by Natasha Deen
“Maybe your roommate—”
“Jamel.”
“Jamel has a point. This isn’t the time or place for a conversation like this.”
“This is the perfect place.” Pops patted a patch of bed next to him. “I’m sick, and you’re worried about me. You’re not going to kill me while I’m in this delicate condition and there’s a witness present.”
She frowned, folding her arms in front of her, and leaned her weight against the sink counter. “I’m not going to kill you. I may maim you in the future, but I don’t have plans for patricide. You lied to me, you deceived me, and now Mason St. John will take our farm.” As she said it, the room turned black and began to sway as strength left her legs.
“Lady, do you need a doctor?” Jamel’s voice echoed, as though coming from a long tunnel.
She swallowed, hard, and pushed the vertigo from her. “I’m fine. I just need air.” Her wobbling steps lurched her to the exit.
“Aya, don’t go.”
She leaned her forehead against the door, fighting against the rage that wanted her to lash out, to inflict damage. “I have to go—I’m so...angry at you.” She whirled to face her grandfather, pain thrumming through her body. “How could you? This was my livelihood—”
“It was your coffin.”
“You had no right—”
“I had every right.” His words snapped the air. “I’m your grandfather, and I will protect you from harm—even if that means protecting you from your own destructiveness.”
Anger, betrayal, hurt, fear, they howled in her ears, roaring with a force and might that could fell a forest. “I can’t do this, not now.” She bit the words out and turned back to the door.
“Ayashe Paxton Michaels, you come back here. Now.” Pops’ voice vibrated with a stern authority she didn’t dare ignore.
Her fingers loosened their grip on the handle, but her composure lost its grip on stoic resolve. The tears poured in a torrent. Thick and unrelenting, they burned her throat, and made her eyes sting. “How could you do it?” she whispered. “You’re my grandfather.”
“I am, and I love you.”
She heard the tears in his voice and they pushed her feet forward. When her blurred vision ascertained she’d reached the bed, she hauled herself to the spot by his feet. “You’re supposed to support and protect me.”
“I did.”
“How? By selling out my dream to some money-grubbing pariah?”
“I would never sell your dreams—I sold your deception.”
She sniffed, and he reached over, grabbed a box of tissues off the nightstand and pushed it toward her. “A dairy farm was never your dream. It was your mom and dad’s.”
“But I wanted to fulfill it for them, that was my dream.”
“Aya.” A note of disgust mixed with pity. “It’s not the place of a child to live the goals of their parents. We are here to fulfill our purpose, not someone else’s. Here—put this blasted railing down and come closer. Take my hand.”
She did. He wiped the tears from her cheeks and smiled with a love so pure and true, it broke and mended her heart, all at once.
“I was afraid for you. Most businesses fail within five years of start up, and the farm was never going to be a success. With the interest rates, the mortgage and the loans, we were a bank letter away from homeless.” He squeezed her hand, the rough calluses and hard knuckles pressing into her skin. “You weren’t being smart by refusing Mason, you were being stupid.”
She flinched; the wounds inflicted by the previous hours still fresh, spasmed under Pops’ words.
“It’s true.” His words, unrelenting, raced with unerring speed and found their mark in her heart. “So I called him. I asked him to come out and meet you. It was me, not him, who concocted this stupid plan. He’s a good man, Aya.”
“He lied to me.”
“Don’t blame him for my mistakes.” Pops’ voice held iron. “He wanted to tell you—I begged him to stay silent.”
“That doesn’t make it right.”
“Think about it from his side, Aya. He’s the one who was ripped and torn by this—wanting to help you, needing to help his father.”
Her gaze jerked to his. “What does his father have to do with this?”
“He wants the farm for his dad.” He chuckled, but sadness filled the laugh. “The two of you, so similar and so different. Both of you trying to make the dreams of your parents come true and sacrificing your happiness in the process.”
“How can you support him in his endeavors and argue mine?”
“Because your parents are dead. His dad is dying. Keith St. John’s cancer is back for the second time, and Mason’s afraid.” Pops’ blue eyes grew soft. “What do you know about his dad?”
“Nothing—only that Na—Mason loves him.”
“Keith was to Mason, what you are to Spencer. His mother abandoned him, his father worked menial, back-breaking jobs to keep them together and put Mason through school.”
“I don’t want to hear any of this—”
“Why? Because you want to hate him, blame him?”
“Because he lied—whether at your behest or not, and I don’t know what in the past three months has been real.”
“Don’t play virtuous. Even if he’d come to you, honest and open, you would have rejected any offer he made.”
“That’s not—”
“Don’t lie to me, Aya, and don’t lie to yourself.”
She had to lie to herself, though, had to pretend she could forget about the way he’d made her feel, the life and vibrancy he’d brought to her every day.
“He loves you—imagine how it must have felt for him—”
“No, no.” She pulled from his embrace, hysteria bubbling too close to the surface of her emotions. “I can’t think about this—”
“Shh, shh.” Pops reached out, his fingers encircling her wrist. “Okay, one crisis at a time.”
Crisis. It brought her priorities back into line. Pops was the issue, not her. “How are you feeling?”
