Chapter Eight.
My jaw would've dropped to the floor, if it was possible. "Did David tell you?" I ask. This has to be the only solution.
She shakes her head. "I didn't know David knew."
"Then how…?"
She smiles. "Dear, I'm not completely daft. I've met your mum; you look almost exactly like her."
"I do?" I had only seen a couple of pictures of my mom and I never saw a resemblance.
She nods. "And you have your great grandmother's eyes, too. The moment you said your name was Lucy, I knew it was more than a coincidence." I'm named after my great grandmother? "And I know for a fact that the only women who live in this flat old enough to have grandchildren, don't have children themselves."
"Oh." That's all I can come up with.
"Why didn't you tell me the first time?"
I shrug. "I guess…I was afraid," I admit.
She nods. "I understand," she says. "So, how did you find out about me?" I tell her about David's letter and I practically recite it word for word. "Should've known he'd already know," she says.
"Why?"
"Your dad and him were always closer with each other when they were kids than they were with anyone else. I always found it peculiar, considering the age difference…but everyone has to have someone to confide in, now don't they?"
I just nod and ask, "What does David mean when he says the family's had 'blowouts'?"
My grandmother hesitates. "Maybe this is something you should talk to your dad about."
I sigh. "My dad didn't even tell me about you guys in person. I'd ask him and find it on a Post-It note three weeks later."
"Yes, your dad really wasn't very good with opening up and explaining a situation," she says, "but I don't recall him being that awful about it."
"People can change," I say, surprised at how sad my voice sounds.
I see my grandmother, her eyes looking just as sad. "Yes, that is very true," she agrees.
"So…what can you tell me about this---I mean, our---family?"
She smiles. "Thought you'd never ask."
----
Turns out, my grandmother met my grandfather when he was in World War II and they got married a few years after it ended. My dad was the oldest, followed by Andrew, and then of course, David.
My grandfather had run the Mitchell's Inn with an old war friend---Mitchell Williams---and were rolling in money before they knew it. Then in the seventies Mitchell blew their money by gambling his away, and my grandfather feeling awful for him, gave him a loan that he never paid back. He died of alcohol poisoning in the eighties.
My grandmother says that my mother was in London because she was an artist. She had even given her a sketch of my dad (which is standing on an end table in her room now) but she never showed my grandfather. He didn't like my mother---or really, he didn't like her career choice.
She says that's all she knows for sure, that I really need to get my dad's side if I want to know more. But I don't want to talk to my dad. I'm still mad at him for this whole thing in the first place.
Later, around noon, I know it's time for me to go. My phone keeps buzzing in my pocket and it's getting annoying. I know it's Remy; she has no patience or sense of how much time has actually passed.
"Thanks so much," I tell my grandmother as I give her a quick hug.
We pull apart and she smiles. "No problem, love."
Just as I'm about out the door, I hear my grandmother say, "And from now on, you can call me Gran."
I turn around and smile. Gran. I like the sound of that.
----
When I come back, I hear yelling coming from---where else?---the bathroom. I hope that it's just my uncle and Owen and not some freaks that got into my flat. But the closer I get, the more I hear, and the more I hear, the more I realize that it's a girl. Owen's fighting with some girl in my bathroom?
I put my back against the wall and listen closely. The walls are so thin, it's easy to eavesdrop.
"I'm sorry, Lena," Owen says, his voice strained. "Okay?"
"No, it is not," she says. "This will never be okay."
I feel like I'm listening to some soap opera. If I had a microwave, I'd totally make popcorn.
I hear Owen let out a big breath out of frustration. "Please, just go. I'm sorry if I gave you the wrong impression---"
"The wrong impression?" she spats at him. "You told me that you loved me."
Damn, this is getting juicy. Maybe there's a bag of Fritos still lying around that I can replace my popcorn with…
"No, I didn't," Owen clarifies. "I said that I could love you, if you weren't so…"
"So, what?" I eagerly await the answer myself.
"Clingy," he finishes. "I need space, okay?"
I wonder then, if she was the one that called him on our "date" the other day. Owen appears to be a liar…Maybe I had dodged a bullet by staying friends with him after all.
