Whisper Me This(81)

“We’ll have to watch them. Make sure they heal.”

It hurts too much to look at him, and I turn back to the drawers, throwing obviously dirty clothes into a pile on the floor and rummaging for clean ones.

“Laundry is definitely on the agenda. Here we go. Clean pair of jeans and a T-shirt. These socks pass the sniff test. Do you need help getting dressed?”

“I’m not a child,” he says, which I choose to take as an assurance that he can dress himself.

“Okay. Holler if you need anything.”

My feet drag me back to the kitchen and Greg. Elle is down on her knees, scrubbing the floor with the dishrag.

“Thanks, baby.” I keep Greg in my peripheral vision while I load the filter for a fresh pot of coffee. He’s bent over paperwork spread out on the table and starts in talking as if there’s never been a gap in the conversation, as if the horrible meltdown with Dad never even happened.

“We’ve got a couple of Realtor offices to choose from. I spoke to Karen at Frontier, and she sounded like she knows what she’s doing. I’ll give you her number.”

“We’re not selling the house.”

I didn’t know I’d made the decision until the words came out of my mouth, but they have the ring of truth.

“Oh my God, Maisey. Really?”

“He doesn’t want to.”

“Of course he doesn’t. But he’s hardly fit to make decisions. He can’t possibly take care of himself.”

“He was completely clear last night.” I focus my attention on the stream of water running into the coffee pot, as if it is the most important item in the universe.

“That’s how dementia is when it starts. Patches of clarity and stretches of confusion and disorientation. It’s going to get worse, not better.”

“We don’t know that, Greg. Dr. Margoni says it’s possible he’s just confused right now because of grief and shock.”

“And maybe you’re in denial.” His words hang between us, harsh and uncompromising.

Unwanted tears blur my eyes, and I can barely see to pour the water into the reservoir. Some of it misses, puddling on the counter.

“Look, I’m sorry,” Greg says, as I wipe up my mess. “Of course you’re in denial. Your mom died suddenly. The last thing in the world you want is to lose both parents. Which is why it would be best to let me take care of things.”

“No.”

I turn to face him, leaning against the counter for support. “My parents. My job. I’m grateful for your advice and your help, but he wants me to take care of things, and I will.”

“Maisey—”

“Let me finish, Greg. Just this once. Let me talk. There is no urgency to sell the house or make Dad move. He’s better here. It makes sense for me to stay here for a bit until things settle out. I’ll let my apartment go so I have no ongoing expenses elsewhere.”

“And Elle?”

“I’m staying here,” she chirps. “Grandpa and Mom need me.”

“You have school.”

“School is out next week. Do you know what happens during the last week of school? Nothing. Busywork stuff.”

“This is an adult conversation, Elle. Please don’t argue.”

“It’s a conversation about me! I think I deserve to—”

“Enough. If you can’t hush and let us talk, you need to leave the room.”

He doesn’t yell or raise his voice, and there’s nothing horribly wrong with the words. What’s all kinds of wrong is the tone he uses, the same dismissive tone he uses on me, as if my opinion is a slight thing not worth his consideration. Hearing him speak like that to Elle shrivels me on the inside.

Elle, stronger than I am, plants her feet, lifts her chin, and says, “I don’t like it when you talk to me like that.”

The slap comes out of nowhere. No anger, no warning, delivered so rapidly I blink and doubt what I saw. But nothing else makes that same dull thwack but flesh on flesh, and an angry red splotch marks Elle’s cheek.

Greg turns back to his papers as if nothing momentous has just happened. “I suggest making Walter an appointment with a psychologist for competency testing,” he says, “although if we can get him to sign power of attorney papers during a period of clarity, that might be easier. Chances are good nobody will look too deeply into whether he was competent when he signed. At least, as long as the police continue to leave him alone.”

As my shock dissipates, my anger increases.

Elle hasn’t moved an inch. Her back is ramrod straight, her chin is still tilted up, but she sniffles, despite her attempt to blink back tears. The last thing in the world she’ll want right now is sympathy or a rescuer.

“Elle, would you please go check on Grandpa?”

She accepts the option clause I’ve given her, dashing out of the room and down the hallway. Greg glances up, eyebrows lifting in surprise when he catches my glare.

“What?”

“Do you make a habit of hitting her?”

“Only so far as she makes a habit of sassing me.”

I try to keep my voice level. “Was that sassing? It sounded like a legitimate request to me.”

“Oh for God’s sake, Maisey. Somebody needs to discipline that child. If it wasn’t for me, she’d be spoiled rotten.”