“Wait,” I told Roach one week later after recounting the incident. “It gets worse.”
Roach sat cross-legged on the black leather couch near the fireplace at Starbucks. Tucking her bangs behind her ear, she took a long sip from a dainty mug. I tucked deep into a wingback chair, munching on a bag of chocolate covered espresso beans. I’d consumed two lattés to her one, vibrating from more than just the caffeine overdose.
“So, the old guy’s forgetful.” Roach shrugged, sneaking a glance at her cell phone that rested on the side table. I knew she was waiting for a text from her Christian rocker boy, but her lack of focus was ticking me off. “He is over seventy,” she said.
She didn’t seem to be grasping the impossibility of the Monty situation.
“It’s more than forgetting to lock your door or putting the peanut butter jar in the fridge instead of the pantry, everyone does that.” I crunched on a bean. The violent cracking soothed my frustration. “Last week he bought a hand-held snow blower from the hardware store because he’s sick of shoveling the sidewalk. He takes the box out to the garage and goes to assemble it. Comes back a few hours later and says it doesn’t work. I didn’t think anything of it until yesterday when I went into the garage and saw six or seven snow blowers, boxes, and parts, and instructions all over the place.” I crumbled up the empty bag of espresso beans, watching how it trembled in the palm of my hand thanks to the dozen or so jolts of caffeine. “He couldn’t figure out how they went together. He thought they were all defective. So he kept going and buying another one, and then another one. I don’t know if he can even read anymore.”
Grimacing, Roach set her latte on the ceramic mosaic table between us. “Okay, I agree, Monty’s behavior is a bit frightening.” She picked up her cell, scrolled through a few screens. “He’s showing his age, Charlie. All old people forget stuff. Or they remember things you wish they’d forget. Like the time I had the flu when we visited my grandma and puked all over her Thanksgiving turkey, a billion years ago when I was nine. You don’t know how she’s been ever since, with the hand-knitted barf bag Christmas presents.”
“Have you heard a word I’ve said?” I leaned over and snatched the phone from her hands, held it out of reach of her wriggling fingers. “Monty forgets where he lives. How do I not stress at a time like this? He’s supposed to take care me and I end up taking care of him. I mean, who else does he have?”
The phone chimed freaking church bells like the Hunchback of Notre Dame. Maybe there was a nano-sized Quasimodo in there pulling on the chords. Never underestimate the power of apps.
I couldn’t stand the desperation on Roach’s face and shoved the cell at her.
“Admit it, you like Monty.” She snatched the phone back, glanced at the screen and smiled. “Dare I say you’ve begun to really care for the rat bastard?” She fired off a quick text.
“I just feel sorry for him, that’s all.” I flicked my hair over my shoulder. “He is my grandfather.”
“Hey, I’m not saying it’s a bad thing.” Roach chucked the phone in the epic depths of her shoulder bag. “Personally, I think the exact opposite.” She took a quick shot of her latte. “Have you told your mom any of this? The forgetfulness. The oddness that is Monty?”
“No.”
“Probably best if you don’t. She’ll only worry.” Roach reached behind her for her coat. “Can I drop you off at home? I gotta see a guy about a thing.”
“Could you be more vague?”
Roach gave me a look. “Are you going to give me the deets on Eric?”
I shrugged. “I told you, it just didn’t work out.”
“And…”
“And I did something stupid.”
“So go make it right.” Roach had a knack for making the most daunting task seem easy peasy, part of her put-it-in-the-hands-of-God mentality. “Look, it’s not a secret or anything, I’m meeting Preston.” She shifted gears. That was another knack she had, knowing when to push and when to let a friend roll around in her own crap for a while. “The band is practicing at the Youth Ministry Hall and he invited me over to check it out.” She frowned. “I didn’t think you’d want to go. Their music isn’t your style, but, if you want…”
“Your instincts serve you well, young Skywalker,” I said. “Thanks for the half-assed invite, but I’ll pass.” We coated up and parted on the street, Roach heading for her Christian dude and me to little Italian place around the corner. Roach was right. I could fix this.
Maybe.