Page 8 of All of You

I grab some plates and turn away from mom, so she doesn’t see me roll my eyes. “No, I was on the sidewalk. I got Anderson ice cream and we were walking back to the car.”

“And she was just outside?” Mom asks.

“Jeez, is this an interrogation?”

Mom shakes her head and resumes chopping vegetables. “Just curious.”

I bite my bottom lip. I’m trying to be a good big brother but she’s not making it easy. In fact, she’s making it downright impossible.

“Seriously, she was out front you know, watering her plants or whatever and we said hi, and she just mentioned she needed some help. I thought a job would be good. Plus, you’re on vacation next week so Anderson won’t be alone, right?” I glance at her. “I mean, I can tell her you said no.”

Exasperated, she stops chopping. “Well, that wouldn’t be very Christian of you, would it? You can’t make a commitment and then back out. It’s fine. Just make sure you write down on the calendar when your shifts are, so I know where you are.”

“Yes Ma’am,” I answer.

Four

Delia

There was a moment when we stepped into the house, that Heath pulled my mom away and a heated albeit whispered discussion ensued. I strained to hear but the only thing I caught was awhat the hell are you doing hereand a muffled sob from my mother.

I took their reunion time to poke around the living room. Everything was old. Outdated. Worn in. Like he’d lived here all his life. I wondered where my Grandmother was. Maybe Thursday night she had bridge club or volunteered with animals. Even better, maybe there was an art studio on the property and she’d waltz in, disheveled yet eccentric just in time for dessert. If there was dessert.

Even though Heath looks at me with sadness in his eyes I enjoy talking to him. He pulled an apple pie that he’d madefrom the fridge and we ate roasted pork tenderloin which he commented we were lucky he had cooked today because otherwise, he wouldn’t have had enough food.

Then he shows me a picture of a small yellow flower that he painted in the backyard. He says my name when calling me over to look at the painting. And I like that. The sound of my name from his lips. I’m still rolling with anger at my mom though. She sits in one of the dining room chairs all crumpled in on herself looking small and childlike. She’s barely uttered an entire sentence since we entered the house.

“Delia,” Heath says. “What grade are you in?” I have a grandfather. An actual living relative and I’m sitting in his house here with him in the flesh. My brain can barely make sense of it all. I can’t wipe the smile from my face. I have so many questions.

I smile. “I’ll be a senior this year.”

“Do you play any sports? In any clubs? Your mother here was captain of the cheerleading squad and did all the musicals.” He looks at my mom before scrubbing a hand down his face.

I chance a look at mom.What the hell? Cheerleading? I can’t even picture it.She doesn’t meet my gaze. “I…um…I usually join the swim team. I really love swimming.”

Heath slaps the table with a lazy grin. “That’s great. It’s important to be part of a team. Teaches a lot of good lessons.”

Mom cringes at his words. I know she thinks teamwork and other club activities are breeding grounds for hive-minded sheeple. I don’t know what to say so I don’t say anything. I just look between the two of them.

“I think we should go now, Dad.” Mom’s voice is soft andquiet. “Dinner was great. Thank you.” She pushes herself out of her chair and I do the same.

“This was…” I stumble trying to say the right thing. “This was really great.”Ugh. Lame Delia, really great?“I mean…”

Heath holds up a hand to stop me. “It was a pleasure meeting you finally.”

My breath freezes in my throat. “Finally?” I squeak. I look to Mom and then back to Heath. “You knew about me?”

Heath freezes, his expression a mix ofoh shitandIs this girl daft.

Mom swoops me under her arm. I look to mom as her face creases with worry, an expression on her I’m not familiar with. She is the queen of worry-free. “We really should go now.”

She turns us, me still tucked under her arm and directs us into the hallway and out the front door as if she’s taken the route a million times and it occurs to me that perhaps shehas.

On the bottom step of the front porch I hesitate, leaving her on the walkway and me towering above her on the step.

“You grew up here didn’t you?” I ask.

Mom looks at the door behind me before bringing her gaze back to mine. “Come on Delia, we’ll talk at home.”