Chapter 25 The Search #2
She looks up, her eyes widening as she takes in Sydney and me standing there in shock. She’s still wearing her purple pantsuit from this morning, though it’s noticeably wrinkled now, and her headscarf has slipped slightly, revealing the thin regrowth of silver hair underneath.
“Brooks, Sydney.” There’s a strange mix of relief and resignation in her voice. Her hands grip the cold bars as she stands, moving with the careful deliberation of someone whose joints ache. “I didn’t want you to find out this way.”
“Find out what?” I demand, moving closer to the cell. “What the hell is going on?”
Before she can answer, Sheriff Ford appears behind us, his boots announcing his presence on the concrete floor. “I’ll release her,” he says, jingling a set of keys, “as soon as she talks to you.”
“Talks to us about what?” Sydney finds her voice at last.
Ford steps forward, keys in hand. “Side room’s empty. You can talk in there.” He unlocks the cell, the metal door swinging open with a creak that echoes down the corridor. Meema steps out, smoothing her rumpled pantsuit with dignity that would be impressive if I weren’t so confused and angry.
“Follow me,” the sheriff says, and we trail behind him and Meema to a small, bare room containing only a metal table and four chairs. The kind of room where bad news is delivered, confessions are made, lives are changed.
The sheriff leads us inside, closing the door behind us all, the solid click of the latch.
And now, in this metal box with its flickering fluorescent light and scuffed walls, we wait for my grandmother to explain what the hell is going on.
I pull out a chair for her, the metal legs scraping against the floor. “Sit,” I say, not a request. “And start talking.”
Meema sinks into the chair, her eyes finding Sydney’s engagement ring—her ring—still on Sydney’s finger. Something passes across her face, a flicker of emotion I can’t quite read.
The Sheriff sighs, like he can’t believe he has to tell us this. “Caught her in the basement of the Sparkling Spuds Laundromat. Playing the slots.”
“You were gambling? At a laundromat?” My head’s spinning. That can’t be right.
“No, genius, it’s a casino in the basement. Try to keep up.” Maisie’s chin goes up, defiant. “And it’s a damn good one, too. Pam runs a tight ship.”
The sheriff levels a flat look at Meema, then at us, like we’re all in on the same joke and he’s just the guy forced to explain the punchline. “It’s also damn illegal,” he says, slow and pointed.
Maisie sniffs, folding her arms across her chest. “Prohibition didn’t work for booze, and it sure as hell doesn’t work for penny slots. It’s a victimless crime, and the sheriff knows it.”
“Not the point, Maisie,” Ford growls, though there’s a smirk lurking at the edge of his mouth. “You’re lucky you’re not being charged. Yet.”
Sydney looks from me to my grandmother and back, eyes cartoon-wide, like she’s landed in a parallel universe. “I thought you hated real gambling, Maisie. You won’t even buy a lottery ticket.”
“That’s different.” Meema’s voice wobbles. “Scratch-offs are a tax on the mathematically impaired. Slots, though—slots are about psychology. Edge, timing.”
When we both stare at her, wide-eyed, she says, “And if you’re both going to stand there gawking, at least bring me tea. This place is a desert.”
“Why weren’t you at your chemo treatment?” I finally get back on track.
She presses her lips together, refusing to answer. Ford’s keys jingle as he shifts his weight, the universal sound of a man running out of patience.
“Sheriff?” Sydney steps forward.
Ford eyes us both, his weathered face giving away nothing. “That’s for Maisie to tell you.”
I turn back to my grandmother, who suddenly looks smaller than I’ve ever seen her, her shoulders slumped in defeat. “Meema.”
For a long moment, she still says nothing, her eyes darting between Sydney and me. Then she sighs, a deep, soul-weary sound that makes my stomach clench. “It’s a long story,” she says finally, “and not one I’m proud of.”
Her voice is steadier than I expected when she says, “So, as it turns out, I’m not actually dying. Well, yet. Hopefully not anytime soon.”
The words hang in the air, absurd. I stare at her, certain I’ve misheard. “What?”
“I’m in remission.” Meema meets my hard gaze.
The room tilts, and I grip the edge of the table to steady myself. Next to me, Sydney makes a small, shocked sound.
“But the doctor’s visits,” I manage, my voice barely above a whisper. “The treatments. The medications.”
“Meds are real, still have to take them. I still have check-up visits, just no treatments,” Meema admits, her hands folded tightly in her lap.
“You faked having cancer?” The words taste like ash in my mouth. “Who does that? What kind of person—”
“A desperate one,” Meema cuts in, her chin lifting. “A grandmother watching her only grandson destroy himself, pushing away everyone who cares about him, drowning in secrets and self-loathing.”
