Grandmother Knows

Two

Two Weeks later

My father's at work. On the television screen, fake-happy, his suit pressed and stiff. Like him. He sits mechanical, like a board is screwed into his spine, the wrinkles on his face hidden under thick stage makeup.

"Since your arrest, have you thought of harming yourself at all?" he asks the disturbingly thin model. They sit opposite of one another in basic gray armchairs, the woman's eyes vacant, fresh out of her latest stay in rehab.

Sometimes I watch my father's program, but only when I start to miss the man that he used to be.

The dad that he was, before the sudden lift in his career, he was there. He was present, his thoughts were in the moment in front of him, not somewhere else.

I mute the sound, his Hollywood voice is too much to bare. It's practiced, and plastic. Instead I just watch him in silence, I watch him smile. You don't see that smile in our home anymore, in fact you barely see him at all.

There was a time when my happy little family would go on happy little picnics, and have a happy little time. Now, since my mother died he hides in the bowels of his office. Only coming out of his hole for breakfast, one of his few efforts to engage in "family time". I turn off the TV with a click of anger. A harsh, "you cut me out I'll cut you off" push of the power button.

I go into a mid-level depression, and sink into the deep tub. It's hot steaming water casing me like a sad little sausage as I ease my rear to the bottom. The water spills over the ledge, falling into a second basin. Over flowing tubs were a hot feature in LA mansions when our "humble" abode was built.

Standing proud in the Hollywood Hills, the floor to ceiling windows lookout over Los Angeles. My mother had protested, and pressed that the house was simply too much. Too ritzy for her taste, but my father was resilient "You can't get this view in the valley." he told her. Two days later they made an offer, an offer of unthinkable amounts. If they had added up the money inside the pockets of each resident in their previous small town, it still wouldn't have been enough.
I turn the faucet off with my foot, and wallow in self pity. The magnitude of my life's crashing events hits me all at once. I've always been good at being the strong one, I have to for Max. But sometimes grief can be wiggle it's way through the cracks of your guard and penetrate you like a smooth blade, sometimes it's just a wicked twist of a rusty kitchen knife.
The water slithers up my face as I go under, and my eyes burn as I wash away my tears. I hold my breath as long as I can, then come back up for air. Splashing the floor as I catch my breath. Relaxed and soaking, I rest my head on the neck pillow and close my eyes.

I dream, clear as crystal: My father sits at his office desk, wearing his current suit. He's on set at the studio, the cocaine addicted model from his interview has her mouth at his ear. Her lips peck at the lobe, then his neck. "Is this ok?" She breathes heavily. My father squirms in his seat, and adjusts his tie pulling at it to catch his breath.
"I won't tell if you won't." He says kissing her. The dream is so real that I can smell the woman's thick layered perfume, it reeks of vanilla. The steaming affair wakes me to a splashing fit. I flail my arms and legs forgetting I was in a bathtub.

I wipe my face, and get out of my bath. Wrapped in a towel, I return to my room and turn the TV back on. His show is over, replaced by the nightly news.

'What was that?' I think. I guess it's natural for a teenage girl, who's lost her mother to fear her father moving on. But the dream was so real, in front of your face real.
I pull on a night gown and tiptoe across the hall to Max's room. It's dark in the house, but light beams from under his closed door. I knock, he doesn't answer so I crack the door.
He's asleep, his mouth open wide and drooling on his pillow. He had fallen asleep watching our fathers show, also muted "You too?" I think. In his eleven years, Max only knew Old Dad for the short of his infancy. By the time he could walk, Scott was signing his contract with the studio. Then the makeover crew came along, and warped our father into the image he is today.

I give Max a kiss on the head, pull his blanket over him, and turn the lights out. Making sure to leave the nightlight on.
The house feels empty, I stand at the large windows looking over the city. It's alive below as I sip warm milk, honey added for sweetness just like my mother would make.

My mother's gone, and I failed her. "Died of natural causes", my Nana's death certificate read. I promised to protect her, but how can you protect someone from nature?
But what did she mean that she "knew it", and what was with my grandmothers glasses? I tell myself that it was a delusion brought on by stress, but it was as real as the dreams I've had since that day. Dreams of my parents; in the hospital on the day I was born. My probation officer, Simon in his apartment, smearing ugly red lipstick on his lips. They're vivid and vulgar, they wake me in the middle of the night. My eyes pop open every night, sending me to sit straight up in bed, covered in a cold sweat.

Sleep finally finds me. I swim in a dream of a laboratory, and doctors. Men in rigid black suits carrying steel cases. Inside are multiple vials of yellow liquid, the brooding men carefully placing them into black SUV's.