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Nadia offers the cookies and milk to me. “Abby always comes home though. Every day from three to four. After that, she comes and goes as she pleases. Sometimes she’s here, sometimes she’s not. We get paid to care for this house and Ms. Lynn and not to ask questions so I’m going to be very careful with the following inquiry—do I need to make sure the afternoon hours between three and four are covered for a while? That’s Abby’s alone time with her grandmother.”
I nod several times then accept the cookies. “But I’ll show. To check on things.” My mind races with all the millions of unknowns, all the questions that I should ask. “Do I need to pay the others? What about food?”
“I pay everyone out. We get paid again next month. Same day. Same time. We prepare Ms. Lynn’s meals at home and bring them here. Abby doesn’t stock the kitchen. Just so you know, there are three shifts—seven to three which is me, four to eleven which is Peggy, and then eleven to seven with is Nate.”
“What if one of you is sick—”
Nadia holds up her hand again. “Abby pays us to take care of that among ourselves. She doesn’t worry about us and you shouldn’t, either. Now go, Ms. Lynn functions better off routine and it’ll be tough enough on her that you’re not Abby, but for now, you’ll do.”
Dismissing me, she scrapes the uneaten food into the garbage and pours dish soap into the sink.
This time, as I walk through the dining room and into the living room, I can’t decide if this place is a home, a nursing home or a tomb. Maybe it’s all three.
I set the milk and cookies on the end table and pull up a folding chair to sit across from Ms. Lynn. Her fingers trace the pattern of the knitted afghan. Alzheimer’s. Has to be. And Abby is selling her soul, endangering her life to care for this woman.
How did it come to this, Abby? “What are we reading?”
“Pride and Prejudice,” she says. “I always read Pride and Prejudice to Abby.”
Which means Abby now reads it to her.
Abby
Sleep is restless, and I have a hard time deciphering what’s real and what’s not. Dreams feel real. The ones where my father is there, sitting by my side, telling me he’ll take over again. In them, Dad’s strong. He’s a towering man who intimidates others not just with his words, but with his strength.
In other dreams, I’m with Grams. I’m on her bed, sitting cross-legged with my army of stuffed animals I had dragged from my room all staring at me as she brushes my hair after she had blow-dried it.
“You should never go to bed with wet hair. My mother said that will give you a cold.”
“Okay,” I said as I picked up the bear Dad had recently got me. He was black with a pink nose and I imagined the bear growling like Daddy had done with a smile on his face when he handed the bear to me.
“I love you.” Grams gathered my hair at the nape of my neck. “I always wanted a daught
er, but God only gave me your father. I messed up with him. Let his father have too much of a say, but things will be different for you, Abby. Your path will be brighter.”
She pulled the brush under my hair and I closed my eyes, loving the feeling, adoring the contact. This was our ritual night after night until her mind slowly began to disintegrate. “Daddy told me that smart businesspeople stay unattached. What does unattached mean?” I was eight and I wanted my father to think I understood everything he said, even when I didn’t.
Gram paused. Her brush in one hand, my hair in the other. “It means your father is sad even when he doesn’t have to be. Don’t worry about business. Just worry about finding happiness.”
“Your grandmother is right.” My heart soared when I spotted my father cocking a hip against the door frame. “You focus on happy. I’ll take care of the bad.”
“Promise?” I asked.
“Promise. And unlike my dad, I plan on sticking around to take care of you.” Dad’s gaze wandered past me to Grams. “To take care of both of you.”
I open my eyes and Dad’s not there. Neither is Grams. So much for sticking around, but then again, I would be the reason my father is in jail. He kept his promise. Dad protected me and that promise landed him in prison.
I blink away the guilt. Emotion over something I can’t change won’t rewrite the past.
A scan of the room and I assess the situation. Mac was here, but then he was gone. Noah’s been here, working on homework, struggling to break free from the streets with a college degree. West’s been here, as well. Typing on his phone, watching footage of opponents for his upcoming fights. And then there’s Isaiah. The room’s quiet then. Too quiet. Him looking out the window. Standing in the doorway. Mentally replaying how we met, why he owes me...why he likes me.
Is this moment real or another dream?
“Have you heard from Logan?” My voice comes out as a squeak and I try to clear it. Mac said there was a breathing tube—when I was first admitted—and my throat is now raw.
Footsteps, Isaiah spins and Logan appears with two plastic grocery bags in his hands. He stares at me, I stare at him and I suck in a breath. Partially in relief. Partially in dread.
“Did you get some rest?” Isaiah asks.
