37. Grayson

Chapter 37

Grayson

Three Years Ago

R ed and blue color my walls, bringing me back to the worst day of my life. I slowly set my burger in the Styrofoam takeout box, my heart beating loudly in my ears as I make my way to the window.

There's a police car parked in the driveway of Macy's grandparent's house. I swallow bile and step into my shoes, moments from retching at the sight outside. Macy's grandma repeatedly shakes her head. Her face is the perfect image of horrific as she digests whatever it is that the police say to her. Before I can think twice, my feet carry me to the old woman. She doesn't seem to notice me at first, standing only three feet from her and the man in uniform.

"Are you a family member?" he asks. The woman who used to greet me with warm hugs finally meets my gaze. Her face has fifteen years of new wrinkles, but the most prominent are the ones bracketing her mouth, and the crows' feet surrounding her distressed eyes.

I don't take my eyes off her when I answer. "I'm a family friend. What's going on?"

The officer pulls me a distance away from her. "Mr. Brookes was killed in a car accident," he says stoically, a total contrast to the woman who handed me the news of my tragedy fifteen years ago.

"What do you mean? Is he at the hospital?"

He clears his throat. "I don't mean to be insensitive, but there wasn't much left of him for the EMTs to bring to the hospital."

It happens. I throw up all over the man's shoes at the image he so graphically describes. "Shit. I'm so sorr?—"

He holds up a hand, the hard lines in his face setting with disgust. "Comfort the widow. There's not much else I can do here." He gets in his cruiser and speeds off. Fucking asshole.

Mrs. Brookes watches me. Her face is absent of despair, and I know it's only because she's in shock. Denial tends to come before the more gruesome emotions. It's the calm before an Earth-shattering storm.

"Do you want to come inside?" she asks from several feet away.

I nod and wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. I follow her as she slowly walks to her house. I don't miss the way her hands shake as she opens the door.

The familiar scent of flowery perfume makes it feel as though I've stumbled into a memory. The home hasn't changed a bit since the last time I saw it. It's hot despite the windows being open. The Brookes clearly still don't believe in air conditioning.

"Coffee?" she asks in a daze.

"Uh, No thank you." I stand in the doorway, unable to will myself to go further inside the house that embodies the happiness I experienced before my life changed. It feels like I'm taking a ginormous leap into the past. Macy's grandma floats around the kitchen, making a pot of coffee. "Mrs. Brookes," I say.

"Yes, dear?"

"Do you know who I am?"

She stills with her back toward me, a mug in her hand. She slowly turns around with the warmest smile spread across her face. "Of course," she says. "You're my new neighbor. We never got the chance to formally meet." She squints, her eyes moving over my face. "You look familiar."

"I'm Daniel," I admit, forgoing the new identity I've given myself. "Daniel Wright."

She smiles warmly. "No kidding! Wow, you look just like your father." Looking off into the distance with joy, she asks, "How have you been, hon? How is your family?"

I look down, squeezing my fists together. After all these years, I still can't say it. But the look on my face must reflect everything that was on hers before denial swept it all away, because her fingertips fly up to cover her mouth.

"They're…gone," I whisper brokenly. I look up only to see tears filling her eyes.

"No…" she says, shaking her head.

I nod.

"How?"

I clench my jaw. "They were in a car accident." Same as her husband.

She shakes her head. "When?"

"Fifteen years ago."

Her frail hand presses against her stomach. "Daniel…"

"It was a long time ago."

"What about Delilah?"

It feels as though I've been gutted at the reminder. "She's gone too."

She reaches for the kitchen counter, as though she can't hold herself up. I quickly move to her and grab her arm, leading her to the couch. "I'm so sorry. I had no idea. Macy told me you guys moved away," she says painfully.

"There was a cop car in my driveway the night it happened. The lights lit up my walls…didn't you guys see it?" I've always wondered.

Her misty eyes squint off into the distance and she shakes her head. "I don't remember seeing a police car, dear." She sighs. "My husband and I were always sleeping in bed by seven, sometimes seven thirty if we wanted to stay up a little later."

