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I barked out a laugh. “Thanks a lot. Well, hey, you are too, so I guess we’re even.”
We shared a smile, and it felt so fucking good. Just one smile from my kid could make my whole damned day.
“We’ll just check up on him, visit for a while, and then we’ll be back on the road in no time,” I said as I turned onto Mayfield.
Grant nodded, staring at the storefronts we passed. It was busy this time of day, and it had taken us longer to get here than expected. “I feel bad for him sometimes too. Do you think he has any friends?”
“I’m sure he does. He’s surrounded by other residents, and they have group activities all the time,” I replied as I pulled into the parking garage. “It would be worse if he were living alone.”
That prickly stillness ensued again, and I wondered if Grant was thinking about the same thing I was—him going off to college. Or maybe I was projecting. Why did life’s themes mimic each other so much? Maybe so you learned not to repeat them…
“What’s an astronaut’s favorite part of a computer?” I asked once we’d gotten out of the car and walked toward the entrance.
Grant groaned. “What?”
“The space bar.”
“Oh my God, stop.” Grant turned away as he fought a smile. My work here was done.
We went inside to check in and were greeted by the front-desk receptionist.
“I like your hat,” she said with a smile.
“Thanks,” Grant replied, his cheeks tinging pink, and it hit me again how brave he was to be unapologetically himself. Apparently, I needed to take some pointers from my own kid.
Once we were handed our visitor badges, we walked down to his room. My father was sitting in his favorite chair near the window, with the television blaring an old John Wayne Western. He barely blinked when we stepped inside, and a ball of tension hardened in my stomach. In a lot of ways, my father was my first bully and pretty much shaped my worldview. The bastard.
If only Grant could see that all I ever wanted was to protect him from the bullies of the world.
“Hey, Dad,” I said at the same time Grant greeted his grandfather.
He did a double-take at Grant’s hat, frowned a little, but held his tongue. No doubt he would’ve lit into me as a kid, calling me any number of names, maybe even queer, so it was a relief he’d softened a bit for his grandchild.
It wasn’t without help. The first time I’d stood up to him regarding Grant was during the time he was being teased in school for being different. I warned my father to butt out, and he finally saw me as an adult who wouldn’t put up with his bullshit. Threatening to cut contact with him might’ve helped too. He loved Rebecca, and though he never admitted it, he enjoyed visits with Grant, so he toed the line, mostly. He never bullied my kid, but Grant was right; he wasn’t very friendly.
“What brings you here?” he asked in a grumpy tone, barely looking away from the movie.
“We wanted to visit you,” I said as we stepped closer.
He scowled. “You mean you felt you had to.”
“Of course not.” I felt frustrated all over again, like that little boy always trying to please him.
He rolled his eyes. “Your wife was more honest, at least.”
“Rebecca could always charm you,” I said, and he knew I was right. “She was good at smoothing everything over, just like Mom.”
His gaze shot to mine, and I saw a flicker of vulnerability there. Dad was lost when Mom passed, much like I was now. I couldn’t look at Grant right then, but I could feel him shift uncomfortably beside me.
Dad pointed at Grant’s T-shirt. “Wasn’t Napoleon the short general?”
“No, well, yes,” Grant sputtered, “but it was only propaganda put out by the British in order to delegitimize him. They said he was five foot two, but in reality, he was more like five foot six, which is pretty average height. Plus, he was always surrounded by the tall soldiers in his Imperial Guard.”
“Five foot six is still considered short for a man,” he said with a wave of his hand, and I bristled. He’d always had that air of machismo that rubbed me the wrong way—especially when I’d been making out with a boy on the regular after soccer games. “And wasn’t Napoleon a loser anyway with all his wars?”
“Actually, no. His average was pretty good.”
Grant launched into the history of the wars Napoleon fought, and I was glad for the reprieve. I looked around the room, making sure everything seemed in order and that he was receiving decent care. I’d heard any number of horror stories from customers and coworkers who had parents in care in one facility or another, but so far, we’d been satisfied. Besides, there was no way he’d keep quiet about anything he found unsatisfactory, except perhaps the abundance of vegetables they served with every meal.
