Chapter 21 #2
“But I’m worried that this house is going to explain where all the money went.”
The house is even more impressive than Google made it seem. If we were in better mountains, I’d call it a chalet, but we’re in Appalachia. It’s definitely an estate, maybe a castle. And it’s ridiculous, I can’t even imagine Tilly wanting a place like this.
It’s gated, and Denny asks what he should say into the box. I shrug. “We’re here to see Tilly, I guess? Tilly Washington? Natalie Washington?”
Denny tries it, and the gate opens automatically.
It’s only after we’re past the gate that I remember there was a plaque in the image of the property, but it’s too late to check it out.
As we approach the house, I notice that Tilly’s car isn’t here, at least not parked outside, but six other cars are.
“Staff?” Denny suggests, parking in front of the giant entrance. He offers to go in with me, but I ask him to stay for now. I don’t know what I’m walking into, and I don’t need witnesses for what may happen.
The person who opens the door is not a butler.
It’s an older woman in a nurse’s uniform that immediately gives me the warm feeling of Gammy, who’s still a nurse at a retirement home despite being the same age as some of her patients.
And this lady — Nurse Becky, her tag reads — opens the door to a place that even gives me the vibes of a retirement home.
But incredibly opulent and like they’re trying to hide what it is.
This is a place where rich people go to die.
I feel it in my bones, confirmed when I take a couple steps in and look past the front hall, where a reception desk has been set up, and see two decrepit white ladies playing chess, one with a tank of oxygen next to her, the other in a wheelchair.
There’s a TV on, and the man watching it, who looks no older than my dad but as feeble as the chess players, is mumbling incoherently.
This place looks astronomically expensive. The man’s complexion is a sicklier shade of my own, but the old ladies are pasty white. Is one of them Tilly’s grandma? Is this what she needed the money for? Was she just trying to get her grammy the best care possible?
“Excuse me? Mister . . . ahh . . .?”
“Sinclair,” I mumble to the tiny woman at the desk, also in a nurse’s uniform.
“That’s Blaise Sinclair,” Nurse Becky corrects with a wink. “I always wondered who Tilly’s sugar daddy was.”
“Baby daddy now,” the reception nurse giggles.
“Your boy is just the cutest little guy,” says Nurse Becky.
I want to backtrack, correct that baby daddy comment and see if I can get some information without making it obvious I’m not actually supposed to be here, but she complimented Donovan, and that takes precedence.
“Isn’t he? Oh my god, everyone says he looks just like me, so obviously he’s the handsomest little man, but he is the handsomest little man. ”
“He was so good for Tilly yesterday.”
Yesterday? But I keep the thought to myself.
“Mr. Washington wasn’t having a good day, but he just lit up like he knew, you know? He didn’t know, but he knew.”
Oh man, I don’t know what’s going on, not fully, but enough of it hits me right in the chest that the anger that was building up over Tilly running off to this place just melts away.
Did Donovan meet his great-grandfather yesterday? Does the man have Alzheimer’s? Or dementia? Is that what Tilly’s been working through, while dealing with the cancer and everything else, too?
I don’t see any white men in the common area, so I guess Tilly’s granddad is in his room or elsewhere, but I’m glad Donovan got to meet him. I’m glad Donovan brought him joy.
“Mr. Sinclair?” the receptionist calls. “I have Tilly’s phone here for you. I’m glad you were able to come out and get it for her. She was pretty frazzled when she left, not surprised she forgot it.”
I nod. I think I thank them, but I’m not sure.
This is where the money’s been going. I have no idea how much a place like this costs, but I know you can live a long time with Alzheimer’s, so even a more affordable place can probably rack up a big bill quickly.
I feel bad now about how rude I’ve been to her, but why did she have to blackmail me instead of just asking me for help?
Did she really think so little of me after our night at Ani-Con that she didn’t think she could just be honest about needing this?
She was pregnant with my baby. We would have figured something out.
I’m dazed leaving. I sit in the car, and Denny lets me stew in it for several miles of back roads before he finally asks, “Are you okay?”
My answer is interrupted by the buzz of my phone, and I grab it, assuming it’s Andy and I’ll be able to update them both at the same time. Poor Tilly. What she did wasn’t right, but if this is why she did it? I can forgive this.
Only, it’s not Andy. It’s Joss.
“Are you in labor?” I bark out, wondering if I’m near the training camp and can pick Gabe up. We were bused a couple hours out of Wilmington to separate us from distractions, only for Gabe and me to wreck that, but I have no idea what direction they took us.
“No. Or, not anymore. I had the baby. Gabe’s here. We’re good. Great. She’s so—but Donovan is sick. They don’t know what’s going on.”