“We’ll work something out,” he said. “I make my own schedule, and so do you. I have a neighbor?—”
“Oh, Steven, that’s so sweet of you,” Mom interjected. “But don’t put yourself out for us. It would be much more convenient to have Chloe at home.”
Steven’s eyebrows slammed together. “Convenient for who?”
Grams pushed back her chair with a loud scrape. She straightened, and for once her green eyes—the same shade as my dad’s, the same shade as mine—did not look past me. They saw right into mine. “Selfish,” she spat.
The room fell deathly quiet, so quiet that I could hear Grams’s soft footsteps as she retreated to her bedroom down the hall.
I looked at my mother, who was staring after Grams like she had seen a ghost. I forced a smile.
“Well,” I said. “That’s the first thing she’s said to me in eight years.”
26
STEVEN
“What do you mean,she hasn’t spoken to you in eight years?” I asked incredulously. “You’re here every week. Youlivedwith her.”
“She found a way,” Chloe said flatly. “That’s Grams for you. She’s resourceful.”
“Chloe,” Angie said. Her forehead pinched with concern. Concern—but not surprise.
Chloe’s hands flexed with agitation before she pivoted to the sink. “It’s fine, Mom.” She smacked the faucet on and then stared blankly at the empty sink. There weren’t any more dishes to wash.
I silently handed her a dishtowel and grabbed a second one for me. She blinked at me and reached for a pot in the drying rack. “It’s fine,” she repeated, more calmly this time, like she was soothing her own fractured nerves.
“It’s not fine,” I said. “There’s nothingfineabout your grandmother not speaking to you for eight years. What happened?”
Chloe paused for so long that I wondered if she was going to answer at all. Then she glanced at her parents still seated atthe table, like she was looking for their permission. Her mom nodded and Chloe sighed. “Eight years ago, I was a senior in college. I was about to graduate with a B.S. in agriculture, but I was already working part-time for my grandfather at the Adams’ farm. It had been in our family for several generations. Wheat and corn. That’s what we grew.”
Her hand moved the towel in quick circles around the pot, despite it no longer having even a speck of water on it. There didn’t seem to be a reason to point this out to her, so I just nodded.
“At first everything seemed fine. I thought the farm was turning a decent profit. Nothing that would make us rich, but enough money that we could weather a few disappointments, as long as they didn’t happen back-to-back. But of course the disappointments hit like a one-two punch. Too little rain followed by too much rain followed by political bullshit.” The circles got faster and angrier. “The thing was, though, on paper, it seemed like we were still doing okay. And that didn’t make sense at all. I got curious and followed paper trails Gramps never intended me to see.”
Her hands stilled. I gently took the pot from her and set it on the counter.
She blinked rapidly. “It turned out the farm was not okay and hadn’t been for some time. By that point, even selling off everything wouldn’t pay the debts. It was so far beyond my knowledge and capabilities. I knew we needed help, but I didn’t know who to go to. I told him we at least needed to tell Grams and Mom and hire a lawyer. Gramps begged me not to say anything, to give him more time. He said he was on the verge of making a partnership deal that would bring an influx of cash. I agreed. God, I was dumb.” She laughed harshly. “That was the stupidest thing I could have done. It kept him isolated and ashamed. I didn’t understand that at the time.”
An awful, sinking feeling lodged in my gut. I glanced at her parents. Angie clasped her hands on the table, fingers woven so tightly together her knuckles were white, while Terry rubbed her back.
“That May, I discovered Gramps hadn’t paid the taxes back in March like he had promised he would. It was a Sunday. I told him I was done hiding. He agreed we would tell Grams together that evening when she came home from church. He seemed…relieved. So I went ahead to my stupid school luncheon for magna cum laude graduates.” She gave a derisive snort. “While Grams was at church and I was laughing with my friends, Gramps laid a tarp down in the barn and shot himself in the head. I found him there, with a note that said he was sorry for the mess.”
“Chloe,” I said hoarsely.
She frowned. “Suicide is always a mess in one way or another. I never could get the blood out of the walls. When the barn was finally torn down, I was relieved I never had to see it again.” She twisted the dishtowel in her hands. “Grams never forgave me for any of it.”
“What?” My brow furrowed as I studied her. “She blames you? What for?”
Chloe shrugged. “For not telling anyone the farm was in trouble. For not being able to save the farm. For leaving my grandfather alone that afternoon. Any of it. All of it.”
I shook my head. “You didn’t kill him. You’re no more at fault than she is.”
“That’s the thing, isn’t it? When you’re left picking up the pieces and have more questions than answers, and you can’t blame the person who died because they’ve clearly already suffered enough. So who does that leave? If she didn’t blame me, she might have to blame herself.”
“Or no one,” I said. “No one is to blame.”
Chloe smiled sadly. “That’s harder to live with. All that pain and anger…Someone needed to carry the weight of it so it didn’t crush her.”