"Funny," she says, her tone acidic, "that was the last thing you wanted two weeks ago."
Ooh, burn, I think. Maybe I should watch some daytime soaps after all---
The floor creaks underneath me and everything seems to fall silent. I gulp and hope that no one peeks their head out here to see if---
"And who might this be?"
Thank you ever so much, Remote Controller, I think to no one. Guess you enjoy soaps, too.
----
"Seriously, Owen?"
"It's not---" I try and say, but she cuts me off.
"Oh, I'm sorry, what was that?" she snaps. I try my best to hold back my anger, but quite frankly, this girl is already getting on my nerves.
She turns her body towards Owen and says, "Why her?" Her voice is whiny. "She's not even pretty."
"Hey!" I say, completely offended. "What the hell? I'm just an innocent bystander here!"
She rolls her beady little eyes at me. "Whatever, you tart."
"Hey," Owen's tone is warning her. "Leave Lucy out of this."
I only notice then that her nose is crooked and she has eyebrows that almost look like black caterpillars over her eyes. And this girl had the nerve to call me ugly?
"Owen," she says, "can you honestly say that this girl means nothing to you?"
He looks over at me, almost like he's expecting me to tell him what to say. I shrug my shoulders at him and give him a Hey-it's-your-mess-deal-with-it-yourself look. He purses his lips before Lena says, "Fuck it. Your silence says it all."
He opens his mouth, probably to say that she got it wrong, but he snaps it shut. She pushes past me, whacking my shoulder with hers before she slams my door.
"Well, she's a keeper," I tell him. "Can I ask why she was here?"
He scratches his chin. "Um, well…" He trails off and purses his lips together.
"Oh, God," I say, "please tell me that you weren't planning on screwing around in my bed." The thought of that girl anywhere near my bed makes me feel sick.
"No!" Owen says.
I breathe out in relief. "So, then how come she came here?"
"Because we used to screw around in that bed," he says.
I give him a look of horror and involuntarily shiver. "I need to burn my bed."
"What?" he says. "She's not that bad…in bed."
I want to smack him on the head. "You kept her around for that?"
He shrugs. "I'm not that shallow."
"Keeping someone around just for the sex, regardless of their personalities or looks, sounds pretty shallow to me."
"If you say so," he says.
"Are you almost done with that shower?" I ask, desperate to change the subject suddenly. It's just another one of my gut urges, and even though it didn't end well last time, I still listen.
"Almost," he says. "I would've been done with it if Lena hadn't shown up."
"Well, hurry up," I say, but I keep my tone light. "I'm starting to smell."
He nods his head. "I know. I could smell you before you walked in." He smiles playfully at me.
"Oh, shut up," I say. "I'll be reading in my room, sitting on the desk chair, if you for some reason need my plumbing expertise."
"Do you even know anything about plumbing?"
I shrug. "I know it usually involves an old fat guy showing his crack," I tell him.
He rolls his eyes. "Yeah, okay. I'll be done soon."
I nod, turn on my heel, and head for my room. As I reach for the handle, I hear Owen say under his breath, "Lena's wrong. You're absolutely lovely, Lucy." I turn around, my cheeks probably pink, but he's already gone.
----
"Jeez, Lucy," Remy says, "took you long enough to call me back."
I roll my eyes. "Sorry, Remy. I kind of had to work tonight."
"Argh, I hate the fact that you're responsible." She says the word like it's a disease. "But make sure you get Thursday night off, okay?"
"Why?" I ask suspiciously.
"Because you have plans with me, that's why."
"What kind of plans?"
She sighs, sounding exasperated. "Why does it matter?"
"I'd just like to know if I'm going to wind up in jail, so I can wear my comfy shoes."
"Har. Dee. Har."
"Just tell me," I press. I can picture her rolling her eyes at me.
"Not a chance. It's a surprise."
Now, I can hear the smile on her face. That worries me. "Oh, Remy, what are you planning?"
"Don't worry, Lucy," she says. "Just trust me."
And, like an idiot, I do.
