Grandmother Knows

Four

I let my toes wiggle in the sand for a while before sliding my sneakers back on, and trudge back to the road's edge where I left my car. Letting the salty breeze tangle my hair into a carefree mess, I hold the car door open and gaze out at the horizon then slide behind the wheel. The engine hums pulling back onto the road, to Ashmour I go.

I let my thought's take over while I sit in the morning traffic, ingnoring the irritated driver's trying to get to work on time. "A journey"? What journey? Could it be possible that I've lost my sanity, or did my grandmother lose her's? The letter was dated two year's ago. . .and somehow she knew I would have community service. That can't be, it doesn't make sense. But nothing make's sense anymore I suppose. My father, smelling of the model's perfume...I want to run away, turn my wheel's toward the freeway and never look back, but I can't leave Max. I would never forgive myself. I can't wrap my mind around how I dreamt my dad's affair, I didn't want to believe it, but as of now; I'm positive I've been seeing things before they happen.

When I concentrate really hard, I guess I've always had some sort of ability to just know things. Once while paying for lunch at school I replied to the husky lunch lady, she had said, "These damn kid's..." while I was looking in my wallet for my cash. "I know, right?" I laughed in agreement with her, but she was utterly confused and said she hadn't said anything. "Did I say that outloud? I know I didn't." I heard her say when I walked away, when I turned to address her once more, she was busy with the next kid next in line. I pull into the lot of Ashmour just as, Holly the front desk girl is leaving.

I give her a nod when my car passes her's, she smiles at me and takes leave for home. I realize I don't know much about, Holly; other than where she works, but given the high intensity of the constant pep in her step, I'd say she either has a dozen kitten's to cuddle with, or she over compensates for her lack of happiness at home. No matter what her situation is, I still like her.

I waste no time when I enter the building with long, confident strides. I need to know who this, Frank is. Pronto. A desk clerk I've never met before sit's behind the tall counter, I rest my hand's on the black top and peer over the height of the edge.

"Hi," I greet her, standing on the tip's of my toe's, looking down at the shorter desk where she is failing to keep up with the constant ringing of the phone. She's much older than, Holly. At least fifty, pudgy, with dark blonde hair that rest's just below her ears in school-girl curl's. Red light's flash all over the phone's waiting line's, she clicks each button answering just long enough to ask them to "Hold please." I want to laugh at her trying, but instead I help her. I tap her shoulder, and hold up a cord between my finger's, "Ma'am, can you . .

' she begins to tell me while I plug the end of the cord into the computer tower. The phone falls silent, as do the awaiting light's. The woman stands, and just before she can yell at me. I explain to her that the call's are supposed to go straight to the automated system through the computer; for easier guidance of the caller.

She sighs with relief, "Thank you! I've been answering this phone for an hour." she laugh's.

"Well, you're welcome. Can you search for a man named, Frank? I'm not sure if he's a patient or a doctor."I ask, shifting on my ankle's.

"Who are you, dear?" the way she call's me Dear tugs at my heart strings.

"Becky, my Nana was a patient here until she passed. I'm here for my community service, but my grandmother said he was a friend of hers. I just want to check on him. . .Make sure he's alright." I lie.

She sit's back at the computer, and pulls up the search. She pucker's her lip's to the side, and cocks her head. "It say's here there was a, Franklin Webber that was a patient here, but he was released." Her round face close to the screen, squinting through her reading glasses. I plant my ankle's back into their place, "Released?" I wonder outloud. How, could he be realeased? Nobody is released from Ashmour, it's where the old come to die in luxury. I play hooky, and leave the building. The woman that I now know as, Marge agreed to give me an address, and cover for me while I'm gone. A way of paying me back from saving her from the attacking phone call's. I drive thirty miles to the destination of, Frank Webber's home. I pull into the driveway and immediately check the paper again, "This can't be right." I think, stepping out of the car. I sheild my eye's from the sun as I survey the house, it's old; creepy old, and run down, not even a memory of color anywhere.