Chapter 19

I have no idea who would paint their front door light pink. To be honest, I've never really liked the colour, other than the fact that I have always associated it with some form of love. That should at least be a good sign. The woman behind the door must believe in love.

On my walk over to her house I have had a million reasons for her not being in my life going through my head. Maybe she didn't even know that my mom died. Maybe they had a falling out because of my stepdad. Maybe she didn't even know where my mom was or that I was even born. There could be a thousand reasons. And sure, I can't deny the few fantasies that went through my head about how she would be this old lady who would open her door and invite me in. Maybe hug me the moment she realizes who I am. I have this fantasy of how she takes me into a room that maybe belonged to my mom, where all her clothing and bedding is still the way she left it, and how she asks me to stay. Not just for a night or two, but maybe even forever, so that we can be a real family. Just me and her.

Even in the winter old with the snow crunching beneath my feet, I need to wipe the sweat of my hands against my denim before I knock on the pink door, hoping that this door will open up to what I have been searching for, for such a long time now. Acceptance. Family. Love.

I can hear footsteps on the other side of the door, and I draw in my breath, holding it in as I hear a key turn in the door before it opens up in a small creek and I am looking into her eyes. My mother's eyes. But an older version of her eyes, one with lines forming around it, showing the hardships of a life well lived. Brown eyes that would look me in the eyes and tell me that she loved me as she tucked me in every night before the lights went out and sleep overfell me.

For a moment I swallow, hoping that I will be able to keep back the tears burning cold behind my eyes.

"What do you want?" the woman says and all memories of my mother falls away. She sounds nothing like her daughter even if her eyes tell a different story of them not being too much different.

"It's Brody grandma. I'm Brody," I say, waiting for her to open the door further and take me into her loving arms and tell me how much she has searched for me, how often she had wondered where I was sleeping at night and if I was well fed in a warm bed, bun instead the door closes in my face, making me exhale with disappointment, the tears getting closer to the surface.

A chain on the inside of the door slides and the door opens again, allowing me to take another breath, knowing that I must have misunderstood completely.

The door opens wide, revealing a lady with too many rings on her fingers, in a sweat suit, grey hair made up in a bun behind her head.

"I guess it would be better if you came before you catch a cold," she says, showing me into the house with the hand not holding the knob of the door.

I nod at her as I walk in the way she is pointing.

This is so different to what I pictured in my mind. This was all wrong. I was expecting at least a hug. Maybe some surprise in her eyes, but it's like she was expecting me to come to her door a day before Christmas. Like she knew I would be here so that she could emotionally prepare herself to not get emotional. I would have preferred her being emotional. I would have liked the hug, and the tears, and the gasp when she heard my name.

She shows me into a small but comfortable living room. All around the room are pictures of herself, many years ago, some still in black and white. Some pictures show a man I recognise from pictures my mom had. My grandfather.

I can't help myself searching each and every picture on the walls, and also the ones standing on the mantle where a fire is crackling brightly, making the room look like something out of a Christmas card. I cannot however find my mom in any of the pictures. And nothing of me. I know my mom always said she sent pictures of me to my grandmother.

"How's Derick?" my grandmother asks as she takes a seat, gesturing with her hand for me to do the same. I can't help but wait for her to offer hot chocolate and home baked cookies, but somehow she doesn't strike me as the type to knee dough when I look at the perfectly long nails and all the jewellery.

I find it weird that she asks me about my stepfather first. I didn't even know that they knew each other. I was always under the impression that my mom married him without them ever meeting them. But then again... I was small. Maybe they did come and visit once or twice. I wouldn't remember, or maybe I just couldn't recall it and the memory was somehow hidden far in the back of my brain.

"I don't know. In prison probably," I answer as I take the mask off my face. I expect her to gasp at that at least, but she doesn't show any emotion on her face, making me wonder if she could maybe be pumped full of botox, but it seems unlikely with the amount of wrinkles she is sporting.

"And you haven't gone to see him at all since he's been incarcerated?" she asks again, making me almost gasp, but I keep my pose.

"Can you see what he did to me?" I say pointing to my face. "Why on earth would I go and visit him? I actually hope he never sees the light of day again."

"Yes, well... I figured you would say something like that. Your mother also had quite a bit of problems with respecting her elders," she answers, sitting back in her chair and letting out a heavy breath.

