six. Not eighty.” I sit up, rubbing my head.
“It’s an accurate depiction,” she says, returning to her work.
With a breath, I scan the room for clothes, finding an old pair of jeans and a t-shirt draped on the bed’s end. Resurrected from some box of my left-behinds and freshly laundered. Mom’s in full force today. I even smell bacon frying.
She gets like this when something’s happened.
“It’s inconsiderate to draw people while they’re sleeping. Remember?”
Now, her brow pinches as she considers the question. “Yes, but I thought you meant other people.”
“Other people?”
“Mom. Dad. Gil. Overnight guests. Children I babysit.” As she delivers her list, she grows frustrated, probably because she misunderstood my meaning. Marigold’s biggest personal hang-up is anxiety over getting things wrong. Facial expressions. Social cues. The rules . I often tell her that no one is better at being genuine than she is, and the only thing wrong would be not being herself.
Well, except when it comes across as creepy. She’s scared the hell out of everyone in the house at one time or another over her sleep drawings. Once, she penned Gil in the dark, sending him into a full-blown panic attack when he startled awake and saw her hovering over him, scratching away.
“Thanks for not lumping me in with other people,” I smirk, refraining from giving her a consoling pat on her leg. She doesn’t like touching. “You’re right. I’ll be the one exception.”
She continues her sketch. I check my watch. “It’s 11:30? Fuck.”
“Mom says not to cuss.”
“She means other people.”
I stretch, getting out of bed, my joints cracking enough to make me groan again. I roll my shoulders, sore from the accident and the weight of yesterday resettling against them.
“Mom said you needed to sleep,” Marigold mentions, failing to connect that remark with her need to draw me. “She said someone almost died.”
“Did you bring the dogs over?” I ask, redirecting.
She nods, not looking up. “They are fed, watered, and walked.”
“Thanks. What would I do without you?”
“Hire a professional dog sitter,” she answers dryly.
“What’s everyone up to today? Give me the 4-1-1.”
“No one says that anymore,” she says.
“Will you please update me on our family’s activities this morning?”
“Dad’s out on the farm. Gil’s gaming downstairs. Mom’s in the kitchen, baking bread. The dogs are with her, waiting for scraps. We should be at Zach and Zoe’s soccer game. Everyone else is, but Mom said we needed to stay home. For you. So, thanks.”
“You’re welcome. What’s the general vibe, you think?”
She lifts the pencil to her chin, tapping. It’s a question I try to ask often, my small effort to help her notice such things. “Um, busy and tense, I’d say. Mom’s been on the phone all morning.”
“No doubt,” I sigh, grabbing the clothes. “Alright, time’s up on the portrait. Show me the final product.”
She turns the sketch toward me with slight amusement as I take in the exaggerated lines now etched into the image’s face.
“Fucking hell, Marigold! You made me look older?”
“It’s a joke,” she giggles.
“That’s pretty good,” I admit, “as long as you burn that sketch.”
Her face grows serious again. “Can I just throw it away?”
“Fine.”
I exit the guest bedroom, once the room I shared with Colin, and sneak into the bathroom across the hall.
Leaning against the sink, I vaguely remember Dad finding me in Marina’s room once she’d fallen asleep, driving me home —my childhood home, it turns out—and pushing me into a shower. Trying to eat, but failing. Crawling into bed, sopping up tears with my pillow like she did.
I can’t remember the last time I cried like that. I don’t cry, generally. Not that I have some idiotic machoism about it—men can, should, and do cry—but I prefer not to. When you’re a doctor, it’s best to be as emotionless as possible. It’s oddly comforting.
Staring into the bathroom mirror, I look older than yesterday. Marigold’s drawing wasn’t that far off. Baggy red eyes. Matted lines from sleep and worry. Rough stubble, grays mixing with the browns. I look almost as bad as I feel.
Is she okay? Should I call? What would I say?
Hey, Marina. It’s me, the asshole who wrecked your wedding day and nearly ended your life. Can you please alleviate my guilt and tell me that you’re okay? Can I hold your hand again so I’ll feel better?
Goddamnit.
Splashing my face with ice-cold water, I know I must leave her alone. She doesn’t need me around, reminding her of what she’s lost.
She’s suffered enough.
Nothing can be done.
In the kitchen, the dogs yap and yowl when I appear. Harley Quinn, my chocolate lab with a stubbed tail, reaches me first, wiggling her ass and drooling on the hardwoods. I rub behind her ears with one hand and along Hannibal’s back with the other. A Bassett Hound, he howls his appreciation, perking his ears, one of them only halfway, as it was nearly ripped off as a puppy. Finally, my three-legged German Shepherd, Blackbeard, moseys between them, politely waiting his turn, which I often tell him is very un-pirate-like.
Fighting the soreness, I wrestle them to the floor, letting them get their fill of my overdue attention.
A shadow moves over us. Mom stands there, hands on hips and looking exasperated, watching us with a mix of delight and criticism.
“Grady, don’t get them wound up. They just settled. They’ve been underfoot all morning like they know something’s wrong.”
