Page 132 of The Way I Hate Him
This again . . . Jesus.
I spoke to Abel about it, and he said she might be dying because she’s losing her mind. But other than that, she’s recovered from her fall remarkably well, thanks to her nurse aide. So . . . my rush to come back to Almond Bay wasn’t really necessary. In hindsight, I’m glad I did even though the main reason I want to stay isn’t talking to me at the moment.
“You’re not dying,” I say, dragging my hand over my face. “Abel said you were fine.”
“What does he know?” she huffs.
“He’s a doctor. He knows a lot.”
“A small-town doctor, they aren’t as educated.”
“Abel graduated from Stanford.”
“Is that supposed to impress me?” she asks as she watches a couple walk along the street. Jesus Christ, she looks like a dog ready to pounce on anything that crosses her turf.
“Some people might find graduating from Stanford impressive,” I reply.
“I don’t. Anyone can get into Stanford these days.”
Also not true, but there’s no use in fighting her. She’s in a spiteful mood today, so arguing will get me nowhere.
“So is that a no to walking outside? I can push you around in a wheelchair.”
Slowly, she faces me and folds her hands on her lap. “Is there a reason you’re being incessant about going outside when I’m perfectly content looking out the window?”
“Uh, I just thought that you might want to experience outside firsthand rather than from a window. Fresh air might help prevent you from dying so soon.”
“I enjoy being outside like this. That way, I don’t have to bump into that tart of a woman, Ethel, who inserts herself in everyone’s business.”
“I can understand that,” I say, just recently being a victim of Ethel’s meddling.
“But if you aren’t content with just staring out the window with me, I suppose you can tell me what’s going on in your life.”
That’s one way to put it.
“Perhaps you can tell me why your face has scratches on it? Are you getting into trouble again? There was a ruckus that you were fighting. Is that what happened? You got in a fight?”
“I did,” I answer honestly. “With Ryland Rowley.”
“The Rowley boy?” she asks, sitting a touch forward now, her eyes now on me rather than the streets. I see how it is.
“Yes. The Rowley boy.”
“Why on earth would you get in a fight with him? Isn’t he taking care of a little girl now? You can’t be punching his face in.”
I chuckle. “I didn’t punch his face in, but we did get a few jabs on each other. And it’s a long story, but he thought I slept with his sister.”
Grandma’s eyes widen. “Hayes, you didn’t.”
“I didn’t,” I say. “But I was hanging out with her, and well, he didn’t like it. We got in a fight, and then we worked things out. It’s all good now.”
“I guess that’s how men solve their problems, with fists rather than words.”
“We used words . . . after the fists, but we used words.”
She gives me anot buying itlook. “So what about the girl? Are you with her?”
“No,” I say on a sigh as I glance down at my hands. “I think I scared her. She’s not talking to me. Probably for the best, you know?”
