Chapter 37
Rory
The next few weeks are a particular kind of hell.
I interview pet sitters and hire someone to come take care of Bartholomeow once a day to help Grandma.
His coat stays clean, but my heart twinges every time I think about how I’d look up from my work when Morgan was home and would find Barty loafing on his chest, Morgan absentmindedly petting him.
Grandma puts an ungodly amount of money down for a deposit on her new place in Boston and I move back to my place in Westchester.
All that happens between jobs, and I go back to my visiting-every-other-week schedule. It feels lonelier than it did before.
I don’t go to On the Rocks on Sunday nights. I haven’t seen Morgan since I left. We’ve only talked via text to sort out when I could come by and get my stuff.
He didn’t once call me “my queen” and I felt like I was talking to a completely different person—like Morgan had given up on trying to charm me.
I hated it.
Finally, Grandma’s moving day is approaching.
I’m spending the weekend with her and the movers will be here tomorrow, Monday.
We spent all day Saturday packing up her kitchen and bathroom, and today we’ve tackled the bedroom and living room.
It’s been slow going, wrapping each picture frame, folding all the clothes.
Grandma took an extra-long nap, and now we’re down to the wire.
It’s dark outside, and the movers come at 8 a.m.
Bartholomeow winds around my ankle. “Grandma? Do you remember where we put your laptop bag?” She’s moved four times, and I’m just thankful she doesn’t have a desktop.
“The front hall closet,” she says, with a lot of confidence for a woman who misplaced her cane and had to take her backup one to lunch yesterday.
I get up to retrieve it and Bartholomeow voices his complaints.
“I think he misses Morgan,” Grandma says.
I ignore her. She’s brought up Morgan several times and I get madder each and every time.
“Rory? Don’t you think he misses Morgan?”
“Of course he does,” I mutter. “He’s a cat. And Morgan was a nice warm person who cuddled with him and fed him and pretty much loved on him but also gave Barty his space when he needed it.”
Grandma doesn’t respond. When I glance over, Bartholomeow is on her lap and she’s giving me a funny look.
I ignore her.
We sit in silence while I pack up her cords and mousepad. I really should be cleaning the keyboard before I put it in, but I think we already packed up the compressed air somewhere.
“Rory, I’m sorry.”
My hands freeze.
Grandma continues. “Sometimes I . . .” She searches for the right word, and I look up at her.
“Your mother said I was manipulative. I’ll never forget the argument we had where she said that.
” Grandma’s hands come to rest on her cane and Barty’s ears twitch.
I can almost see him debating whether it’s worth staying where he is if he’s not going to get pets. “I wasn’t a good grandmother.”
I open my mouth to protest and she raises her hand to stop me.
“I wasn’t a good grandmother when your mother was alive.
” She sighs. “I thought I knew everything about how to be a mother, and it wasn’t until I took you into my care that I realized I had no goddamn idea on how to raise a child anymore.
Maybe it gets harder with every generation.
I don’t know. But when I realized you had lied to me—manipulated me—I thought some terrible, awful things about the both of us and I lashed out. For that, I’m sorry.”
I sit on that for a moment. When I was growing up I had asked Grandma why she and Mom hadn’t been close, and she’d been vague.
“We didn’t see eye to eye on things,” she’d said.
“But even though we disagreed, I should have mended fences more, swallowed my own pride. It’s a lesson for us both.
” She reached out and touched my cheek. “It’s a lesson that life is short and even when our tempers get the best of us, we should reach out anyway. Forgive.”
I blink the memory away. I look at Grandma. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry too.”
Grandma reaches out and I grab her hand. And then she gets to her real point. “Do you miss Morgan?”
I close my eyes. “What does it matter?”
Grandma lets go of my hand and chuckles. “Oh, Rory. I’ve been a fool. I asked you the wrong question, didn’t I?”
I open my eyes and look at her. “What do you mean?”
She purses her lips and looks at me. “I asked if you were going to marry him. But maybe I should have asked if you love him?”
“It doesn’t matter, Grandma. You’re not happy here, and we’re moving to Boston.”
She harrumphs and points at her top drawer. “Open that up and pull out the papers.”
I oblige, closing the drawer and sitting back with the thick stack. I glance at the top one. It’s an email printed out. “You know how to print out emails?” I ask.
“Jenny down at the tech hour showed me how to print from my phone. And she showed me how to make the text extra large too.”
It is extra large, and there’s only a few lines per page—no wonder the stack is so thick. There’s only one line of the actual email on this page below the header.
My eyes snag on the sender. Janet Mullins.
Dear Valerie,
It was lovely to see you Tuesday and the preserve appreciates your donation to the pre-K program. Those kids will keep us young! You should come spend time with us again next week.
-J (she/her)
I leaf to the next page. An email from someone named mrsgardineronwisterialane, no salutations:
Valerie,
Shall we visit the Italian restaurant next? Or the horse farm? How do you think Rory would feel about an outdoor wedding? Depends on the season, I suppose. If they decide to marry in April it’s better to be cautious.
I’ll pick you up at two.
It’s unsigned, but I can guess.
I thumb through the pages, my eye catching on the “from” row, and I discover group emails, threads of making plans, and getting-to-know-you conversations.
“Why didn’t you tell me you were spending time with these women?”
Grandma sighs. “At first we were discussing your wedding plans. I didn’t want to seem like I was pushing you two to commit, and I certainly didn’t want to come off as demanding how you spend the money I gave you again. And then . . .” She shrugs. “I started having fun.”
I finally make it to the last page, and a line catches my eye.
I’m so glad Morgan connected us via email.
Morgan did this? He found my grandmother some friends?
“You didn’t answer my question.” Grandma thumps her cane on the floor, leaning in and dislodging Barty, who yowls in indignation and runs into the back hallway. “Do you love him?”
I stare at the papers in my hand.
We don’t make sense, at all. Morgan’s charming, friendly—hell, he’s even a dog person.
I’m not any of those things—okay, maybe Princess has convinced me that dogs are pretty awesome.
But I can’t ski, I don’t want to make friends with all two thousand Herevians, I don’t know the lore of the Catskills, I don’t have a relationship with my elementary school teacher, and I definitely don’t hear the song of the place like Morgan does.
But when we’re together, I realize—I want it. I want that belonging. I want that sense of community, that group of friends that’s willing to pool their money for the benefit of everyone.
And mostly, I want Morgan. I could never be that person without him.
“Yes,” I say, looking back up at my grandmother. “I love him.”
She slaps her knee. “Well, then you have my blessing to go get him.”
“But what about you? You don’t like it here.”
She waves my concern away. “It’s true that I don’t like it here in the independent living community. But I like Here. Who knows, maybe I can convince Janet to move into a house with me and we can hire twenty-four-seven care and form a commune.”
I raise an eyebrow. “As in . . . a lover?”
“Good grief. I like the woman, but not enough to give up my hopes and dreams of snagging a younger man. And you know I like the di—”
“Stop!” I cry, throwing up my hands. I get to my feet. “And with that thought, I’m going to go talk to Morgan.”
Grandma looks smugly at me. “Good. You know what those Herevians say, don’t you?”
“You belong Here,” we say together.
For the first time, I think that just might be true.