Sutton and I lock eyes, both alarmed at the sudden change in her demeanor.
“Granny, are you okay?”
My grandmother stares down at her plate of half-eaten food, mumbling something on repeat. I’m not sure what flipped the switch since we were only gone a few minutes, but when I place my palm gently on her shoulder, she stiffens.
And then screams.
Loudly and unceasing.
Sutton’s hand flies to her mouth, and I jerk back in alarm. Josh, the nurse's aide, looks at us and shrugs.
“It’s okay. This happens. I’ll take her back to her room and get her settled. Maybe give her fifteen minutes to regroup.”
As he wheels her away from the table, her shrieks continuing in an on-and-off cycle, I throw myself down in the seat and hang my head in my hands, massaging my temples to thwart the tension headache already building at the base of my skull.
“Goddamn it. I can’t do this anymore.”
Somewhere from outside my misery, I hear Sutton’s calming voice. “Shh. . . it’s okay, Miles. You’ll get through this. I’m here for you.”
When I lift my head and find Sutton on her knees in front of me, I know she’s both wrong and right.
She is here for me and for that I’m grateful.
But I honestly don’t know how I’m going to make it through this tortured and prolonged deterioration of my grandmother. For every step forward, she takes four steps further away from me and from reality.
And reality bites like a motherfucker.
32
Sutton
It’s justafter eight p.m. when we decide to return to Miles’s childhood home for the night, the house his grandmother left behind when she moved into the nursing facility. We’d stopped by my parents’ house for a brief chat, but after the confrontation with his Granny, Miles was visibly worn out, so we didn’t stay long.
My mother gave me a curious lift of her brow before we left her house but didn’t say a word when I mentioned staying the night with Miles. Not that she’d say anything anyway, since I’m a twenty-five-year-old adult who no longer lives under their roof or by their rules.
Our three-block walk between the two homes is relatively quiet, as we hold hands and maneuver the streets that I’ve known by heart since I was a kid.
“Miles,” I whisper, my voice sounding abnormally loud in the quiet silence of the mid-summer evening. “I’m not going to pry or push, but have you considered talking to a therapist?”
I’d been contemplating saying something to him since I found him in the hallway weeks ago, knowing how far gone he was over all that he’s lost over the years. And the burden also includes the decline of his grandmother’s health and mental fitness. It’s just too much for any one person to bear alone.
Miles snaps his eyes down to me. “For what?”
Whether he’s pretending or is just resistant to the idea, I don’t know. But I’m not going to sidestep this important suggestion.
“A grief counselor. For the feelings and emotions you’ve obviously shut down all these years, that are likely resurfacing with your granny’s situation.”
He makes a scoffing noise. “I’m good. Thanks.”
He uses a key and unlocks the door into the small, three-bedroom bungalow-style home his grandmother no longer occupies. As we step across the threshold, I can still smell the spices that used to waft through the kitchen and hear traces of the arguments between brother and sister that always seemed to occur. He may have been a protective older brother to Melodie, but that doesn’t mean he didn’t love to antagonize the hell out of his little sister.
I’m about to say more about the need for counseling when Miles shuts and locks the door and, without a word, reaches for my wrist and pulls me into the living room.
“All the help I need is right here in this room with me tonight.”
I lick my lips as his descend on mine, nipping hard and sampling me like I’m his dessert he passed on earlier.
Whimpering at the slight sting of his kiss, my breath hitches when he speaks against my lips.