“Yeah, they want to go home,” I say, standing up.
She pushes a sandwich plate at me. “Here. Have a BLAT.”
“What’s a BLAT?”
“A bacon, lettuce, avocado, and tomato sandwich. You need lycopene for antioxidants and vitamin C in the tomatoes, and avocado is a superfood, rich in vitamins C, K, and E. You need the energy. The bacon makes it taste good,” she explains. “Right, doggies?”
Blackbeard grunts an affirmative, speaking for the group.
Mom, a.k.a. Carmela Tripp, is the town’s pharmacist and a staunch believer that the right vitamin, mineral, medication, or meal will cure anything from a sour stomach to a bad mood—she’s yet to convince me.
“Are you okay?” she asks, her voice pitching higher.
“Fine.” I take the plate and sit at the elongated island next to Marigold.
“I could call Dr. Hinky.” She reaches for her phone.
“Gil’s shrink? Why?”
“You need someone to talk to, Grady,” she sighs. “What happened yesterday?—”
“Not now, Mom. Please.”
“It’s traumatic,” she continues, “and not just for… them.”
Them. The word sounds so separatist. Maybe “them” fits the Sullivans— they , with their luxury cars, mani-pedis, and housemaids, aren’t like us , with our grimy boots and fingernails, family BBQs, and economy everything.
Still, as different as we are, Marina doesn’t seem so. She wants to be a them , but is she? She’s more an us . Her words swirl in my head. I thought today I’d get a family.
A dark thought passes through me, remembering Ashe crying into his mom’s shoulder rather than consoling Marina, and, later, finding her alone. It seemed off . But everything about the Sullivans and most people generally feels off to me.
Sighing, I peer across at Mom. Her critical stare reminds me of a strict teacher, evaluating me for errors.
“Grady, please. Dr. Hinky’s worked wonders with Gil’s anxiety,” she says.
If I had the energy to argue, I would. My nerdy, twenty-eight-year-old brother contracted COVID-19 in the early days of the pandemic, rendering him quarantined for nearly a month. His difficult bout with the illness, combined with the solitude, instigated a crippling anxiety disorder. He’s lived in our parents’ basement ever since. He rarely leaves the house and only for pre-approved places. He doesn’t drive. Or date. Or have a life outside of family and online gaming. Hardly a testament to Dr. Hinky’s skills as a therapist.
“He’s better off now than last year,” she points out.
True. Gil isn’t depressed. Resigned would be a better word.
“Just talking to a professional will help you feel better. I wish you’d done it sooner, when you came back?—”
“Mom, I love you. I can’t do this now,” I say, as gently as possible. She’s as sensitive as she is pushy, like most moms, I think. “But I’ll keep it in mind.”
She nods, looking somewhat victorious, and returns to her stress baking.
“I see Dr. Hinky sometimes,” Marigold says.
“Ah, snap! Is she Shrinky Hink in your Shadow series?” I whisper, wide-eyed and impressed with myself for making the connection. Marigold’s homemade comic books are sometimes way over my head. Since returning home, she’s designated me as her alpha reader—one familial assignment I don’t mind.
My insight earns me a rare smirk from my sister. “Taking over the world one shrunken brain at a time.”
“So, she’s a villain, huh?”
“You should still see her. She makes my head feel tighter from thinking too much, but it’s less cluttered at the end.”
“Hm, maybe.”
“Grady, don’t say snap anymore.”
“My bad, Marigold.”
She gives me a funny look, debating whether to correct me on that, too. Sometimes, I use more old-school slang around her than usual, inspiring her to correct me. It’s one of life’s few joys, getting her to communicate. She hardly spoke at all during the first half of her life.
Even that joy feels muted today. Every smile, laugh, or warm feeling gets snuffed out by the travesty I caused yesterday.
I stare at the sandwich, unable to muster the strength to pick it up.
The backdoor opens with my father’s booming voice. “Do I smell bacon?”
Mom whips a second plate at him. “Low-sodium turkey bacon for you, love.”
“That’ll do,” he says, kissing her.
Marigold and I roll our eyes at each other. Our parents’ unreserved affection has been a source of many groans. Nearly four decades of marriage haven’t diminished their attraction—a fact that’s beautiful in theory as long as you’re not one of their six children playing witness to it.
He hangs his coat on a hook by the door and moves to the island. “Grady.”
“Dad.”
“Sleep okay?”
“Okay,” I repeat, though it’s a lie. At my body’s insistence, I slept hard, but not comfortably. The accident kept repeating in my dreams in weird variations. Always me hurting Marina, but with the details altered. A black sky. A red dress. One car instead of two. The whole town watching. In one version, I rammed my truck into their wedding. In another, I took her home with me to hide what I’d done. In another, she died. In another, I kissed her.
My hand rolls over my stubbled head. “Mom, can I get this to go?”
Before she answers, Gil strolls in, his headset slightly askew over his ears. He nods toward me and heads to the fridge.
“You should stay here for a few days,” Mom says. “It’d be good for you to be with family.”
