“Because there’s something wrong with you, child, and I need to make sure you don’t do anything to embarrass me and the family!”
The same old bullshit. Normally, I let it roll over me, but not right now. I’m sick of it. “There’s nothing wrong with me!”
“Of course there’s something wrong with you! Why else would you insist that you can’t tell people apart like a normal person?”
“You know the car accident messed me up! How many times do I have to tell you? Didn’t you hear what the doctor said?”
“Doctors make mistakes,” she insists, like she always does.
A spark of rage, and my insides suddenly seem consumed with resentment, like dead leaves and branches piled high in an abandoned field. “Mom and Dad took me to some of the best doctors in the country, but they said my condition’s not something that can be fixed! Do you think I want to be like this?”
She slaps the armrest. “Anything can be fixed if you put your mind to it! They can fix people with cancer and AIDS these days! You just don’t want to make the effort because it’s more convenient to stay ‘broken.’”
“It’s never convenient to be broken. You just don’t want to admit you might be wrong, because you would have to live with the fact that I might not be as perfect as you want me to be!” And as the words leave my lips, I become aware that I’m completely fine with not being as perfect as Grandma wants me to be. In fact, I don’t care what she thinks much at all. The realization is shocking, but also…freeing.
“Perfect? I’d settle for just not defective! Ordinary would be a step up.” She shakes her head. “No wonder you have no friends. Your sweet husband didn’t even last two months, just as I suspected. You couldn’t even fake being normal for a year.”
I suck in air. It’s always the same thing. Grandma doesn’t vary—she’s never had a reason to. She thinks what she’s doing is fine because nobody can see the wounds she’s inflicted. They’re all internal, where they continuously fester from a relentless cruelty I can’t escape from because she lives in the same small town.
But most important, I’ve let her abuse me for years because I want my childhood home and the studio. Not for the material value, but because they represent something I’ve always longed for—unconditional love, acceptance and support.
But the buildings mean nothing without the memories of my parents. And old memories won’t be enough to sustain me if Grandma keeps heaping abusive cruelty on me to ensure I’ll never feel okay and comfortable in my own skin.
I seriously wonder if I’ll really be able to create better art—even with my childhood studio—if I’m going to live in the same town as Grandma and have to constantly put up with her disapproval and Sylvie’s drama. The thing that gave me the courage to try something I didn’t think possible was Devlin’s encouragement. Why didn’t I realize that what I really wanted—and needed—was somebody who loves and accepts me, not a piece of real estate?
I should’ve realized sooner that I love him more than I ever thought possible.
Maybe Mom and Dad didn’t make a mistake when they left the house to Grandma in their will. Maybe it was their way of letting me know I should go where I’m happiest, surrounded by people who care about me. Max left Drover after they died, but I didn’t. I was trying to recapture the past, as if having the studio back was going to bring back my parents.
“Get out,” I say quietly.
Grandma starts, then her whole body stiffens, her back straight. “What did you say?”
“I said, get out.” I point at the door. “And don’t come back until you can treat me with a little respect.”
“How dare you speak to me that way! I am your grandmother!”
“I don’t need a grandmother who treats me the way you do.”
She wags a finger at me. “You aren’t getting the house and studio if you act like this!”
Her predictably outraged reaction is actually kind of calming. That’s her only threat. The house and studio. She doesn’t have anything else. Why didn’t I see that sooner?
“You can keep both,” I say. “Get out before I call the sheriff and have you removed.”
Her complexion turns purple. “Fine.” She stands up, trembling. “You just proved me right with your behavior. Thank God I sold the house and studio to an investor. You’ll never get them.”
My heart feels like a thorn’s being pushed into it. But I’m not upset that I’m not going to get them. It’s more like…wry self-deprecation because I refused to see that she was never going to honor her promise to me. I refused to see that I meant that little to her.
She walks stiffly out. The door slams shut.
I breathe, trying to relax. But oddly enough, panic isn’t rising within me. There’s no sense of loss flooding my system. I did the right thing. I should’ve done it years ago.
I reach for my phone and try Max again. I need to get back what really matters.
This time he answers. “Bean!” His voice is warm. “Sorry I missed your call. I was out and didn’t hear the phone ring.”
“That’s okay. I have a problem and I need your help.” I tell him what Sylvie did.