just get a few of Laura’s things, so I can take them over to the clinic,” her father said, heading toward the bedroom. His voiced trailed down the hall as he moved. “Make yourself at home.”
“Okay,” her grandmother said, meekly, and Bailey watched as she moved to the middle of the living room and turned in slow circles. She could hear the grind and thud of her mother’s dresser drawers opening and closing, the thunk of the suitcase being dragged out of their closet, the whine of a zipper being drawn back. Usually, the whine of that zipper heralded the beginning of a mirthless vacation to a trendy destination, everyone squinting balefully into the sun until Laura found the mini bar, Curt found the right cable channels, and Bailey found herself curled around a paperback, lonely.
The grandmother stood, arms crossed, for a few more minutes, then leaned over and began stacking papers on the coffee table. As if that would do any good. She picked up a handful of empty soda cans and carried them into the kitchen. After a moment, there came the loud rattle of them dropping into the recycle bin. She came back, brushing her hands, and bent to pick up something in front of the couch. And then something else. And a third thing. She straightened, setting them all on the couch, then shrugged out of her cardigan and balled it up in one hand, used it to edge some dust off the table, and then the fireplace mantel.
Finally, with a shrug, the grandmother sat down on the couch, crossing and then uncrossing her arms uncomfortably, taking it all in, the disaster that the house had become.
And that was when her gaze drifted upward.
They locked eyes.
Bailey jolted, hugged her screaming knees tighter, lifted her head up straight, pushed her back harder against the wall. But there was no hiding up here, not where she was sitting. And that had been what she’d wanted, hadn’t it? To be so easily found, if only someone had been interested enough to look?
Neither of them spoke. For what seemed like ages, they just stared, each daring the other to be the first to say or do something, anything. Her breathing seemed loud in her ears. Her heart beat like drums in her chest. But she felt still, so very, very still.
Finally, noises tumbled down the hallway as her father came back, carrying a stuffed suitcase in one hand and a canvas bag in the other.
“I think I got it all,” he said. “Whatever’s not in here, she’ll just have to do without until she’s sober. Not like she’s going to any formals or anything.”
The grandmother stood. She grabbed her wadded-up, filthy cardigan, and faced him.
Bailey waited for it.
Waited for her grandmother to out her.
Squinched her eyes shut for the firestorm that would erupt from her father. Her fingers wrapped themselves around her book, a talisman against the storm.
“I picked up a bit,” was all the grandmother said, though. “It needs some real cleaning, but I didn’t think I’d have time to run the vacuum or anything like that. I can stay on a day . . .”
Her father shook his head. “What? Oh, that. No, no. I’ll take care of it. Soon as everyone gets settled.”
“If you’re sure.”
“I’m sure. You ready?”
Again, Bailey braced herself, and again there was nothing. The grandmother nodded her consent, and the two of them headed back out the front door, her father going out first in his typical chivalrous manner.
But aside from another quick glance up just before pulling the door closed behind her, the grandmother again did nothing.
Which was confusing.
And maddening.
She finally gets someone to notice her, and they don’t bother to say a word.
Why? Why was she so difficult to notice? Why couldn’t she be seen? Why did she have to resort to ridiculous tantrums? Why did she care so much?
Bailey turned and scooted backward on her butt, edging out from behind the rocker, straightening her legs out toward the loft rail. Her knees crackled as she straightened
“Okay,” her grandmother said, meekly, and Bailey watched as she moved to the middle of the living room and turned in slow circles. She could hear the grind and thud of her mother’s dresser drawers opening and closing, the thunk of the suitcase being dragged out of their closet, the whine of a zipper being drawn back. Usually, the whine of that zipper heralded the beginning of a mirthless vacation to a trendy destination, everyone squinting balefully into the sun until Laura found the mini bar, Curt found the right cable channels, and Bailey found herself curled around a paperback, lonely.
The grandmother stood, arms crossed, for a few more minutes, then leaned over and began stacking papers on the coffee table. As if that would do any good. She picked up a handful of empty soda cans and carried them into the kitchen. After a moment, there came the loud rattle of them dropping into the recycle bin. She came back, brushing her hands, and bent to pick up something in front of the couch. And then something else. And a third thing. She straightened, setting them all on the couch, then shrugged out of her cardigan and balled it up in one hand, used it to edge some dust off the table, and then the fireplace mantel.
Finally, with a shrug, the grandmother sat down on the couch, crossing and then uncrossing her arms uncomfortably, taking it all in, the disaster that the house had become.
And that was when her gaze drifted upward.
They locked eyes.
Bailey jolted, hugged her screaming knees tighter, lifted her head up straight, pushed her back harder against the wall. But there was no hiding up here, not where she was sitting. And that had been what she’d wanted, hadn’t it? To be so easily found, if only someone had been interested enough to look?
Neither of them spoke. For what seemed like ages, they just stared, each daring the other to be the first to say or do something, anything. Her breathing seemed loud in her ears. Her heart beat like drums in her chest. But she felt still, so very, very still.
Finally, noises tumbled down the hallway as her father came back, carrying a stuffed suitcase in one hand and a canvas bag in the other.
“I think I got it all,” he said. “Whatever’s not in here, she’ll just have to do without until she’s sober. Not like she’s going to any formals or anything.”
The grandmother stood. She grabbed her wadded-up, filthy cardigan, and faced him.
Bailey waited for it.
Waited for her grandmother to out her.
Squinched her eyes shut for the firestorm that would erupt from her father. Her fingers wrapped themselves around her book, a talisman against the storm.
“I picked up a bit,” was all the grandmother said, though. “It needs some real cleaning, but I didn’t think I’d have time to run the vacuum or anything like that. I can stay on a day . . .”
Her father shook his head. “What? Oh, that. No, no. I’ll take care of it. Soon as everyone gets settled.”
“If you’re sure.”
“I’m sure. You ready?”
Again, Bailey braced herself, and again there was nothing. The grandmother nodded her consent, and the two of them headed back out the front door, her father going out first in his typical chivalrous manner.
But aside from another quick glance up just before pulling the door closed behind her, the grandmother again did nothing.
Which was confusing.
And maddening.
She finally gets someone to notice her, and they don’t bother to say a word.
Why? Why was she so difficult to notice? Why couldn’t she be seen? Why did she have to resort to ridiculous tantrums? Why did she care so much?
Bailey turned and scooted backward on her butt, edging out from behind the rocker, straightening her legs out toward the loft rail. Her knees crackled as she straightened
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