“Oooh, Call of Duty ?” Gil says, lighting up as he flicks open a soda.
“No, I’m spent.”
“You’ve been asleep for twelve hours,” he says.
He’s right, but I still feel exhausted. “The body must what the body must, Gil.”
He shrugs and disappears down the hall.
Mom’s phone rings, and glancing at the caller on her screen, her smile fails her, and she hesitates. It’s probably someone angling for details about yesterday from her book club, her pickleball team, or the Women’s Club. Mom has her hand in nearly every organization in this town, as awful as that sounds.
Seagrove’s gossip game is Olympic-level—the town is full of bored busybodies who’ve trained their whole lives for news like this, not that I can blame them. The prince of Sunny’s Beach Market left at the altar because his sweetheart bride was stabbed in a car accident caused by the town’s asshole vet with zero bedside manner? TMZ has wet dreams about headlines like that. Or, at least, The Seagrove Groove does.
“Let it go to voicemail,” I breathe out. “That’s what it’s for.”
Her cheeks puff in a sigh before she answers. “Hey… oh, yes… he’s fine, thanks for—oh, I don’t know the details. I wasn’t there.” She moves her call into the living room.
I glance at Dad, suddenly worried that Mom knows the extent of Marina’s injuries through Dad and my weepy confession yesterday. “Did you tell her about the, um… the whole story?”
“No, son. That’s between us, and it’s Marnie’s business, anyway.”
“Thanks.”
“Anytime.”
Marigold doesn’t bother questioning us. She doesn’t enjoy intrigue.
“Sorry, I didn’t help this morning,” I tell him.
“Glad you didn’t. I’m hiring more farmhands. You’re doing too much, Grady. It stops. Now.”
“I appreciate that, but now , I need to work. To think of anything else. Tell me about that colicky baby calf.”
Dad launches into his morning activities, tidbits about the calf and diarrhea-stricken chickens, news that sends Marigold to her room. I advise him accordingly, grateful for the distraction. I almost wish it were Monday with a waiting room full of patients to keep me occupied.
The back door opens after a light knock, and Uncle Jim enters, looking official in his suit, tie, and the gold badge hooked to his belt.
“Mack. Grady.” He nods.
“Jim,” Dad says, motioning to another barstool. “Have a seat. Want a BLAT?”
“Um, no thanks. I’m on duty.” His stone-like expression turns to me. “Grady, I’ve spoken with everyone, and we’ve concluded our investigation. You’re being cited for reckless driving. You’ll be fined and?—”
“What? That’s it? Reckless fucking driving?”
“Grady, calm?—”
“I hurt that woman, Jim. She’s… she’ll never be the same again.”
He looks confused but continues, “Grady, yes, she’s hurt, but not in a way that justifies criminal charges. Miss Strange didn’t want charges brought against you at all. Everyone agrees—this was an accident. Wrong place, wrong time. You should accept that, too.”
“He’s right, son. Accidents happen.”
“No. That’s not good enough.”
“Even charging reckless was a stretch,” Jim continues. “Improper driving would’ve been more accurate. You’ll probably talk the judge down at trial.”
“So, I fucked up, but she’s the one fucked.”
Jim’s shoulders fall in a deep breath. “Take heart, Grady. You’re still financially responsible for the damages and her medical bills. Your insurance companies will hash it all out. With the Sullivans involved, there’s hope for a civil suit. So, cheer up.”
Dad chuckles, but I shake my head, steaming. “I don’t care about the Sullivans. What about Marina? She should sue me.”
“She might. But, given our chat last night, it’s unlikely. She wanted a chance to thank you?—”
“Thank me?”
“For saving her life. She wanted me to tell you she’s okay. Truly. Her words.”
My eyes close tightly with the word, thinking of our promise. She remembers our truth policy. Only she’s not okay. Not the way I found her.
I lean against the counter next to Dad, lightheaded and uneasy. “She should hate me. Is she… what is she? Foolish? Naive? Insane?”
“No. None of that. She’s kind , Grady.” He moves toward the door. “I gave Donny the go-ahead to fix your truck. It’s salvageable. Hers isn’t. Talk later.”
He leaves, and Dad groans. “It’s best to let this go, son. Focus on taking better care of yourself. Get your fishing pole and put this behind you. Yeah?”
“Yeah,” I breathe out, wanting exactly that. She’s a stranger, yesterday’s over, and, surely, her family, such as it is, is caring for her by now. Even so, remembering her words, my fists tighten against the granite countertop. I thought today I’d get a family.
Like he’s reading my mind, Dad says, “There’s nothing you can do.”
“I know.” Sometimes nothing can be done. “Dad, I gotta go. Can I borrow The Beast?”
“Keys are on the peg,” he says.
I grab them, my bag of effects, and whistle for the dogs. We load up in my grandfather’s old Ford, nicknamed The Beast for its size, heavy rumble, and few modern conveniences. It’s a beast to drive. But it works. Once it groans to life, me and the dogs do what I’ve wanted to do for the last two days.
We go home.