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Truthfully, the thought of Dad unable to play anymore cut me so deep I couldn’t yet bear to consider the idea. But right now, I was more concerned with his immediate circumstances.
“Therapy? For what?” Bubbe asked, eyes suddenly darting back to Brandon.
I sighed. I knew she would fight this; Bubbe was not the type who would ever want to believe her beloved son needed psychiatric help. She’d practically ignored it the first time around, when I’d been there to make sure he attended his sessions. This time, however, I’d need her on board in my absence.
“Bubbe, Dad’s sick,” I said gently, laying a hand on her small, wrinkled one. “He needs help.”
“Skylar, we have company,” she said, looking back at Brandon with a nervous smile.
Brandon glanced between us and swallowed his last bite of eggs. Then he stood up.
“I’m going to bring David some food,” he said with a sympathetic look at me.
He filled up a clean plate and ducked out before Bubbe could protest or even offer extra cutlery. I turned back to my grandmother, who was now uncharacteristically quiet.
“This stuff with Dad and Grandad,” I said, “it’s not their fault. It’s an addiction, Bubbe. And we need to help Dad before it kills him.”
A lone tear fell down my grandmother’s otherwise stalwart face. She swiped at it with a manicured finger. Several of her nails were uncharacteristically chipped, and a few even looked like they had been bitten down completely. She must have had as terrible a night as I’d had—maybe worse.
I took the hand and squeezed.
“I don’t…I can’t…what will people think?” she asked.
Her voice was so weak. I wanted to hug her and tell her it didn’t matter, that Dad would be fine no matter what. But the truth was, we didn’t know. Even after everything was healed, we didn’t know how deep he was in or what kind of psychological damage the possible loss of his hand—his livelihood—would be.
“Does it matter, Bubbe,” I said. “It will be better than if he’s found in the East River, don’t you think?”
She knew I was thinking of Grandad. It was maybe a dirty trick for me to suggest the same fate for her son, but we couldn’t afford to be ostriches with our heads in the sand. Dad needed help, and we needed to make sure he got it.
Bubbe wiped away a few more errant tears with one hand and gripped mine with the other. Then, at last, she looked straight at me, dark-brown eyes clear and focused.
“You say these doctors, this therapy, it will help him? Better than last time?”
I cocked my head in sympathy. “It’s better than nothing, right?”
She considered my words a moment more, then nodded. “All right, then. You say he needs to go? I’ll make sure he goes. That’s that.”
I patted her on the shoulder, but Bubbe waved my hand away, instead picking up her fork and taking a bite of her breakfast with finality. That was the thing about Bubbe—once her decisions were made, there was no more room for talking. Just doing.
* * *
After breakfast,Brandon snuck upstairs to help me get dressed while Bubbe watched her morning programs. He had to duck to enter the small doorway, but once inside, he took a comfortable seat on my unmade bed and looked around curiously.
“You’re like Cinderella,” he commented. “Living in the attic.”
I looked at the exposed rafters and shrugged. “I moved up here when I was a kid. Privacy.”
“I can imagine needing that with your grandmother.”
Brandon kicked off his shoes, watching with appreciation as I changed. Just as I was starting to pull on my jeans, my arm was seized, and I found myself pulled onto the bed atop Brandon’s large, warm body.
“Come here,” he said softly as he wrapped me close and tucked my head into his chest.
With his touch, I felt the tension in my body lessen as I inhaled his clean, comforting scent. One of his hands splayed over my naked back while the other brushed stray hairs out of my face. Then he tipped my head up so he could see me clearly.
“How are you doing?” he asked softly. “I was worried about you last night.”
I gulped. “I’m sorry. I just…I should have let you know I was on my way. I felt so overwhelmed; I forgot until I got home.”
