I haven’t seen Will in a few days. Not since the night of my date with Brandon, to be exact. I think he might be hiding. That’s okay, though. I’ve been hiding too. We’re good at that.
He walked into the market yesterday, and I ducked behind a shelf and then abandoned my cart and crawled out. (Fine, I hunched over and tripped my way out.) The next day I saw him by The Pie Shop, and when we made eye contact, I blinked, and then he was gone. Ducked in an alley most likely. Just for good measure I texted him later that day.
Annie: You’re avoiding me, right?
Will: Yes. And you’re avoiding me?
Annie: Yes. I’m confused and need some time.
Will: Same. I miss you, though.
Annie: I miss you too.
So we got that cleared up, and now I’m just trying to figure out what in the world to do about him. Because I’m now able to fully admit to myself that I have feelings for him. Real ones. Ooey-gooey ones that could double as a butter cake. And that’s very, very bad because Will Griffin wants to remain as single as a prewrapped slice of American cheese.
So what’s one to do when she wants to be happily married more than anything just like her parents and her sibling, but has completely fallen for a man who will never be in a relationship? She moves on and gets over him. That’s the only thing to do, right? She goes on more dates with other men. She reminds herself that Will Griffin was never Fred Astaire and she’s not Audrey Hepburn, and when he gets on the airplane next week, he won’t be coming back like Fred did.
Right? I don’t know anymore. That’s why I’m here.
But when I go into my grandma’s room at her assisted-living facility, I find her sound asleep in her cushy recliner. She’s in her powder-blue, long-sleeved, button-down silk PJ set because even with Alzheimer’s, this woman remembers she will settle for nothing less than dressing to the nines at all times. She’s always been that way. Pristine clothes. Freshly ironed each day. Don’t leave the house without putting on your makeup and fixing your hair kind of southern woman.
I smile at the sight of her now, kicked back, sound asleep in her chair, Wheel of Fortune playing on the TV, casting her dim room in a subtle hue of blue. And for some reason, this sight makes me cry. I can’t wake her up. It will only disorient her and make the night a mess for her and the staff. But I need her. I need someone to point the way for me.
I need my mom and dad.
How is it possible to miss people I barely knew so acutely that I have to hold my stomach and sit down on the couch, doubling over to silently weep? There are so many times in a day when I wish I could call my mom. I can’t even fish into memories to find nuggets of her to hold on to. I don’t remember her. And the woman who doubled as both a grandma and a mother to me has one foot on earth and one foot in heaven.
I’m scared.
But I can’t tell my siblings any of this because, well, because that’s just not what I do. I’ve never saddled them with my emotional burdens. They have enough as it is without piling mine on top. And Will is leaving, so it’s useless to tell him.
So I cry silently in this blue room, soaking the tops of my jeans with tears until I feel a hand on my shoulder. I suck in a breath and look up into the eyes of Mabel. She frowns as she sees my face, and then uses the pad of her thumb to wipe tears off my cheeks. She silently urges me up from the couch and then whispers, “Come on, darlin’, let’s get out of here.”
* * *
—
Mabel reaches across the table and holds my hand. “Tell me why you’re crying, Annabell.”
“I’m not sure there’s only one reason.”
“Give me your top five then.”
We’re sitting in the dim dining room of the assisted-living center. Dinner ended about two hours ago, so Mabel and I are the only ones in here. The room is decorated in deep burgundy and gold and navy, and every time I bring my grandma out here she remarks on how tacky the place is. I have to agree. It’s a very nice facility, but something about it feels like a funeral home, which is unacceptable.
I make a mental note to bring in a fresh bright and colorful bouquet to put on each table tomorrow and talk to the facility manager about painting the room in a cheerier color.
“I’m not sure who I am anymore, Mabel—and I’d really like my mom to help me sort it out, but she can’t because she’s dead. And I never got to know her like my siblings did, and sometimes I resent them for that. And I don’t know why I’m crying over my dead parents when I’m almost thirty years old, when I don’t think I cried about them even in childhood.” I suck in a breath. “Oh, and I’ve fallen in love with a bodyguard who doesn’t believe in love and is leaving for good. Was that five? I don’t know.”
Mabel sighs. “Well shit, darlin’. You’re running a whole race in that brain of yours.” She squeezes my hand, urging me to look up into her kind eyes. “What do you need from me, sweetie? Advice? Or for me to listen?”
“Advice. I really need advice.”
“Good, cause you were gonna get it either way.” Her grin pulls one from me in return. “Truth be told, I’ve been waiting for this day. You’ve been overdue a good grieving for your parents.”
I shake my head. “That’s not what this is. I’m not grieving.” I pause and Mabel just watches me. “I’m not. They died decades ago, Mabel. I’ve lived a whole life without them. I barely know anything about the people who gave me life aside from the crumbs that my siblings tell me. And the rest of their memories are bottled up in a woman who can’t find them, and I’m this close to losing her for good,” I say, holding up my thumb and forefinger to show the most depressingly small measurement.
I don’t realize I’m crying during all of this until Mabel hands me a paper napkin across the table. I blot my eyes and thank my lucky stars that I didn’t wear mascara today.
“That’s grief, Annie. And it’s okay. Grief—that mean son of a bitch—doesn’t have a timeline or rules. It hits when it wants. Even with me—sometimes I feel all healed up, and then randomly I’ll catch a scent that smells like my husband’s cologne, and I’ll lose it in an aisle at the market. It doesn’t make sense, grief. And I’ve known you through it all, and I’ve never seen you grieve over your parents. Why?”
My lips quiver and I aim my gaze down at my lap. “I didn’t think I was allowed to.”
“But, honey, why would you think that?” Her tender voice rips my heart from my chest, and I feel like I’m bleeding out in the form of tears.
“Because I didn’t know them enough to grieve them. But Noah and Emily and even Madison did. They have specific memories that I don’t. I just have a hole in my heart that I can’t seem to fully fill, and I’m not really sure why it’s there.”
Wait.
Suddenly, like a strike of lightning, I realize that I’ve been chasing the wrong things. I haven’t needed a husband. Or even to find myself. I think this emptiness has been a result of constantly isolating myself from my feelings. I know who I am and what I want out of life—I’ve just been ignoring those needs.
“Don’t your siblings talk about your parents much?”
Again, I shake my head. “No. And asking questions about Mom and Dad has always made everyone shut down. It seemed too painful for them to talk to me about their memories. So I quit trying—I didn’t want to add more grief to their pain. I just stopped acknowledging my own sadness and focused on everyone else’s instead. It’s worked. It made them feel better and in return, it made me feel good.”
“Until it didn’t.”
I sigh and nod. “Until it didn’t. And now I’ve lived so much of my life without sharing who I am with them, that I don’t know how to start. I don’t know how to tell them that this version of me they’ve seen for so long is not necessarily true to me anymore.”
“You say that. Exactly that.”