“I’m fine. I wish they’d let me go home.”
“Are you okay with going to Texas?”
Her grandfather smiled. “You may not want to hear this, but Mason cares for me, and I like him. A lot. He made the offer, I accepted. This is between the two of us—so don’t you go start making plans to pay him back for anything.”
“What about...the farm?” Her head pounded as the percussion beats for a move and caring for a sick relative began to boom.
“I think we should arrange for a mover to come in during the time we’re in Texas. The doctors think I’ll be there for at least a month. That should be sufficient. Destina will oversee it.”
Aya shook her head. “She should be with you. We all know about the relationship, this isn’t the time to pretend any different. I’ll take care of the arrangements.” The tears welled up, once more. “I lost the farm.”
“No. You gained your life back.”
“That land’s been in our family for generations, and I lost it.”
“It’s dirt and grass. Your ancestors worked it to create a life and a future for their children and their children’s children. But it was a method to an end, not an end to itself.”
“What will happen to my cows?”
“Mason will continue with the organic dairy farming. He’s got more capital to invest into it than we ever did.”
Weariness overwhelmed her. “I need some time to think and process this. Let me go. I’ll send in Destina and Spencer—do you want to see Mason, as well?”
“If he wants to come.”
She rose from the bed and kissed his forehead. “I love you, please be safe. I’ll be wandering around the hospital. If you need me, just page me, okay?”
“I love you, too. I’m glad we worked this out.”
“We didn’t work out anything, old man. I’m still mad as hell, and I’ll probably still maim you.” She sighed. “But you are my grandfather and you love m
e, and I just need some time.”
When she returned to the waiting room, she found Spencer and Destina, but no Mason.
“Mom, Mason said he thought you’d want some alone time. He’ll meet us in Texas.”
“Okay, sweetie.” She passed a tired hand along his hair and smiled. “Go see your great-grandpa.”
Destina leaned in and whispered, “Mason knows you’re very angry. He said he’s sorry, he never meant to hurt you.”
Platitudes, the last thing she needed. “Go see Pops.”
Destina’s eyes darkened with worry. She glanced from Aya to the door and back again.
“It’s fine, really. I need time by myself, anyway.”
She leaned in as her friend rose to kiss her cheek. Then she curled into a ball on the couch and settled in for a long, sleepless night, hard questions, and even harder answers.
****
The next day, Spencer and Destina went to Houston while Aya remained to organize the move. When her parents had died, she locked their bedroom door, and turned a blind eye to their shoes and coats in the hall closet. On the first anniversary of their death, she bought cardboard boxes, and in forty-eight hours worth of tears, prayers, and whispered goodbyes, she packed and gave away her parents’ possessions.
This move, shoving her entire life into recycled pulp boxes did not afford the luxury of time or emotional blindness. Yet, each time she went into a room to begin packing, she’d find herself an hour or two later, still with the first item in her hand and the box empty. Even when she went into the storage room where they kept seasonal decorations and rarely-used items, she found herself incapable of doing anything. Each pull of the packing tape squealed her failure and her stupidity.
Three days of stalled attempts and she gave up. After calling Drake’s Moving Services, she arranged for them to come in, pack every single item and move it into storage. Her inability to deal with her own possessions ranked as yet another failure, and haunted her as she boarded the plane to Texas.
After touchdown, she hailed a cab and headed to the Resort Plaza, where Mason had arranged for a suite for her, Spencer, and Destina. She politely refused the bellhop’s offer for assistance, and with the décor of sumptuous furniture and gleaming chandeliers barely registering in her senses, made her way to the room. The card slid into its slot with a quiet swish and she stepped inside.
“Mom!”
Spencer launched himself from the white sofa and sped toward her. The shroud covering her heart fled at the sight of her son. She tossed her duffel bag to one side and ran to meet him. Sweeping him up in her arms, she hugged him tight, the sweet, familiar feel of his small body a comfort and a blessing.
“You must have missed me,” she said. “No complaining about the hugging.”
“I did. Desperately.”
“Me, too.” She nuzzled his soft cheek. “Why aren’t you at the hospital?”
“Visiting hours close at two. The patients have to nap. We can go back at four.”
The click of a bedroom door sounded and Destina came into the white and blue living room, her hair askew and her clothing rumpled. Sleep fled from her face as her gaze came to rest on Aya.
“Gracias a Dios.”
Aya wrapped her in a hug. “I’m here. How’s Pops?”
She laughed. “Driving the nurses crazy. His angiogram has been—bumped. Two Wednesdays from now.”
“A two-week delay—why the hold up?”
“His heart attack was muy mild. The more serious cases go before him.”
“I suppose that makes sense.” She sighed.
“Are you tired? Do you want to rest before we go back to the hospital?”
“I’m okay, but I wouldn’t mind a shower.”
“Mom, you can take my room. I can sleep out here, on the pull out sofa.”
A smile lit her lips as she saw the excitement in his eyes. “You’ve been waiting to pull the bed out, haven’t you?”
“Yes. Destina said I couldn’t do it until you came.”
“Okay. Go for it. I’m going to get unpacked. Where’s your room?” She headed in the direction he pointed.
