Chapter Twenty Seven

GRAYSON

Time has not been good to Felton. I can't count on one hand how many abandoned buildings I've passed on my drive through town which were once thriving businesses. It's sad how the four recessions in America since we ran off to the Big Apple have practically turned this place into a ghost town. Even the now thwarted Pizza Hut appears condemned. This stoplight at Chase Street, however, hasn't changed in all the years I've been gone. With not a single fucking car for miles, it will forever be colloquially referred to as the punishment light .

As I turn onto Pine Street, fear wells up inside me like a child waiting for delayed retribution. My stomach is still all knotted, so I turn the bottle of antacids up to my mouth as if I'm shot-gunning a beer. It's here. The single moment I've been dreading for nearly a week. I feel kind of like those military officers who are assigned the task of knocking on a parent's or spouse's door to relay the harrowing news that their loved one's life wasn't spared. Except more often than not, they weren't related to the fallen. In my case, I've never met Sophia and Julio Torres. But I've been the most emotionally invested in Julian for the last thirty-two years.

Another short curve ahead and Tamarack Street is upon me. I crunch a few more antacids before snapping the lid shut, tossing them into the passenger seat. I'm sure by the weekend, they'll all be gone. If I'm telling the truth, I could stand to be gone too. This cruel world is now so far beyond me. From all that I've been dealt in just a single week, I haven't the faintest of what I'm going to do about it all. By my lonesome. I retrieve a cigarette from my bag, lighting it quickly. Several short puffs offer a momentary release to my nerves. Though I know this reprieve is fleeting.

I'm here. The Torres house appears almost the same as it did three decades ago, save for the full yard of grass. As if I need to mention the twists and pains in my stomach one more time, but I let out a wince while stepping out to the street. I flick my cigarette butt over my left shoulder, grabbing at my chest in the process. The rhythm beneath the rib cage is faster than it ever should be, and there's sweat expelling from every single pore on my body.

I ascend to the porch, wiping my brow. In three seconds, I'm going to ring this goddamn doorbell and change these poor peoples' lives again. This time could wreck one or all of them entirely. One. Two. Three… I press the rectangular button adjacent to the doorknob, waiting patiently while counting my rapid breaths. As hard as it is keeping my shit together, I question whether I can ding-dong-ditch like a teenager and dart out of here. But I wouldn't be able to live with myself if I were to cower out.

Before I can even let out another thought of turning around to leave, I hear the front door creak open. On the other side of a mesh screen, I see a woman not too younger than Julian. Those same shapely eyes adorn her face just like his did. It must be Amelia, his sister.

"Can I help you?" She asks.

I can feel my throat is all dry and chalky. Likely from the all the Tums and tar I've shoved down my fat fucking throat the past hour. A quick attempt to reply is defeated by a rush of salted water striding down both of my hot cheeks.

In another breath, I try again. "Are you Amelia?"

She nods, appearing confused. "Yes, I'm Amelia," she acknowledges. "And who are you?"

"My name's Grayson," I reply while removing my sunglasses, cowering at the pain from rubbing into my wound. "Grayson Welles."

Amelia points directly at me. "You're my brother's husband," she responds with certitude.

Uhhh okay. How does she know that? I question whether she has the extraordinary gift of being a psychic. There is no way in—actual Hell—that she should know who I am to Julian. Or was, that is.

"I aaammm," I respond, peeking above her shoulders through the screen door. "Are your parents home?"

Amelia grits her teeth before stepping out onto the porch, shutting the main door behind her in the process. She scans our surroundings, then darts her eyes in the direction of my car. "Where is my brother?"

The cracks in my voice will probably reveal the truth before I even reach the punchline, but I proceed to explain my presence.

"Amelia, I'm incredibly sorry I have to tell you this," I begin, clearing my desiccated throat.

Before my lips form the next word, I can tell she's already about to spew tears. Even though the only person I ever hug is Julian, and Miles or Alex on occasion, I throw caution to the wind. My arms extend over her shoulders while weeping uncontrollably.

