“Love you, too.”
Several minutes after the door closes, I find myself still standing in the center of my room, wondering what the hell just happened. My mother admitted she would always love my father, but, honestly, it’s only her version of him that she’ll always love. That part makes me feel a little better, I guess, now that I don’t have to worry about her leaving Dan to get back together with Roland. Which, according to her own words, she wouldn’t do anyway, because she’s dismissive of his career. One on which he’s staked his life, and the lives of all he preaches to. Even hers.
I fall into a fitful sleep. As I feel my heart softening toward my friends at CU, and to God if I’m being honest with myself, I can’t help but wonder how far down this road I can travel before Mom’s heart hardens toward me.
When will she think I’ve “done the Jesus thing” long enough for her comfort? Politics aside, how long will it be before my relationship with God challenges my relationship with my mother?
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Steal My Show
Kennedy.
Thanksgiving Day is here, and I’m so hungry for my grandfather’s cooking. This is the second Thanksgiving since my grandmother passed away, and we’ve taken to holding the holiday feast at our house. My grandfather still insists on bringing the turkey, which he puts the finishing touches on once he arrives at our house. Within minutes, the whole house smells like the turkey’s been cooking here over night.
“Gramps this smells so good. How do you do it?” I hover in front of the oven and take a deep breath.
He puts his hand on my shoulder and offers a dry chuckle. “What, they don’t feed you at that fancy school of yours?”
“Oh, I eat just fine, trust me.”
Gramps hasn’t said much about my attending CU. He’s well aware of Roland and all the ugliness there, since Mom lived with him and my grandmother while she was pregnant, and for a short time immediately following my birth. But, oddly enough, he hasn’t said anything about my choice to be closer to Roland. Faith wise, I don’t really know where he stands. As is typical for most New England families, we don’t really discuss feelings, other than anger and resentment, so aside from his annual petitions of grace over our holiday meals, I’m not sure where he stands with God.
Especially after my grandmother was killed in a car accident last year. Sometimes, if I catch a glimpse of him when he thinks no one is looking, I swear I can still see the fresh terror in his eyes. They’d been together since high school, and to have their time on Earth ended by a frazzled mother who ran a red light has been a hard thing to overcome.
For the first time since it happened, though, I’m wondering about the faith of it all. Did the woman who was driving the minivan believe in God? Does she now? Did she count it as grace that she and her children were spared in her few seconds of error, despite the fact that my grandmother, alone in the car, died at the hospital some hours later due to a severe brain injury?
“Gramps?” I ask after checking to make sure the rest of the family is out of earshot. “Why didn’t you ever sue the woman who hit Gram?”
A year ago I wanted to know based on the indignation I had that someone did this to my family. Mom told me not to talk about it with my grandfather. Ever. But, now, as I stare into the still-youthful eyes of my mostly jovial grandfather, I can’t help but feel like something more was behind it.
He hardly seems shocked by my question, but looks around just like I did to make sure no one is listening. “Come,” he says, walking through the kitchen and toward the side door, stopping to pour two cups of hot cider before leading me out onto the deck.
Grabbing my scarf on the way out the door, I unfold it to drape around my shoulders, warming my hands on the mug of cider.
“What?” I whisper, despite having fewer ears around than before we exited the house.
Gramps sets his mug down on the edge of the deck and looks out into the woods. “Your mother would kill you for asking,” he starts, matter-of-factly with a slight chuckle.
I chuckle back. “Yeah, I know. I’m sorry—”
He puts a hand up. “Don’t apologize. You have questions. Valid ones.”
“Okay …” My voice trembles as much from nerves as from the thirty-degree air.
Gramps takes a deep breath, keeping his eyes trained on something in the distance. Something that isn’t really there, perhaps. “Losing your grandmother has been the hardest thing I’ve ever had to go through. I know there aren’t any guarantees in life, but I was sure I’d go first. Men usually do.” He shrugs and smiles sadly.
Staring at him, wide-eyed, I don’t have anything to say. We don’t usually have these kinds of conversations … ever. I don’t have a script.