Me: I’m so fucking sorry.
My face is on fire, but the first tear that streaks down my cheek is hotter still.
Me: Miss you every fucking day.
Me: Why didn’t I listen to you? So stupid.
A mortifying sound breaks from me, and I squeeze my eyes shut, unable to face Aunt Josie. But I hear her rise, and then her hand is on my shoulder.
“Sweetheart, I’ll just be downstairs if you need me,” she whispers.
I don’t even hear her leave because I’m crying like a fucking baby.
I clear my throat but keep my eyes closed. What the hell else do I have to lose?
“How many times did you try to warn me?” I say aloud. There’s no response to my shameful words, just the shallow sound of Grandma Quincy’s breathing. “Anthony, I’d do anything…anything…to take back that night. If there was anything I could do to make it right, I’d do it.” My voice is strangled. It doesn’t even sound like me. But then this feeling as though my whole body is being wrung out like a dirty rag is one I’ve never had. And one I never want to repeat.
“Ma hates me. I’m sure you hate me too.” I say this and break down all over again, imagining he can hear me. Imagining this is how he feels. “I don’t deserve it, brother, but I ask your forgiveness.”
A rattling, rasping pull of breath has me opening my eyes. I quickly swipe them with my fists, and get to my feet. Grandma’s eyes are still closed, but she looks fitful now, frowning hard, her eyes twitching.
Probably my fault. I should have kept quiet.
I clear my throat again. “Sorry, Grandma,” I mutter. I wonder if she’s in pain. If I should call the nurse.
She takes another rattling breath and speaks on a tired exhale. “He can’t… hear you.”
I let go a sigh, feeling ridiculous. Of course my brother can’t hear me. He’s dead.
“He can’t hear you, Anthony,” she says, the words just above a whisper. But then a smile spreads across her face, as though she’s illuminated from the inside. A rush of chills falls down my spine. “He doesn’t know we’re… having such a wonderful time.”
“What?”My voice cracks on the word in a way it hasn’t since I was thirteen. “What’d you say, Grandma?”
She just keeps smiling in that uncanny way as if she can’t hear me either.
“Grandma, what did you say?” I ask again, so fixed on her I don’t hear the footsteps that halt in the doorway.
“What the hell are you doing here?”
I jump at the sound of Ma’s voice. As if she’s caught me red-handed. As if I’m guilty.
Which, of course, I am.
I swallow and force myself to hold her ice cold stare. “I was just leaving.” And I would, but she’s glaring at me, standing like a monument of disdain in the middle of the doorway.
Her eyes rake my face, and I know she sees the evidence of my weeping. Hell, my lashes are still wet. She scowls.
“Save your crocodile tears for someone else,” she hisses, crossing her arms over her chest. “And if you think you’re stealing that house from under us, you’re out of your goddamn mind.”
It’s like a punch aimed right at my chin. My head snaps back almost as far.“What?”
She takes three steps toward me, and I’d bet money she’s about to slap me across the face. And I’m going to let her. “Don’t think I don’t see you for the thieving bastard you are.”
“Ma—”
“Don’tcall me that.” She speaks through gritted teeth, but now that she’s right in front of me, I something else in her eyes. She hates me. That’s clear. But there’s heartbreak too. Calling herMadoesn’t make her angry. It hurts her.
“I’m sorry, Lottie,” I whisper. “It won’t happen again.”