“Gran?” I said. “Will you sit up? Will you join me for tea?” My voice was trembling. I was terrified. I’d never seen Gran so weak and diminished, as fragile as a baby bird.
Gran eventually sat up. She dabbed at her eyes with the polishing cloth.
“Oh,” she said. “Tea.”
We sat like that, Gran and me, on the floor, drinking tea, surrounded by Swarovski crystal animals and silver spoons. My mother’s photo was beside us, the absent third person at our tea party.
When Gran spoke next, her voice had returned, composed and steady. “Dear girl,” she said. “I’m sorry I was so upset. But not to worry, I’m feeling much better now.” She took a small sip from her cup and smiled at me. It was not her usual smile. It traveled only halfway across her face.
A question occurred to me. “Did she ever ask about me? My mother?”
“Of course she did, dear. When she’d call out of the blue, it was often to ask about you. I’d update her, of course. For as long as she’d listen. Sometimes that wasn’t very long.”
“Because she was unwell?” I asked. This was the word Gran always used to explain why my mother had left in the first place.
“Yes, because she was terribly unwell. When she called me, it was usually from the streets. But when I stopped providing funds, she stopped calling.”
“And my father?” I asked. “What happened to him?”
“Like I’ve said before, he was not a good egg. I tried to help your mother see this. I even called old friends to help me coax her away from him, but that proved ineffective.”
Gran paused and took another sip of tea. “You must promise me, dear girl, to never get mixed up with drugs.” Her eyes filled with tears.
“I promise, Gran,” I said.
I didn’t know what else to say, so I reached out and hugged her. I could feel her holding on to me in a whole new way. It was the only time I ever felt that I was giving her a hug, rather than the other way around.
When we separated, I didn’t know what the correct etiquette was. I said, “What do you say, Gran? When all else fails, tidy up?”
She nodded. “My dear girl, you’re a treasure to me. That you are. Shall we tackle this mess together?”
And with that, Gran was back. Perhaps she was dissimulating, but as we arranged all of her trinkets, freshly cleaned and polished, and put them back in the curio cabinet, she chirped and chattered on as though it were an ordinary day.
We never spoke of my mother again after that.
Here I am now, in the same spot as I was that day, surrounded by a menagerie of mementoes. But this time, I’m dreadfully alone.
“Gran,” I say to the empty room, “I think I’m in trouble.”
I arrange the photos on top of the curio cabinet. I polish each of Gran’s treasures and stow them safely behind the glass. I stand in front of the cabinet looking at everything inside. I don’t know what to do.
You’re never alone as long as you have a friend.
I’ve been managing on my own through most of this, but perhaps it really is time to call for help.
I go to the front door where I left my phone. I pick it up and dial Rodney.
He answers after the second ring. “Hello?”
“Hello, Rodney,” I say. “I hope I haven’t caught you at an inopportune moment.”
“All good,” he says. “What’s up? I saw you leave the hotel with the cops. Everyone’s talking, saying you’re in trouble.”
“I’m sorry to report that in this particular case, the gossip may be correct.”
“What did the police want?”
“The truth,” I say. “About me. About Giselle. Mr. Black didn’t die of an overdose. Not exactly.”
“Oh, thank God for that. What did he die of?”
“They don’t know yet. But it’s clear they suspect me. And maybe Giselle too.”
“But…you didn’t tell them anything about her, did you?”
“Not much,” I say.
“And you didn’t mention Juan Manuel or any of that, right?”
“What does he have to do with anything?”
“Nothing. Nothing at all. So…why are you calling me?”
“Rodney, I need help.” My voice cracks and I find it difficult to maintain my composure.
He goes quiet for a moment, then asks, “Did you…did you kill Mr. Black?”
“No! Of course not. How could you even—”
“Sorry, sorry. Forget I even said that. So how are you in trouble exactly?”