The Truth About Us
Needing to do something with her hands, Abby poured herself a glass of water from the carafe on the table. Her thoughts flickered to seeing her grandfather in the backyard this morning. She took a sip, unsure of whether she should say something. Should she defend him? What would she say? He was just at his house digging up things in the backyard? That could hardly be considered a road trip. Of course, she’d have no explanation for why she was driving past his house when it was in the opposite direction of the school.
“Yeah. Just ask him,” her mother said. “When I found out he had gone back to his house today, he also confessed to traveling clear to Newberry yesterday.”
Abby choked, spluttering as the icy water trickled into her windpipe. Tears filled her eyes, and her lungs burned as she coughed.
Her mother exhaled and placed her hands on her hips. “Gosh, Abigail. Slow down. You’ll choke to death before you die of thirst.”
“Sorry,” she croaked, as her eyes watered.
Newberry? Newberry!
Taking a moment to compose herself, she inhaled through the fire burning the back of her raw throat. If she hadn’t thought Lawson’s death and the secret were connected before, she certainly did now.
Unable to pass up the opportunity for questions, she urged herself to relax, to show no sign of how badly she wanted answers.
Glancing over at her grandfather, she watched him as she asked, “What’s in Newberry?”
Other than the place a certain private investigator was murdered.
“That’s what I would like to know,” her mother chimed in, glaring at him.
He remained silent, eating his meal like he hadn’t even heard them.
“One week. Only a week has passed since Mom died, and you’re off driving over two hundred miles from the house just for the scenery? It’s completely unacceptable,” her mother added.
Abby raised a hand, signaling her mother to stop while she caught up. She stared at her grandfather, hoping for some sign, some clue as to the truth. Did GG send him letters, too? Was he also trying to unravel her secret?
“Grandpa, why were you driving so far away?”
Her grandfather slammed a fist on the table, and his eyes filled with tears. When he spoke, his voice trembled, whether from anger or despair, she had no idea. “I was visiting one of the places your grandmother and I used to visit, that’s all. I may be old, but I’m not senile and I can still get around. It’s crazy they think I can’t drive.”
He swallowed hard, moisture in his eyes, and for a moment, Abby froze in fear, afraid he might cry. She had no idea what she might do if he did.
“You need to talk about it, Dad,” her mother said. “You’re like a ghost, hiding in your room all day, and when you do come out, you’re moping, but you don’t show any real emotion. You’re like a stone.”
Her mother turned away from them, her voice cracking on the words. “And Abby...she’s just like you, holding everything inside. I mean, I haven’t seen her shed one tear since GG died, and they were closer than any of us combined! They shared everything.”
Abby opened her mouth to protest, but the knife twisting in her heart had plunged too deep.
Her mother pointed at him. “My whole life you were like a statue, so unfeeling, no emotion. I know you went through hell, but you can’t shove it all inside forever. And now the one person who taught me it was okay to express how I feel is gone, and you...you won’t talk to me. You won’t talk about it at all! Instead, you’re off doing who knows what.”
“Mom.” Abigail stood and reached out to her, but her mother stepped away, wiping her eyes. “Maybe you should—”
“I know Gloria is dead.” Her grandfather’s voice cut the tension like a steel blade—calm and smooth yet razor sharp.
Abby turned. His turbulent eyes stared back at them, his face creased in grief.
“The one woman I loved in this world is gone. After the war, when I met her, she became everything. She was all I had. And it was enough, but now she’s been taken from me, too. Do you know how that might feel?”
He stood on shaking legs, slightly hobbled over from the arthritis that filled his knees and back—remnants from the physical strain on his body during his time in the camps.
His lips trembled as he pressed them together like he could force back all his emotion. Blinking, he reigned in the moisture in his eyes. A part of her wanted to go to him, to wrap his frail body up in her arms and shield him from her mother’s frustration, her sadness. Because her feelings weren’t his responsibility, and if Abby
disagreed with anything her mother said, it was that her grandfather had a right to cope in his own way, even if that meant shelving his grief. She knew what it was like to want to wrap your feelings up and place them on the highest shelf. Was that really so wrong? Why did he have to—she have to—grieve in the way her mother thought appropriate?
But this wasn’t Abby’s war, so she kept quiet.
Abby stood, the buffer between two of the people she loved most, having no idea what to do or say to alleviate the tension circulating in the space between them. It was all she could do to ignore the lump in the back of her own throat.