The air seems to vanish from the room. I can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t process the magnitude of this betrayal. Beside me, Sydney is equally stunned, her face a study in disbelief.
“You let us think you were dying,” I say, the words hollow. “You let us worry, plan, grieve.”
Meema’s eyes fill with tears. “I wanted you to be happy,” she says simply. “Both of you. To stop denying what was right in front of you.”
“By lying?” I’m on my feet now, the chair screeching against the floor as I push back from the table. “By manipulating us into a fake relationship that—” I stop, suddenly aware of what I’m about to reveal.
But Meema just nods, unsurprised. “That became real? Yes, I’d hoped it would.” She looks between us, her eyes glistening. “And it did, didn’t it? Whatever brought you together—guilt, obligation, my schemes—what’s between you now is genuine. I can see it.”
I look at Sydney, expecting to find the same rage I feel reflected in her eyes. Instead, I see something more complex—anger, yes, but also confusion, hurt, and underneath it all, sympathy.
“I owe you both an apology,” Meema continues.
“What I did was wrong. Inexcusable, really. But, Brooks—the endless women, the reckless hits, pushing away your parents, Jonah, anyone who tried to get close.” Her voice breaks slightly.
“I was losing you. And I thought about how you always looked at Sydney—like she was everything you wanted but couldn’t have.
And I just... I thought I could fix it.”
Ford clears his throat. “Now that she’s fessed up, I’m going to step outside for a few minutes,” he says. “Give you folks some privacy.
“Me too.” Sydney leaves with him.
They exit, leaving the two of us in a silence so thick it feels like another presence in the room. I stare at my grandmother, this woman I’ve loved and respected my entire life, now revealed as a stranger capable of calculated deception on a breathtaking scale.
And yet... part of me understands. Not enough to forgive, not yet, but enough to recognize the desperation that might drive someone to such an extreme. Hadn’t I been guilty of my own deceptions? Keeping secrets, pushing people away, pretending to be fine when I was anything but?
“Say something,” Meema pleads, looking at me. “Anything. Yell at me if you want. I deserve it. I am sorry,” she says softly. “More than I can express.”
I believe her. That’s the hell of it—I know she’s genuinely remorseful. But the betrayal cuts too deep for a simple apology to heal.
“Why didn’t you just talk to me?” I ask the question that’s been burning in my throat. “If you were so worried, why not just tell me?”
Meema’s laugh is hollow. “When was the last time you actually listened to anyone who tried to help you, Brooks? Your parents? Jonah? The team psychologist? You’ve been building walls for years.
” She shakes her head sadly. “I thought I needed a wrecking ball to get through to you. Then I realized all I needed was Sydney.”
The simple truth of this statement hits hard. She’s right. I have been unreachable, determined to handle everything alone, pushing away anyone who got too close to my carefully guarded secrets.
And then Sydney Holt crashed through every defense I had, making me want things I’d convinced myself I couldn’t have.
“You know,” Meema continues, watching me closely, “you still haven’t told her the truth.”
I stiffen, the familiar panic rising. “That’s different.”
“Is it?” Meema challenges. “Or are you just as guilty of deception as I am?”
I’m the one who now sits quietly, so long that the door opens, and Sydney returns with Ford.
“No charges,” Ford announces. “But there will be community service.”
Relief floods Meema’s face. “Thank you,” she says, looking at Sydney and me. “And to both of you.”
Ford gestures toward the exit. “You’re free to go. I’ll be in touch about the community service details.”
As we follow him out of the room, through the station, and back into the cool night air, a heavy silence envelops us. The three of us stand in the parking lot, the stars overhead impossibly bright against the darkness, none of us sure what happens next.
“I can stay at Janet’s tonight,” Meema offers. “Give you both some space to process.”
Part of me wants to agree, to put as much distance as possible between myself and this woman who’s turned my world upside down.
But the larger part—the part that remembers her making me chicken soup when I was sick, teaching me to ice skate on the lake, being the only constant in a childhood defined by pressure and expectations—can’t send her away.
“No,” I say firmly. “You’re coming home. We have a lot to talk about, but we’re still family.”
Meema’s eyes fill with tears again, but she blinks them back, nodding. “Thank you.”
Sydney looks at me, a question in her eyes. “Are you okay?” she asks softly.
I’m not, not by a long shot. But with her beside me, her hand finding mine in the darkness of the parking lot, I think maybe I could be, eventually.
“I will be,” I tell her, hoping I actually believe it.