JOSIE
“Grams, I’m sorry for flipping out yesterday,” I say right away, shedding my coat.
Somehow, the most important conversations in this house always happen at the kitchen table. It has always been like this, since I was a child.
I was mad yesterday. Slamming the door in my grandma’s face and leaving was a crappy move on my part. Now I feel bad, seeing Grandma dressed in the same clothes from yesterday. I don’t know how long she’s been up, or if she ever went to bed.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude,” I repeat, trying to set a comfortable mood between us.
I busy myself putting away the clean dishes and utensils.
I notice a piece of broken glass from a coffee cup—another of Grandma’s little mishaps.
There’s a knife missing from the butcher block, and I don’t see it around.
Worry stirs inside me. The little things that slip Grandma’s mind lately, whether they are objects or thoughts, are getting more frequent.
The tension between us still lingers in the air, and I can’t have that, not now, not with however long she has left. I have plenty of time in the future for my anger. Now is not it.
I pour myself a cup of coffee, not bothering with creamer or sugar. I need an extra zap.
“Coffee?” I offer.
Grandma shakes her head, and I sit down across from her at the table. “Sorry.”
“It’s all right.” A soft smile pulls at her thin lips. “I was already in bed when you stopped by the house yesterday.”
“Yesterday?”
“I heard you. But I wanted to give you space.”
I didn’t stop by yesterday, but I don’t correct her. This. Again. She’s slipping more. I hope she doesn’t hurt herself. I just can’t lose my mind either. I have to be strong for her.
“So you and Mrs. Snickett are talking again,” I say, stating the obvious.
“Donna and I used to be best friends.”
“And you are talking because of this guy who’s back in town?”
I don’t miss her flinching. There’s not much she can hide from me now that I have a folder full of paperwork about her past.
“I want to talk about my dad,” I say, cutting straight to the chase.
Grandma stays silent for some time, runs her palm across the table, wiping invisible crumbs. Then she raises her eyes. “Your mother wasn’t sure who your father was.”
“I know that.”
I’m not stupid. For years, I gobbled up that story about my dad being in the service and killed overseas.
No family. No records. Lies, but when you are little, that’s all you know.
When I grew older, I started hearing the rumors about what happened to my mom.
Many called my mom names that were tough to accept.
It’s not like I didn’t consider the possibility that my dad was a random dude she’d hooked up with.
“Are there other actual candidates for fatherhood?”
“She never talked about it. I stopped asking,” Grandma says.
“But this man who’s back in town, it might be him?”
“Yes.”
At least we are done with beautiful fairy tales that he was an amazing man, a soldier or a pilot who had died before I was born.
That’s it. The psycho criminal might be my biological father.
I should cry or at least get upset, but the fact is somehow so bizarre that I don’t know how to respond.
I do, however, want to know for sure, genes and all.
Except, that guy—well, let’s just say I didn’t want to consider the possibility of having anything to do with James Derek Sickler, biologically or not.
“Maybe I should’ve had this conversation with you way back,” Grandma says softly. “But I knew what that man was capable of. What he did back then. What sort of person he was. And I’d rather you didn’t know who your father was than know it was that man.”
Grandma doesn’t look at me. I don’t know everything she went through, but going to jail, losing her daughter, being accused of horrible things couldn’t have been easy.
She finally raises her eyes at me and smiles meekly, her lips moving, like she’s trying to keep them from trembling.
“I am sorry, sweetheart,” she whispers. “I wish I had more answers for you. But some questions are better left unanswered. The truth is not always eye-opening. Occasionally, it closes all the doors and traps you in a dark, windowless room, from which you have no way to escape. I think that’s what happened to your mother. ”
My chest burns. That’s another topic we’ve never discussed in detail. “You think it was an accidental overdose? Or…”
No one wants to say the word “suicide.” We think of it as the person’s conscious choice, except it leaves many people behind with a sense of guilt.
For what happened. For not preventing it.
For not seeing it coming. Not doing enough.
The list goes on and on. Suicide is a one-person decision that leaves dozens feeling responsible.
“You don’t think Mom did it on purpose, do you?” I ask.
“That’s one of the questions I’m afraid to answer, Josie,” Grandma says.
“It being an accident makes it”—she brings her fingertips together and touches her lips, taking a moment—“makes it an accident,” she says softly.
“But if she was in a bad place and didn’t want to fight it…
” Grandma takes another moment, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen her so vulnerable.
“The worst feeling in the world,” she finally says, “is when your kids are hurting, and there’s nothing you can do about it.
And I didn’t. I failed to recognize it.”
My heart thuds loudly, then halts, squeezing so tightly in my chest that it’s hard to breathe.
“You didn’t fail, Grams.” I rise from the chair, walk up to her, and hug her.
We don’t do this often, hugs, or deep conversations.
But this moment calls for it. Suddenly, I have an overwhelming feeling of wanting to drape myself around her to protect her.
I’ve never felt like this before. Maybe that’s what it means to be a grown-up—knowing that you have the strength to take care of someone who’s supported you since the day you were born.
For the first time, I need to be a parent. Or a version of it.
