“I’m sorry. I just...” her mother trailed off, her voice thick. “You won’t be a prisoner here. In fact, I’ll give you Abigail’s key until I have another one made. And you don’t have to go the fundraiser today. Everyone will understand.”
Abby’s father squeezed her mother’s shoulder—a sign of solidarity and support—before stepping forward.
“Why don’t I drive you to your place, Yoel? We’ll go pick up some more clothes from the house. Get some fresh air. Maybe grab some lunch?” he asked her grandfather, gesturing toward the door.
“Fine. I’ll stay a while longer. But you can stay in the car while I gather up my things.” Her grandfather’s glare might as well have shot daggers at her father. “I’m not helpless.”
“Deal.”
Abby’s mother sighed in relief. A minute later, her dad and grandfather left. In the absence of their presence, her mother turned and wandered into the sunroom off the foyer.
Abby remained at the bottom of the stairs, motionless and unsure of what to do with herself. The hunger in her belly dissipated as she followed her mother. Already seated in the rattan love seat, her mother stared a hole through the huge glass windows, her gaze focused on nothing at all.
Abby drew closer, pausing outside the French doors, which were propped open. She surveyed the room, remembering when they put on the addition how GG had helped her mother pick out all the plants, mixing blooms with shiny green leaves and foliage for a year-round display of color behind the glass. The spacious yard, with their luscious grass and the aqua waters of the swimming pool, served as a tranquil backdrop. Now, in the
midst of spring, GG’s green thumb was evident, more than ever, in their home. She had often joked her mother couldn’t keep a weed alive. What would become of their gardens now? Without GG, they’d probably be reduced to nothing but weeds.
She pushed the thoughts away before they formed hooks on her heart and cleared her throat to make her presence known. “No brunch today?” she asked, though the answer was obvious.
“No.” Her mother shook her head. She reached toward the coffee table and picked up a large mug. Steam curled and rose into the space in front of her as she gripped it in her hands. “At least my coffee’s still hot,” she murmured.
Her mother’s tired eyes took Abby in, swollen from the amount of time spent crying since GG passed.
Abby swallowed. “Things are going to be different now, aren’t they?”
“Many times, I’ve thought your GG was the glue that held this family together. Without her...” her mother trailed off as her voice cracked. She shrugged, like she had no clue what would happen to their family now.
“Grandpa seems quiet about it all.” An image of him sitting in the funeral home, stone-faced and silent in the face of his grief flashed through her mind.
“Yeah, well, that’s Dad. He hides everything he feels inside. Always has. If it weren’t for Mom growing up, I’d probably be a robot. She encouraged me to talk about my feelings too much. I’ve always wondered if that was out of frustration. The one person she wanted to share with her never did.” Shaking her head, she glanced at Abby. “Anyway...” Her mother sighed on the word, then lifted her mug to her lips. She took a sip.
“You’re worried about him, aren’t you?”
“I suppose I am. Your grandma always sheltered him, almost like a child, protecting him from the blows of life. And now that she’s gone...I don’t know. How do I know he’s coping, or that he’s okay, if I can’t see it for myself?”
Abby shifted on her feet, then took a seat across from her mother and played with the hem of her shirt. Was it wrong she didn’t want to talk about how anyone felt? Of course, she couldn’t tell her mother that. Here she was worried about her grandfather because he couldn’t verbalize his grief, and Abby wanted to shirk away at the mere mention of her own.
She picked a piece of lint off her pants, mulling over her mother’s question with herself in mind. “I guess you have to trust that if he needs you, he’ll tell you.”
“Abby, you’re okay, right?”
Her mother’s gaze latched onto hers—unblinking and too smart for her own good—because she knew Abby was just like him. Whether genetic or learned, she had a way of burying emotions and avoiding conflict.
“Sure I am,” Abby said, but her heart wasn’t in it.
Her thoughts drifted to the journal, and she wondered how to segue into what she really wanted to know.
“I know you’re worried about grandpa, but he’s kinda been through this before, hasn’t he? I mean, with his family? He’s familiar with loss, even if he never talks about it,” Abby said.
Her mother stared at her over the rim of her coffee cup. “Yeah. I’m not sure that makes it any easier though.”
“Maybe not, but why doesn’t anyone ever talk about what happened to him in the war?”
Her mother shrugged, letting out a shaky laugh. “Like I said, he avoids any sort of conversation about the past, his life, his family. He always has.”
“When that all happened to him, he was young, right?”
“A teenager—sixteen, seventeen, maybe.” Her mother nodded in confirmation.