Chapter 7: A Father Chooses a Side
My dad didn't say anything at first after he found the phone. He just stood there holding it, his hand shaking a little, and looked at the torn portrait.
The canvas hung in two flaps. Behind it the gray metal doors were pulled open just enough for me to see inside. I could see Grandpa Arthur on the floor where I'd left him, his hands still tied in front of him, the tape still over his mouth. He was watching us.
Dad knelt down. He had to duck to see through the tear. I knelt next to him. Up close I could smell the space. It wasn't like the rest of the house. There was no daylight in there even though the living room was bright. The air that came out was stale and close.
I saw what they hadn't wanted him to see.
A blue plastic bucket in the corner. A thin blanket folded on the concrete, not a bed, just a blanket that looked like it had been from our linen closet. Two water bottles, one empty on its side, one half full. No pillow. No chair. No mattress. The floor was bare except for that.
Dad stared at it for a long time. His breathing got louder. He reached out and touched the edge of the gray metal door like he couldn't believe it was real.
"Jesus," he said under his breath. Then louder, to my mom who was standing behind us near the armchair, "Susan. What is this?"
Mom's arms were crossed tight over her cream blouse. Her face was pale. "Don't do this in front of Eli," she said.
"What is this?" Dad said again. He pointed into the space. "That's a bucket. That's where he's been going to the bathroom? There's no bed in there. There's no light."
"It wasn't supposed to be like that," she said. Her voice was thin. "It was just for a few days. We were trying to keep him safe."
"Safe from what?" Dad stood up fast. He turned to face her and Vincent, who was standing by the window with his hands on his hips. "You told me he decided to go to assisted living. You told me he wanted to leave. You told me he left by choice."
Vincent stepped forward. He kept his voice calm, like he was explaining something reasonable. "Marcus, listen to me. It was temporary. We were waiting on paperwork. The power of attorney, the insurance. If he was logged as living here while we filed, it would have voided the coverage. He understood that. He agreed to stay out of sight until it cleared."
I looked back at Grandpa. He shook his head slowly, just once. His eyes were wet.
"He didn't agree," I said.
Vincent didn't look at me. "Eli, you don't understand the finances. Adults make hard decisions. Your grandfather is old, he gets confused —"
"He's not confused," Dad cut him off. "Look at him."
Dad was shaking now, not a little but a lot. He walked to the kitchen, yanked open the junk drawer, and pulled out the kitchen scissors, the big black-handled ones Mom used to cut coupons.
"Dad, what are you doing?" Mom said, and her voice went sharp.
Dad didn't answer her. He knelt back down in front of the torn portrait and leaned into the hidden space. Grandpa flinched a little when Dad got close, then held still.
"I'm going to take this off, Dad," Dad said quietly to Grandpa. His voice cracked on the last word. He was careful with the tape, peeling it slow from the corner of Grandpa's mouth. Grandpa winced and made a small sound. When it came off, his lips were dry and cracked and he breathed out hard through his mouth.
Then Dad took the scissors to the zip ties around his wrists. He worked the tip under the plastic. "Hold still."
The ties snapped. Grandpa's hands came apart. The skin underneath was red and marked with deep grooves. He brought his hands to his face and rubbed his wrists, then his mouth, and didn't say anything right away. He just breathed.
Vincent made a noise. "Marcus, you shouldn't have done that without —"
Dad stood up, holding the cut ties. "Eli, get him water," he said, and he wasn't looking at Vincent or Mom anymore. "A real glass. Not a bottle. And get the blanket from my bed, the heavy one."
I ran to the kitchen. My hands were shaking so bad I spilled water the first time I filled the glass. I grabbed it with both hands and carried it back carefully. Mom tried to stop me in the hallway, her hand on my arm.
"Eli, wait," she said.
I pulled away.
When I got back, Dad had helped Grandpa sit up straighter against the back wall of the little space. I knelt and held the glass to him. Grandpa took it with both hands. His fingers trembled around it. He drank slow, some of it spilling down his chin, and then he looked at me and then at Dad.
"Thank you," he whispered. His voice was rough like he hadn't used it in a long time.
May you like
Dad took the blanket I brought and wrapped it around Grandpa's shoulders. It was way bigger than the thin one on the floor. Grandpa closed his eyes for a second.
Behind us, Mom and Vincent were still standing in the living room, but now there was space between us that felt like a line. Dad stayed on the floor next to Grandpa and me, his hand on Grandpa's shoulder. He didn't go back to Mom's side.