“You are the best, Grams,” I whisper, my voice cracking. My heart breaks at the thought that the woman who’s always been larger than life in my eyes suddenly feels so fragile. “You have always been the best. With me. With her, I’m sure. You…”
Her hand touches mine, strokes it gently, and my chest shake with a sob. Grandma’s always been my rock, and I never thought that one day, she’d need me to be one for her.
Tears well up in my eyes. “I love you,” I whisper. “I don’t want to lose you.”
All the devastating thoughts of her being gone soon come crashing down on me, and I’m crumbling again, unable to stop the tears and the sobbing.
“Oh, honey.” Her hand on my arm tightens. “Come here.”
She draws the empty chair closer, nodding for me to sit down, and I do, embarrassed that I’m crying like a baby.
“Losing things and people in life is inevitable,” she says, making me sniffle and roll my eyes.
I don’t need yet another lecture on the fact that everyone is mortal.
She’s given me those before. But I only have so much time to hear her talk.
So I listen, taking in her voice, trying to engrave it in my memory.
“You are just starting to live,” Grandma tells me.
This time, her smile is strong and reassuring. The tables have turned, and now I’m bawling, and she’s parenting.
“What happened to you back in Pittsburgh is just a small misstep,” she says.
“Yeah, okay.” I sniffle.
“You know, the scariest thing I did as a teenager was ‘whip-it.’”
“What’s that?”
She chuckles. “When you crack a can of whipped cream and huff the gas.”
“Oh, gosh.” I roll my eyes.
“Yes. That used to be a thing. So I did it once, hopped on a dirt bike, and drove straight into a tree.” Her chest shakes in silent laughter.
“Could’ve died. Told myself I’d never try anything like that again.
These days, the scariest thing is not even the bad stuff you get into, drugs or whatnot, but how thousands out there, online, in that invisible world, will spin it.
And oh, can they spin it when they hide behind their screens. Some people thrive on others’ failure.”
I nod. That sums up what happened to me.
“You think you are an old soul, Josie,” Grandma goes on, “and you went through a lot and you won’t make it to your forties and will never grow old.
Trust me, everyone thinks that way when they are young.
Truth is, life is long. That’s the beauty of it.
It comes with tragedies and loss but also with many beautiful things that you’ll be grateful for.
You haven't lived your best days, Josie.
Haven't tried the best food. Haven't traveled to your dream destinations.
You have so much more to see. So much more, sweetheart.
More importantly, you haven't yet met the people you will love with all your heart.”
I sniffle again. “I love you, Grams."
“I’m your grandmother, Josie,” she says with humorous reproach. “I’m talking about the people who will stand side by side with you in life. Do life with you. People you won't be able to imagine your life without. People you’ll live for.”
My chest burns. It shakes as I try to suppress sobs.
She covers my hand with hers. “You are a grown-up. And a smart one. And I’m so proud of you.”
I sniffle. “Yeah, I don’t think so, Grams. Look at me.
” I laugh through tears. "When I left for Pittsburgh, I thought I’d be free to live the way I choose, but then…
I realized it was my job now to parent myself, and I didn't know how to. When it came to important things, work, life, challenges, problems, you did that for me. And suddenly I was so cool on my own, but I didn’t know how to do all that. Adulting sucks.”
“You are doing a great job, honey. Ups and downs. Living it up and being—what’s that stupid word?
Canceled, yes. Believe me, you can start fresh after being canceled.
You can start fresh after anything. Prison, death of loved ones, devastating losses.
One day, you’ll look back and say thank you for all that happened, because somehow, that led you to your favorite person in the whole world, your favorite place, a dream job.
We all have shadows. Often, there’s the shadow of our family’s past. We can either run from it or embrace it and learn to run with it.
That, sweetheart, makes all the difference in life.
Life is a jigsaw puzzle. Only when plenty of pieces click into places do you start seeing the beginning of the full picture. ”
“I feel like I’m stuck, Grams.”
“Stuck happens, Josie. Sometimes, it takes a while.”
“What if there are missing pieces to the puzzle?”
Grams exhales with annoyance. “Don't be—what's that popular phrase today?”
I frown. “What phrase?”
“Don’t be a Karen,” Grandma says, and it takes a moment before both of us burst out laughing.
“Screw what they say,” I respond, grinning through tears.
“That's the spirit. That’s the spirit.” Grandma squeezes my hand with hers.
Tears burn my eyes again, and I cover her hand with my other hand, feeling her warm bony fingers wrapped in mine.
“You are the best, Grams.”
My grandmother is my hero, and there aren’t that many of them in this town.
“I should go to work,” I finally say, and she nods, that easy smile back on her face.
I go to the bedroom, change into fresh clothes, then pick up my phone. What I’m about to do is not smart, considering the police are tracking the phone number that’s been texting me. But this is the only way to lure the stranger out of his hiding place.
I send a text to the “Unknown.”
Me: I know who you are. And I know about you and my mom.
I’m done playing games. I know what he wanted to talk about. But if he thinks he can surprise me with my past, he’s mistaken. I’m ready to face the man who might be my father.