The bedroom was a suite unto itself. A small cluster of chairs bordered a fireplace, the bathroom—complete with Jacuzzi—lay off to the side, and a wall of windows framed the room in light and warmth. Give credit where it was due, she thought. Mason had done his best to ensure their comfort. Too bad he hadn’t given the same diligence to ensuring the well-being of her heart.
She tramped down the surge of love that swelled in her breast. But her feelings would not be denied by pride or wounded dignity. She loved him, desperately, and she missed him so much every molecule ached.
“Mom? Are you busy?”
She looked at the open doorway, where Spencer stood. “No, come on in, honey. What’s up? Did you get the sofa out?”
“Yeah.” His eyes flashed with an excited light. “It’s pretty cool.”
She tossed the duffle bag on to the beige duvet cover. It bounced and rolled on the mattress. Aya unzipped it, and began to pull out her clothes.
“The nurses say that Pops should stay calm and happy.”
“Good luck with that one.”
“And we shouldn’t do anything to upset him.”
A hesitant tone in his voice stilled her hands. She turned to him. “I agree.”
“Well, I’m just wondering...” He reached into the bag, pulled out her hairbrush, and kept his eyes from hers.
She covered his hand with hers. “What are you wondering?”
He looked up, his brown eyes full of torment. “Are you still mad at him?”
“Oh, honey.” She rubbed her forehead. “Yes, I’m still angry. But I love him and he knows that. Sometimes adults disagree, but I’m not going to fight with him. What’s done is done, and we have to deal with the consequences.”
“But I don’t understand why you’re mad. He was just taking care of you.”
“I’m an adult. I can take care of myself.”
“Don’t we always need people to love and help us?”
“Yes, but...” She stopped before the irritation she felt poured out on him. Taking a breath, she exhaled her impatience. “It’s a little different in this case, honey. He interfered where he shouldn’t have.”
“Because you were trying to honor grandma and grandpa.”
“Exactly. I wanted to do right by them, and now I feel like I can’t.” She pulled him on to her lap, and rested her head next to his.
“Is it very important to honor your parents when they die?”
“I think so.” Silence, as he played with her fingers.
“Does that mean I should take glass blowing lessons?”
“What?” She spun him around to face her. “Why would you do that?”
“Because that’s your dream.”
“You’ve lost me.”
“You’re trying to fulfill your parents’ dream because they can’t. What if you die before you can sell your stuff? Shouldn’t I do it for you?”
“No, of course not. Honey, you don’t even like fine arts.”
“So? Pops always says you don’t know much about the business of farming, but that didn’t stop you from trying.”
“It’s different for me.” Impatience and irritation spread their black wings and took to the skies, but even the vast span of their feathers could not block the bright pinprick of comprehension beginning to shine on her consciousness.
“Why? I’m your kid. You were their kid. If we’re supposed to honor our parents, then what kind of child am I if I don’t take glass-blowing lessons?”
“You’re the best kind of kid.” She wrapped her arms around him and began to rock. “I love you with everything that’s in me to love. If I died and looked down from heaven to see you trying to live my life, instead of your own...” A strange prickle of awareness crawled along her skin, coating her in a thin cocoon, covering her eyes, her senses, and her thoughts. Then it shattered. A wind swept throug
h her mind, clearing out her old philosophies and leaving her gazing at her life with new sight and understanding.
“Spencer, I want you to listen to me very carefully. I want you to pursue your dreams, do the things that make you happy.”
“But what about you and grandma and grandpa?”
“I was wrong, honey. Very, very wrong, and I owe so many people a big apology.”
“Who?”
“You, for one. I’m sorry I was so focused on my past that I didn’t see how I affected your future.”
He squeezed her arms and patted her cheek. “It’s okay, Mom. I forgive you.”
“That was quick.”
“Life’s too short to hold grudges.”
Her laughter mixed with her tears and made a wet, snuffling sound.
“Who else do you have to say sorry to?”
“Pops. Mr. St. John.”
“You mean Nate?”
“His name is Mason.”
Spencer slid off her lap. “Doesn’t matter. Shakespeare said that a rose by any other name would still smell as sweet. I miss him—Nate-Mason.” At the doorway, he turned to face her. “Do you think he’ll still be my friend?”
He asked the question casually, but the hope in his eyes yanked at her heart. “I’ll ask.”
“Okay.” He played with the gold doorknob. “I know we’re here for Pops and everything, but...do you mind if I call Jessica?”
She smiled. “Sure.”
“Okay.” He grinned and disappeared into the living room.
****
“I get it, now.”
“Get what?” Pops shifted in the bed and patted the spot next to him.
Aya took the seat, then gingerly navigated the sheets to lay her head against his chest. “I understand what you were saying about dreams, parents, and children.”
“And what brought about this epiphany?”
“Spencer wanting to take glass-blowing lessons so he could live out my life.”
He snorted. “That kid. He’s got the same over-active sense of family duty that you do.”
“He’s my son, all right.” She raised her head and looked into her grandfather’s eyes. “I’m so sorry, Pops. I was trying to do right by them.” Tears rushed to the surface and she blinked them away.
