Unlike me, academics have never come easy to Austin. He was diagnosed with dyslexia at the end of third grade. By the time it was caught, it was too late, and he’d already come to hate school. If he didn’t have football to keep him in line, the guy would probably have major truancy issues. As his twin, I’ve always been there to help him, doing my best to smooth over issues with teachers and make his academic life more tolerable.
When thirty seconds slide by without so much as a rustle of sheets from inside the room, I knock again and raise my voice. When he fails to respond for a second time, I suck in a breath, squeeze my eyes tight, and fling open the door. I send up a quick prayer that he hasn’t slept in the buff. We might be twins, but I’m not looking to inflict any mental scars on myself.
Once in the darkened room, I take my chances and crack open an eye.
Phew. Totally covered.
“Austin,” I whisper-yell, “wake up!”
He grumbles and rolls over so that his back is to me. With an aggravated sigh, I step further into the room and give his shoulder a good shake.
“Stop it,” he mumbles. “Can’t you see I’m sleeping?”
“Yeah, I know, but you need to get up.”
“Why?” The word comes out sounding more like an unintelligible grunt.
Knowing that Austin feels the same way I do about our grandmother, I don’t bother sugarcoating the situation. “Grandma Rose kicked the bucket.”
“Who?” Some of his grogginess falls away. He sounds genuinely perplexed, which only reconfirms that Dad’s mother wasn’t the kindly old granny she should have been to us.
“You know, the woman who birthed our father?” I pause before adding, “I guess she died this morning and now we need to head back to Chicago.” At least, I assume that’s where we’re going. We packed for the beach, not a funeral. I have nothing appropriate to wear. None of us do. A mental image of us showing up at the gravesite in full-on swimwear is enough to make me snort.
“The really mean one?” he asks, as the picture in my head dissolves.
Exactly. “Yup, that’s her.”
“Ugh.” He flops onto his back and throws an arm over his eyes to shield them from the nonexistent sun that should be pouring in through the windows. This place is like a cave with room darkening curtains. “That sucks.”
I don’t bother to clarify if he’s talking about Grandma Rose’s death or the fact that he needs to haul ass out of bed at this ungodly hour. If I were a betting woman, I’d go with the hour of the day.
Now that my work is done here, I head for the door. “Mom wants you up and packed so we can leave in thirty.”
“You’ve got to be shitting me,” he gripes.
“I wish I were,” I murmur sympathetically.
“Fuck me.”
My sentiments exactly.
“Language,” I joke in my best Mom voice.
When he grumbles, I walk out of his bedroom and into my own. Thankfully, I never unpacked my clothing. I’ve been living out of my suitcase, so everything is still neatly folded inside.
I glance at the black clock on the wicker nightstand next to the queen-sized bed. Maybe if I pack quickly enough, there will be time to stop at Kingsley’s place and say goodbye. We never exchanged numbers. The thought of leaving without a way to contact him makes my heart clench.
I don’t know if he wants to stay in touch or if this was nothing more than a way to pass time. Contemplating the issue, I grab the dirty clothes from the floor and stuff them inside the bag. Then I head to the bathroom and clear all the makeup and hair products from the counter.
“We’re leaving in fifteen,” Mom calls from the bottom of the staircase.
I haul my suitcase out to the hallway and pause outside Austin’s bedroom. Since he’s crashing around inside, swearing like a sailor, I assume he’s out of bed and packing up his stuff. Decision made, I drag my bag down the steps and park it by the front door where there’s a pile of luggage. Dad huffs and puffs as he jogs up the front porch stairs to grab more stuff.
“I’m sorry to hear about grandma,” I say before stepping closer and wrapping my arms around him.
“Thanks, Summer.” Somberness fills his voice. “I appreciate it.”
That’s all it takes for Grandma Rose’s death to hit me and become real. It’s not that I’ve lost a grandmother or someone I was close to, but more that my father has suffered the loss of his mother. They had their issues, but now both of his parents are gone. If he’d been holding out any hope that they might one day put the past behind them and reconcile, the possibility has been snuffed out with her passing. And for that, I’m sorry. Whatever state their relationship was left in is how it will now remain.