Allyson In Between ✔︎

Chapter Twelve

|photo by Erica Marsland Huynh from Unsplash|

It's uncomfortable, but I resist the urge to knock on my own front door. The meaty, mouth-watering smell hits me as soon as I step into the foyer. It's even stronger now, but I still can't put a name to it.

"Hello," I call out, because it feels wrong to walk into an unfamiliar house unannounced. I feel like a trespasser.

"Welcome back," Dad says. From a room I haven't visited yet. He's set up a temporary office on my great-grandmother's dining table.

"Thanks," I say, stepping all the way into the room so I can look for the matching china cabinet. It's here, and the dishes inside—Mom's wedding china—are the same: creamy white with a thick band of gold. But I'm pretty sure the fabric on the chairs is wrong. "Wasn't there embroidery?" I ask, pointing. "Something Grandma Clark made herself?"

Dad gestures to the wall behind me, to a frame holding one of the intricate floral seat covers hostage behind a sheet of glass. "Your mom wanted to preserve them," he says. "She gave frames just like that to both of my sisters."

"That's nice," I say. And it really is, but Grandma likes the idea of there being a purpose for her embroidered creations. That's why she only makes chair covers and pillows—and the flower-laden vests Lindsay and I only wear when she's visiting. So. I can't imagine that she would...

No, she wouldn't. Grandma Clark would not approve.

I try to think of the last time I saw her. She's old, but like Mom's always saying, she's a young sixty-eight.

Except now she'd be seventy-one. And a lot can happen to an old person in three years. But not that—not to my favorite grandparent. Please don't let her be gone.

"Hey," Dad says. The antique chair groans as he shifts his weight to stand. "Sweetie, what's wrong?"

He opens his arms and I rush into them, burying my face in his worn T-shirt. I don't want to ask about Grandma, because I don't want to know. I need something—just one thing—to be normal.

"Allyson?" Dad cups my chin, gently urging me to look at him. But that only makes me cry harder, because the deep wrinkles around his kind brown eyes and the streaks of grey in his dark hair make him look so much older than I remember. Maybe he's aged prematurely because of all the stress. Like if his mother died, and the thing with his job and the moving. And maybe Lindsay is telling the truth about him and Mom.

He cradles my face with both hands, scraping at my tears with his calloused thumbs as he glances at the framed chair cover on the wall. "Your mom just needed a change in here," he says—completely misinterpreting my distress. "She wanted new fabric to match the paint and the curtains."

"It's okay," I say. "I'll get used to it."

"Wish I could say the same for your grandma," he says, keeping his voice low. Then he glances toward the kitchen with a grimace. "She hasn't seen it yet."

Yet. Meaning she will. Because Grandma Clark is still alive!

"I'm sorry," I say, breaking out of his hold on my chin so I can hide my face against his chest.

"You don't have a thing to be sorry for, sweet pea."

"Yes I do. I'm overreacting—now and before. I'm sorry I ran away after Noah called."

"It's okay, honey," Mom says, coming in from the kitchen, her tone soft and genuine.

Dad lifts one of his arms, inviting her into our hug. "You've had a busy day," he says.