sliver of new potato, bare and unadorned, still steaming.
“You seem really tired today.”
“I’ll take a nap after lunch.”
“Do you usually nap in the afternoons?”
Grandma’s timid shrug was enough to tell me that regular naps weren’t the only secret she was keeping from me.
“I’m glad you sleep,” I told her. “If you’re tired, I want you to rest.”
“I don’t sleep for long.”
“Of course not.”
I almost broached the topic of her health then and there, forsaking my reason for coming home early. But Grandma didn’t let me. “So,” she said, touching the corner of her mouth with a napkin, “to what do I owe the pleasure of your company this afternoon?”
For days I had been planning what I would say, practicing the words so that they would slip over my tongue like warm tea. It would be easier for her, I reasoned, if I was calm, confident. But the house was unnaturally quiet, and Grandma’s gaze inescapably weary. It scared me. I didn’t mean to, but I blurted out, “I don’t know what to do.”
“About Michael?”
And then I had no choice but to say his name. “No. About Parker.”
I expected her brow to tighten in confusion, but the way my lips formed the syllables of his nickname—as if I were holding shards of glass in my mouth—told her everything she needed to know.
“Daniel’s father?”
“Yes,” I whispered.
“But I thought—”
“We’ve been in contact,” I interrupted, my words coming in a sudden rush. “He e-mailed me, and it was . . . not awful. It was nice. He apologized, and I felt sorry for him, so I wrote him back. Then he sent me another message and I sent him one, and it’s been going on for almost three weeks.”
“You’ve been talking to him for three weeks?” Grandma’s appetite must have left her because she pushed the plate away from her and put her hands on the table palms down. I assumed she did it to steady herself, but she began to run her fingers over the worn wood grain, tracing patterns and fitting her fingernails into divots where life had scarred our gathering place. If I didn’t know better, I would’ve thought that she hoped to divine answers from the knots and whorls.
“Not talking, not exactly . . .” I trailed off, but she didn’t prod me further, and I found myself rambling on. Telling her everything. Who Parker was, how we met. Why I thrilled at his attention in the beginning, and why I loathed him by the end. How Daniel reminded me of his dad every day. “But Parker has no right to Daniel,” I said, shaking my head as if to clear it. “He’s no daddy.”
“Yet he is Daniel’s father,” Grandma reminded me. Her first words in several minutes were the five-pointed tips of a throwing star. I had read once that the Japanese called their tiny weapons shuriken , “sword hidden in the hand.” And though I knew that my grandmother meant no harm, it pierced me to hear her say the very thing I feared.
I had known the truth before, pressed it down deep and tried to ignore it, but I could disregard it no more: Patrick Holt was about to reenter my life.
“I don’t know if I can do this,” I breathed.
Grandma raised her hand to my face and let her fingertip trace my hairline, the curve of my jaw. She said simply, “You have to.”
All This Time
Grandma and I agreed on one thing when it came to Parker: I would never offer more than he asked. It wasn’t my responsibility to draw him in, to convince him that Daniel needed to know his biological father. It wasn’t my place to facilitate a loving father-son relationship. That one small concession was like a burden lifted; it gave me a reason to hope.
After our lunchtime conversation, I found myself praying without ceasing. Wasn’t that the sort of devotion I longed to achieve? And yet I knew that my desperate entreaties weren’t exactly the sort of communication God wanted from me. Don’t let Parker ask; don’t let Parker ask . . . hardly constituted
“You seem really tired today.”
“I’ll take a nap after lunch.”
“Do you usually nap in the afternoons?”
Grandma’s timid shrug was enough to tell me that regular naps weren’t the only secret she was keeping from me.
“I’m glad you sleep,” I told her. “If you’re tired, I want you to rest.”
“I don’t sleep for long.”
“Of course not.”
I almost broached the topic of her health then and there, forsaking my reason for coming home early. But Grandma didn’t let me. “So,” she said, touching the corner of her mouth with a napkin, “to what do I owe the pleasure of your company this afternoon?”
For days I had been planning what I would say, practicing the words so that they would slip over my tongue like warm tea. It would be easier for her, I reasoned, if I was calm, confident. But the house was unnaturally quiet, and Grandma’s gaze inescapably weary. It scared me. I didn’t mean to, but I blurted out, “I don’t know what to do.”
“About Michael?”
And then I had no choice but to say his name. “No. About Parker.”
I expected her brow to tighten in confusion, but the way my lips formed the syllables of his nickname—as if I were holding shards of glass in my mouth—told her everything she needed to know.
“Daniel’s father?”
“Yes,” I whispered.
“But I thought—”
“We’ve been in contact,” I interrupted, my words coming in a sudden rush. “He e-mailed me, and it was . . . not awful. It was nice. He apologized, and I felt sorry for him, so I wrote him back. Then he sent me another message and I sent him one, and it’s been going on for almost three weeks.”
“You’ve been talking to him for three weeks?” Grandma’s appetite must have left her because she pushed the plate away from her and put her hands on the table palms down. I assumed she did it to steady herself, but she began to run her fingers over the worn wood grain, tracing patterns and fitting her fingernails into divots where life had scarred our gathering place. If I didn’t know better, I would’ve thought that she hoped to divine answers from the knots and whorls.
“Not talking, not exactly . . .” I trailed off, but she didn’t prod me further, and I found myself rambling on. Telling her everything. Who Parker was, how we met. Why I thrilled at his attention in the beginning, and why I loathed him by the end. How Daniel reminded me of his dad every day. “But Parker has no right to Daniel,” I said, shaking my head as if to clear it. “He’s no daddy.”
“Yet he is Daniel’s father,” Grandma reminded me. Her first words in several minutes were the five-pointed tips of a throwing star. I had read once that the Japanese called their tiny weapons shuriken , “sword hidden in the hand.” And though I knew that my grandmother meant no harm, it pierced me to hear her say the very thing I feared.
I had known the truth before, pressed it down deep and tried to ignore it, but I could disregard it no more: Patrick Holt was about to reenter my life.
“I don’t know if I can do this,” I breathed.
Grandma raised her hand to my face and let her fingertip trace my hairline, the curve of my jaw. She said simply, “You have to.”
All This Time
Grandma and I agreed on one thing when it came to Parker: I would never offer more than he asked. It wasn’t my responsibility to draw him in, to convince him that Daniel needed to know his biological father. It wasn’t my place to facilitate a loving father-son relationship. That one small concession was like a burden lifted; it gave me a reason to hope.
After our lunchtime conversation, I found myself praying without ceasing. Wasn’t that the sort of devotion I longed to achieve? And yet I knew that my desperate entreaties weren’t exactly the sort of communication God wanted from me. Don’t let Parker ask; don’t let Parker ask . . . hardly constituted
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