The Complication (The Program #6)(68)

My gram bites on her lower lip like she’s trying not to cry, and seeing her like this hurts me. I can’t watch her in pain. I can’t bear it.

I round the table and wrap my arms around her from behind. My small gram lays the side of her head on my arm and cries softly, murmuring how sorry she is for not telling me sooner. Tears drip down my cheeks, and I look over to my grandfather. He’s watching us, his head tilted as he cries too.

“Your mother,” he says, then stops himself. “Our daughter,” he corrects, acknowledging that she wasn’t my mother at all.

I straighten, my entire body shaking, and sit across from him at the table. Losing my mother doesn’t hurt like it should; she and I were never close. Not like I am with my grandparents.

“Athena isn’t a bad person,” Pop continues. “She had problems. She needed help, but rather than get it, she ran. She self-medicated. She lost her way. We wanted to keep you—” He winces, closing his eyes. “We wanted to keep Tatum with us. She lived with us for nearly five years. We were prepared to raise her. We wanted to. But Athena took her and cut off contact. We were in the process of getting custody when the police showed up one afternoon.”

His expression weakens, and Gram—sensing it—looks at him. She puts her fist to her mouth and nods for him to continue. I’ve stopped shaking, the feeling instead is weightlessness, an out-of-body moment.

“Two police officers stood on our doorstep with Athena,” Pop says. “She didn’t speak, and the officers were the ones who told us that our granddaughter had died. Tatum was alone. Her little, lifeless body all alone in some hospital morgue—” My grandfather chokes on his words, crying openly. My grandmother moans; I feel like my heart is getting ripped out. I’ve never seen this kind of ruin. I’ve never known it.

“She had . . . ,” he tries to say, but takes another moment to clear his throat and find his voice. “She had fallen into the swimming pool at the motel, somewhere in Phoenix. Athena had been drinking, and she didn’t notice Tatum had slipped out of the room. She heard another woman scream. The firefighters told the police you’d . . .” He stops again. “She’d been under water for at least fifteen minutes before she was pulled out. Paramedics pronounced her dead on the scene.”

“Athena wouldn’t call us,” my gram says, outstretching her arm across the table toward me. I meet her halfway and grip her hand. “She told the police to call us,” Gram says, “claiming that we were the ones who had custody. We didn’t bother explaining to the officers that day that the case hadn’t been settled yet. What was the point? Tatum was gone. We’d never get to see her sweet face again.” She closes her eyes, and I squeeze her hand.

“It wasn’t right,” Pop murmurs, and I turn to him. “But we were traumatized. This . . . unspeakable kind of grief. We didn’t think we could survive it. Physically or emotionally.”

“So I called Dr. McKee,” Gram says, wiping the tears off her cheeks. “He and I had worked together before; I knew he helped grief-stricken families. And I asked him to help us.” “Your grandfather tried to talk me out of it,” she says, and Pop nods.

“I told her no,” he agrees. “But when Arthur Pritchard showed up one evening, and I took one look at you—the little girl he brought with him . . .” He shakes his head. “You looked so much like her.”

I blink quickly at the thought of looking just like his dead granddaughter. But in their faces now, I see a couple who is still traumatized by their grief.

“We weren’t sure we could go through with it,” my gram continues. “We didn’t want a closer. But when you came to us as Tatum, it was like you were home. Like you never went away.”

“We considered going through the legal channels,” Pop adds. “But we didn’t know where he found you—we had no claim to you. We were scared we would lose you. And you didn’t remember your real family; you were so small.”

“Arthur Pritchard tampered with my memory,” I tell them. “I was small, but I’m sure I remembered something. It’s long gone now.”

“The grief department—Arthur,” Gram says, “knew how to fix the paperwork. And so we agreed to raise you. We struck a deal with Athena so she would stay out of your life. It hurt her too much to see you.”

I flinch at the thought, realizing I’m the ghost of her dead child. No matter how bad of a mom she is, she doesn’t deserve that. It adds an extra layer to every sidelong glance she gives me during the holidays. Every awkward silence when it’s just the two of us in a room.

“Athena’s been able to move on with her life,” Gram says. “She started a new family. And so did we—thanks to you.”

“I wasn’t a solution,” I say. “You should have sought help.”

“I know,” Gram says. “But I wouldn’t change a thing.” Her voice cracks. “I know that makes me a horrible person, but I can’t imagine the alternative. I can’t imagine a life without you.”

“Tatum,” my pop says softly, and I turn to him. “If I can swear one thing to you, it’s that you are and always have been the most important thing in the world to us. We’ve fought for you. And even though we’ve made mistakes”—he winces—“like with the Adjustment, we’ll never make another one. You’re a grown woman. We support you. We’ll do anything for you. All we can ask is that you try to forgive us. We may not deserve it, but we’re begging for it anyway.”