Fated (The Soul Seekers #1)(11)
“How—how did you know?” she asks, her voice growing thready, thin. The words soon followed by: “Well no, I’m afraid you can’t speak to her. It’s—it’s not a very good time.”
I press closer, daring to peek around the door frame. Spying a glimpse of Jennika now slumped over the breakfast table, one hand propping up her head, while the other clutches the phone to her ear. Her words coming quickly, hard to follow, when she says, “She’s a smart and beautiful girl. She’s a lot like her father. She’s got my green eyes and fair complexion, but the rest is all him. I’m sorry you missed it, Paloma, I really, truly am. But now is not a good time. We’re going through a bit of a rough patch. There’s been an … incident. And while I—what?” Her spine straightens as she grips the phone tighter. “How could you possibly know about that?”
She turns toward the doorway, more as a precaution than having any real sense of my presence. But I’m quick to slip out of sight, biding my time until she pipes up again and I venture a peek.
She rocks the chair back on two legs, absently rolling the hem of her vintage Blondie concert tee between her forefinger and thumb. Jaw clenching as she nods, listens, nods again. Carrying on like that until I’m practically bursting with curiosity, wondering what the heck my long-lost grandmother might be confiding.
“Yes, I remember,” Jennika finally says, setting the chair right again and staring blankly at the table’s intricate zebra wood grain. “He loved you deeply. Respected you immensely. But he wanted to live his own life, his own way. He wanted a life outside of New Mexico. And now, after failing with him, you think you can get a second chance with Daire? Surely you’re joking—”
While the words sound strong, Jennika doesn’t. And I can’t recall one single time in all of our lives when I’ve seen her looking so lost and defeated.
“She’s been treated. Sedated. The first doctor in Morocco kept her heavily medicated, but it didn’t last. Nothing does. They just keep playing with the doses, trying to find something that clicks. They’re treating her like a guinea pig, and now they tell me they’re running out of choices. Claim they’re going to have to—” Her voice breaks as she covers her face with her hands. Taking a moment to steady herself before she straightens her spine and says, “They want to institutionalize her. Keep her under lock and key and heavy surveillance. And to be honest, I’m at my wit’s end. I don’t know what to do. I’ve taken some time off work, but soon enough I’ll have to return. I have bills to pay, a living to make, and it’s not like I can drag her along like I used to. She can’t fly, and even if she could, it’s not like I can keep her constantly drugged and restrained. And now you call. The last person I ever expected to hear from. Just out of the blue. How’s that for coincidence?” She laughs, but it’s not a real one, it’s more like a longing for one.
Her shoulders slump as she returns to heavy listening mode, her silence broken by occasional comments like “Herbs? Seriously? You think that’ll work?”
Followed by, “Paloma, with all due respect, you haven’t seen what I’ve seen—you have no idea what she’s capable of!”
And then, “So those are my choices? Really? Sixteen years of parenting and that’s what I’m left with? And excuse me for asking, but how can you be so sure? I hate to say it, but Django was just seventeen when you lost him!”
When she goes quiet again, I’m just about to bust in—just about to let her know I’ve heard every word—or at least Jennika’s part—and I’m not the least bit happy about it. They’re deciding my future without my consent. Not stopping to think that I might want a vote.
My arm outstretched, about to grab hold of her shoulder, really let her have it, when she turns, her smeary, red-rimmed eyes meeting mine, not the least bit surprised to find me lurking behind.
The phone dangling between long skinny fingers with bitten-down nails, her smile defeated, voice gone hoarse with unspent tears, as she says, “Daire, it’s your grandmother. She really needs to speak with you.”
four
“Close your window so I can crank up the heat—it’s cold out there.”
I glance over my shoulder long enough to shoot Jennika a scathing look, but I’ve been shooting her so many of them over the last few days it washes right over her. She’s grown as immune to my scowls as she has to my protests.
I bring my knees to my chest, allowing my heels to hang off the edge of the seat as my index finger prods the small square switch next to my armrest.
Pushing, then letting it go.
Pushing until it’s almost there—then lifting my finger and watching it pause.
The window rising and halting in annoyingly short little spurts, but she ignores that as well. Preferring to divert her attention to more pleasant things like driving within the lines and fiddling with the rental car’s radio—correctly assuming her refusal to acknowledge my game will bore me into obeying.
I force the window all the way up and shift toward the door until I can no longer see her. My shoulders hunched, arms hugging my knees, trying to make myself smaller, more distant, pretending that I’m not really here.
I wish I wasn’t here.
My forehead pressed flush to the window, I blow a small patch of foggy circles onto the glass as I say, “I can’t believe you’re doing this to me.”