"Julian died, Amelia," I add. "On Tuesday night."

She accepts my hug, wrapping her arms around my torso. I even feel her hand pat against my back like a mother calming her youngest child from some terrible nightmare. This is my terrible nightmare. Amelia still hasn't said a goddamn thing in response to the mother of all bombs I've just dropped.

"I am terribly sorry," I reiterate with a squeal in my voice. "For everything, actually."

"Shhh, Grayson," she finally responds. "It's not your fault."

I shake my head with contention, breaking away from the hug. "No no no, It is my fault ," I confess. "For everything, we should've come down and reunited years ago," I affirm. "But it's just my fa?—"

She interjects me. "Your father—yeah we know all about him."

"You do?" I reply behind a squinted, achy stare. "But how?"

Amelia wipes the tears away from her youthful looking visage. "Julian reached out to us a few years ago."

My head tilts with a look of part shock and the rest absolute bewilderment. "He did?"

She points towards a bench off to the side of the porch where we each take a seat. I'm still curious as to why she hasn't answered my initial question. Where the fuck are Sophia and Julio?

"Julian didn't ever want you to know because of how terrified you are of your own father finding out where you guys were," Amelia admits. "And he made us promise to never talk to your parents."

That's reassuring. Both palms reacquaint with my tired face as she continues conveying how Julian found her online a few years ago. And even visited them twice over the course of that time. All without me ever knowing. It's likely my man snuck his visits in between a couple of book tours. A small part of me feels hurt that he'd keep it away from me. But the rest of my conscience feels the weight of shame that I kept him away from his own family. Like a fucking prisoner.

Amelia says he worried for several years that their parents would judge him for his sexual attraction to men. That it's why he didn't contact them much sooner than he did. Then over the last eighteen months, his contact with them seemed to diminish altogether.

"So, my mamá's been fighting Alzheimer's for the past couple of years," she informs me. "And my papá has been in a rehab facility for the last month after receiving a double hip replacement."

My ears perk up. "Sophia has Alzheimer's?"

She nods. "Yes," she confirms. "For over two years now."

I scratch the nape of my neck. "Julian was diagnosed with it extremely early," a painful gust of wind falling down the wrong pipe. "About a year and a half ago."

Amelia looks off in the distance. "That would explain why we haven't heard much more from him."

"And she's home now?" I ask.

She nods again, sweeping a strand of hair from her forehead. "Yes, she's inside," she admits solemnly. "She's having one of her off days," she pauses for a quick breath. "So it may be hard for her to comprehend this news," she adds. "And how did my brother—die?"

I can't meet her gaze to confess the truth. Just thinking about telling her how, makes me relive the moment of seeing his inert body sprawled out across the bathroom floor. That unresponsive stare will truly haunt me until the day I take my own last breath. There's no way I can admit to her that he checked himself out. But fuck it. She's his brother and has a right to know.

My inexorable nerves rise for the umpteenth time today. Suddenly my body craves another fix of nicotine. I point up a forefinger before descending the porch steps, jaunting to the passenger side of my Black Beauty. A small fiery blaze lights the end of my smoke before a few short drags rush down my windpipe. I kick the car door shut with my right foot, quickly returning to the porch. Once I reach the bottom step, I notice Amelia is no longer sitting on the bench. But only a moment passes when she emerges from the front door.

"Do you mind if I smoke up there?" I ask.

Amelia shakes her head. "You can," she replies. "We'll go inside when you're done."

She's absolutely goddamn right. Telling Sophia in an incoherent state will be incredibly difficult. Not to mention I'll be dropping a second bomb on Felton, that this fuckscape may be deemed a disaster zone. If there's anything to be said, at least first telling Amelia made for good practice. She shoots an undetermined look towards this sad sack on the bench beside her. Maybe studying my pathetic cowardice. Watching me abuse tobacco as if smoking hasn't been deemed harmful by the Surgeon General for the last fifty-seven years. Or perhaps she's seen the ugly wound above my right eyebrow and she's taking pity on me.