"Oh," I say. "And I did move. To Fort Meyers with my uncle. He took custody of me, but my house was in his name, so he'd bring me back here for a week or two in the summers. It was my uncle who told Macy my family moved away. I don't know why he did, maybe he didn't have it in himself to tell her the truth."

"Dear God…" she says dreadfully. "Why didn't you stop by when you were in town? Macy would've loved to see you. Oh, she's going to be so heartbroken."

"I couldn't bring myself to tell her what happened… Don't tell her," I plead.

Her thin lips part. "You think I can keep this from her? She spent weeks crying herself to sleep that summer. She frowns whenever she looks in the direction of your house. I don't even think she realizes she does it. It's like muscle memory at this point."

"Okay," I say, holding my hands up. Now is not the time to talk about this, and later I can convince her not to say anything to her granddaughter.

"When my husband gets home, he's going to be just as upset as—" She stills. The denial seems to slip away when her face pinches into something akin to torture. She lets out a blood curdling cry and I feel myself tense. I have no idea how to comfort her. She shakes her head repeatedly and cries so hard that sound no longer comes out. I know better than anyone that I can't take her pain, so I stay with her while she drowns in grief.

I'm numb to it after an hour. She cries herself to sleep and I drape a knitted blanket over her. I drift off until the sun rises.

Daylight spills through the windows and birds squeak the way they do every morning. Time is relentless when you grieve, because when your entire world seems to have been cut in half, everyone around you moves forward. I slowly make my way off the couch and grab a glass from the cabinet. I fill it with water and chug the entire thing when I hear her stir awake.

There's a brief moment upon waking where tragedy can't touch you. When you open your eyes, assuming it's an ordinary morning. The peace you're granted in those initial seconds is another kind of torture, because after a few seconds of serenity, you remember everything.

I watch it happen before my very eyes. "I'm so sorry," I say. She cries for several minutes. I notice the sweat coating her skin right when she groans and touches her jaw, eyes shut tight in pain.

"Mrs. Brookes, are you okay?" I set down my water glass and make my way to her, but before I can even reach her, she vomits all over the floor. She inhales air like she's deprived of it. "It's going to be okay," I say, pulling my phone out of my pocket and dialing 911.

It all happens so fast. The EMTs strap her to a backboard and lift her into a rescue truck. I hop in my car and follow them to the hospital. The nurse informs me that she was able to contact her family. Macy. Will I see her?

Hours tick by with machines and wires hooked up to a sleeping Mrs. Brookes. There's a breathing tube shoved down her throat. Nurses come in and out of the room, and a doctor tells me there were complications from the heart attack. He says they are doing everything they can.

I'm completely helpless, and the only thing I can do for Macy's grandma is hold her hand while the numbers on the monitor slowly drop. The steady rhythm of her heart changes from what it was moments ago, and then the line goes flat.

A bunch of medical people rush in, one of them pressing on her chest to do CPR. I squeeze her hand through all of it, the crunch of her bones breaking with each compression. I wince with each one, clenching my jaw when bile rises to my throat. It's too much, too painful. I suddenly shout, "Stop! Please, just let her go."

A bead of sweat drips off the person giving CPR. She keeps going for a few moments, when someone else says, "I'm calling it. Time of death?—"

I don't listen to another word. I gently release her hand and amble out of the room. She doesn't need me anymore. She's with her husband, and somewhere among the stars, I hope my family is there to greet her too.

I think of Macy, and how she's about to find out from a stranger that she lost her grandma in less than twenty-four hours of losing her grandpa. I convince a nurse to give me her phone number from Mrs. Brookes emergency contacts. I call Macy from a payphone, and she answers on the first ring.

"Hello?" she asks, her voice pitched with concern.

"Macy," I breathe. It's so good to hear your voice. "I'm so sorry, but your grandma didn't make it…" I squeeze the phone. "She's gone."

The line goes silent for several heartbeats. "Was it painful?" she asks in a soft, sad voice.

"She went in her sleep," I say, squeezing my eyes shut. That's all she needs to know because she ends the call with a click.