"Are you for real?" I ask, wondering if I even walked into the right house. Was I talking to the right person? My mom always talked about my grandmother. What a wonderful woman she was.

"Look Brody. I knew you would come to look for me at some point. So the question is, how much?" she answers, sitting forward in her chair again, folding her fingers into one another and resting her chin on them. "Your mother was pretty specific with the amount, and I can already see the apple doesn't fall far from the tree. How much do you want to keep your mouth shut?"

I look at her not knowing what to say, assumptions running through my mind. She makes it sound as if my mother was blackmailing her, but I know my mom. She would never, ever do anything like that. My mom didn't mind working two jobs.

"Come on. Cat got your tongue?" she asks, a little more forcefully. "But let's get one thing straight. Once I write that cheque, that's it. Once you have given me your amount I'm not giving you a penny more. I'm an old woman. I just want to live the rest of my life in peace. I don't want trouble, and I don't need someone extorting me around every corner for the remainder of the few years I have left. You leave here after this and you never, ever come back. I don't want to hear from you, or Derick again. You can tell him that I am through with him as well. My Donna is gone. She's not with us anymore. I might have owed her, but my debt has been paid a long time ago."

For the first time she sheds a tear, wiping it away very quickly, making her look heartless again, as if she never said anything at all. But I don't care about the tear. I don't care about any money. I just wanted a grandmother. I wanted family. I wanted love.

"It was a mistake coming here," I whisper. "I don't want your money."

"I told your mother, and I am telling you the same thing. I'm not giving up the house," she says, her face becoming harsh. "I'm not young anymore. I have been paying for my sins for a very long time, and I am drawing the line right here. I will not..."

I cut her off by leaning closer to her and holding my hand to her face, stopping her from talking.

"I didn't fucking come here for money!" I say a bit louder than what I intended to do. "I came here to meet my grandmother. I wanted to ask you why you weren't there when mom died. When I fucking needed you. When I was laying in the hospital after that step-fuck threw acid at my face because I didn't want to suck his dick. I needed you after he went to prison and I went into the foster system. I don't need your money. I don't need your fucking money! I needed a hug! I needed love! I needed to know there was someone there for me!"

I didn't even notice it when it happened, but as I screamed at the old lady sitting in front of me, who's eyes had gone wide with shock, I stood up from the sofa, standing, allowing the tears to run over my face.

"I wanted to come here and hear about my mom, laughing with you over some hot chocolate and cookies! I wanted you to be glad to see me and to ask me where I have been and how I have been! I wanted you to take me in your arms and tell me that everything was going to be okay! I wanted to tell you off my fucking plans to go and kill myself as soon as I have checked off everything on my bucket list! I wanted you to tell me that beauty comes from the inside and that my face doesn't matter, and that suicide isn't worth it! I needed you to talk me out of it! That's what I fucking wanted! Not your money! I have money! my mom left me lots and lots of money!"

It feels like I am in the body of another person who can't seem to shut up. Who can't stop screaming at this defenceless old lady sitting in front of me.

"So tell me? Do you just want me to name a figure to get me the fuck out of your life? Do you have any fucking soul about something someone did to you? Or are you gonna fucking treat me like shit because of what happened between you and my mom? I'm not my fucking mom! I don't know what happened between the two of you or between you and that fucktup piece of prison-shit everyone refers to as my stepdad!" I scream at the top of my lungs before I collapse back on the sofa; my chest heaving, my breath racing, and the tears falling onto my jeans.

She sits there and stares at me, while I stare at her. Not a word being said, apart from her wiping away the tears from her own cheeks.

"I guess I was wrong," she whispers, sitting forward a little bit. "But we obviously have a lot to talk about Brody. There's clearly a lot you don't know."

I look at her not even sure what to say. Not knowing if I want to open my mouth, scared that I will start screaming at her.

"Now, I don't have home baked cookies, but I have a pretty mean cherry pie in the fridge, and I can make us some hot chocolate and then we can have a little chat, okay?" she says as she stands up and walks over to me.

I feel her hand resting on my shoulder, squeezing it tightly, like she is giving me a hand hug with her hand full of rings, clicking against each other in my ear.

I look up at her, wanting so much to smile at her smile she is giving me through her tears.

"Come on kiddo. Give this old lady a chance to explain. Maybe it's time to make things right, once and for all."