I inhale a long drag from the cigarette, feeling my anxiety subside even for just a few minutes. Amelia passes me a small white envelope as my head turns to blow the cloud of smoke away from her direction.

"Don't read that here," she instructs me. "Only when you're ready."

I raise my eyebrow all the while folding the envelope to store in my pocket. I'll read this later for sure.

"So," I say, flicking the ashes from my cancer stick over the porch railing. "Julian's disease progressed too quickly," I add, feeling the dreadful truth crawl its way from my windpipe. "His mental acuity seemed to dwindle faster than time itself."

I scratch the itch at my left temple. "It got to the point where he'd only have two or three good days each week," I add, clearing my scratchy throat. "Then I hunted for a decent in-home aid, so I didn't have to rely on our neighbor or come home from work every couple of hours."

Amelia frowns as soon as I hint at her brother being left home alone longer than an hour. At this same moment, I realize I've yet to call Carter to tell him that I need to cancel the interview. His services are obviously no longer required.

I continue admitting the truth she's yearning, but I feel like a steak knife is razing my insides. "Well, he heard my phone call with the kid I'd thought about hiring to help keep him company during the day," I profess. "He felt guilty, leading to an argument about him thinking he'd been a huge burden."

The smooth taste of this tobacco is the only thing keeping the levees of my soul on high alert. I might only be crying internally right now. But once I'm through telling Sophia that her only son is dead, these barricades will be rendered useless. Then, the only thing capable of masking my pain will be the bottle of Glenmorangie waiting for me back at The Wilhelm. For Christ's sake, I haven't even crossed the finish line of explaining my version of events. And it's requiring every bit of self-control to keep choking back an emotive display. I exhale another plume of smoke with a cavernous sigh.

"Amelia," I continue, placing my palm on her knee. "He overdosed on his antidepressant," I finally disclose, hearing the devilish cackle that's walloping from my chest. I shake my head in disgust to silence that son of a bitch. "He wrote in his last journal entry that he didn't want another day to come, worrying if it would be the very last one that he'd ever be able to remember again," my vanquished speech now requiring a breath and something to wet my whistle.

Once the cat's been tossed from the bag, a tear escapes my lower lid anyway. My defeated aspect surely doesn't compare to Amelia's. I wished I had a tissue or napkin in my pocket that I could hand her, but the only things in it are my keys and the envelope. Instead, she lifts the top hem of her rose-colored camisole to dab her tears.

"He must have been in a really bad way," she replies, shaking her head. "It's the strangest thing," she adds. "We hadn't talked to him in about a year, and I was literally going to call him tonight."

I extend my arm, placing my hand on her shoulder. "Besides some depression which we were treating, nobody knew he had—" another painful pause summons the dark cloud forever hanging over my periphery. "—Thought those things," I clarify. "Not even me."

Although I hope those words would be comforting, I have a sinking feeling they don't. They wouldn't for me. A part of my soul feels as if I'm to blame for so much. And after discovering that he thought he had to keep his family reunion a secret to spare my hurt feelings—or fear of my fucking father—an even bigger dagger empales my chest. I finish the last drag of my smoke, bending over to rub it against the cement. I'll hold onto the filter until I can dispose of it in a trash can. I'll respect their property.

"Well," I add, blowing a mouthful of hot air whilst realizing it's time to face the music one more time. "I suppose I better get this over with."

Amelia rises to her feet. "Yeah, we'll see how it goes."

I follow her lead inside the house, closing the squeaky screen door behind me. The noise only occupies one-sixteenth of my brain's capacity for annoying sounds. Simply put, there are bigger fucking fish to fry. Her house is dimly lit with the shades drawn. Most of any light in the living room is provided by a glow from the television screen which Amelia turns off with a remote. She switches on lamps at both ends of a sofa, pointing for me to sit down. When I do, I meet Sophia's hollow stare.

"Can I get you something to drink?" Amelia asks.

"I'd appreciate anything cold," I reply, studying her commiseration. "Thanks."

My gaze returns to Julian's mother. Save for a couple of wrinkles, she appears no older than sixty. But I'm sure she's older, even though I have more wrinkles than her. Next, I take note of her eyes. The same shape as Julian's and Amelia's. Her grey hair is curled neatly and although she sits slouched in place, it may just be from aging. She smiles at me, though I cannot return the sentiment. Fuck, I'm so beyond joy at this point.

I reach over, touching her hand which rests comfortably on an arm of the adjacent couch. Her skin is cold to the touch, even though it's with zero doubt a hundred goddamn degrees in here. Underneath the lamp, my seemingly tear comprised sight locks in on a framed photograph. Certainly a recent picture of Julian and whom I assume to be Julio standing behind Sophia and Amelia. The picture appears to have been taken at some cookout. It touches my heart to see him incredibly happy, and so full of life.

"Hi Sophia," I begin. "I'm Grayson."

Sophia reaches her right hand, pointing to the door. "Green truck," she says. "You're that boy."

God damn it. Absolute chills scatter my spine when she speaks. Someone's still inside that shell of a person, for her to remember a detail from a lifetime ago.

"Yes—Mrs. Torres," I confirm, swallowing a wave of nausea. "I'm the boy in the truck."

Beyond her recognition of who I am, at least who I was , the awkward silence between us is deafening. I could probably hear a pin drop. I have no idea how to start confessing all that I need to. Amelia returns from the kitchen with a cold glass of lemonade. She sets it down on the coffee table in front of me with a coaster. A small snicker exudes my mouth, catching my own self by surprise.

"What's funny?" Amelia asks.

I shake my head. "Nothing really," I pause. "It's just Julian didn't inherit that quality."

"What quality is that?" She asks, taking a seat next to her mother.

"Using coasters," I reply, gesturing my hands. "He'd set a glass or anything on a surface without regard to the effects it'd leave behind," I reply, reaching down to take a drink.

It's cold and tart but should quench my thirst. I clear my freshly moistened throat while resting the glass back down on its coaster.

"Mrs. Torres," I pipe back up. "Julian—your son—" I add with another pause. God damn these tears!

Speaking another word seems impossible as I battle the urge to let out a sniffle. How does a person tell a parent with dementia such grave news in an easier to comprehend way, without it feeling like a thrown punch? "He's no longer with us," I confess. "He passed away last week."

Sophia makes direct eye contact with me. And although it pains me to stare for too long, I resist the impulse to look away. She deserves this moment on her terms God damn it. "Who?" She asks.

Amelia places her hand over her neck as if she's fighting a frog in her throat. "Mamá, Juliano imperatore ultima septimana abierunt— Julian died last week ."

Sophia's pupils expand to the size of saucers before clutching her chest. A slight moan of despair escapes her voice box, not formulating any actual words. She reaches over to the framed photograph as she slowly begins weeping. She stares at the picture, allowing her tears to bounce off the glass like raindrops plummeting to a cement sidewalk. Her reaction eats away at my soul, releasing my own floodgates.

I only know what it feels like to be told the children you were bringing into the world didn't survive the womb. I only know what it feels like to be told your husband is dead and couldn't be revived, despite waiting an entire epoch in a hospital waiting room while the doctor's tried to do everything they could. But to be told the son you successfully brought into this world ceases to be a part of it must be devastating. Whether you have all your faculties or not.

"I'm planning a funeral nearby, so you guys can be there," I assure Amelia.

She hands me a Kleenex before using one on her mother's face. The attempt is futile as this poor woman is lucid enough to comprehend the situation without issue. I dry my eyes, taking a minute to compose myself, then hunch forward to grab the glass.

After a loud gulp, my lips contort at the tartness. "If you give me your number, I'll keep you updated as I know more."

Amelia nods. "I appreciate it, Grayson," she replies. "I'll tell my papá because you shouldn't need to go through this a third time."