Murder Mystery | Herophine story

Chapter Thirteen

Samuel

Friday, October 5th 3:30pm

I pick up my brother after school and stop by grandma's hospital room before our parents get there. She'd been asleep most of the time we visited last week, but today she's sitting up in bed with the TV remote in hand. "This television only has three channels," she complains as I hover in the doorway. "We might as well be in 1985. And the food is terrible. Do you have any candy?"

My brother shakes his head, flipping his too-long hair out of his eyes. Grandma turns a hopeful face to me, and I'm struck by how old she looks. I mean, sure, she's well into her eighties, but she's always had so much energy that I never really noticed. It hits me again now that even though her doctor says she's recovering well, we'll be lucky to go a few years something like this happens again. And then at some point, she's not gonna be around at all.

"I got nothing. Sorry," I say, dropping my head to hide my eyes.

She lets out a theatrical sigh. "Well goddamn. You boys are pretty, but not helpful from a practical standpoint." She rummages on the side table next to her bed for a few seconds and finds a crumpled twenty-dollar bill. "Lucas, go downstairs to the gift shop and buy three snickers. One for each of us. Keep the change." She tells my brother.

"Yes, ma'am." Lucas's eyes gleam as he calculates his profit. He's out the door in a flash, and Grandma settles back against a stack of hospital pillows.

"Off he goes to pad his pockets, bless his little heart," she says fondly.

"Are you supposed to be eating candy right now?" I ask.

"Of course not. But I want to hear how you're doing, darlin'. Nobody tells me anything but I hear things."

I lower myself into the side chair next to her bed, eyes on the floor. I don't trust myself to look at her yet. "You should rest."

"Samuel, this was the least dangerous heart attack in cardiac history. A blip on the monitor. Too much bacon, that's all. Catch me up on the Dylan Sprouse situation. I promise you it will not cause a relapse."

I blink a few times and imagine myself getting ready to throw a slider: straightening my wrist, placing my fingers on the outer portion of the baseball, letting the ball roll off my thumb and index finger. It works; my eyes dry and my breathing evens out, and I can finally meet Grandma's eyes. "It's a goddamn mess."

She sighs and pats my hand. "Oh, darlin'. Of course it is."

I tell her everything: how Dylan's rumours about us are all over school now, and how the police set up shop in the administrative offices today and interviewed everybody we know. Plus lots of people we don't know. How the Coach hasn't pulled me aside yet to ask whether I'm on the juice but I'm sure he will soon. How we had a sub for astronomy because Mr Boyle was holed up in another room with two police officers. Whether he was being questioned like we'd been or giving some kind of evidence against us, I couldn't tell.

Grandma shakes her head when I finish. She can't set her hair here the way she does at home, and it bobs around like loose cotton. "I could not be sorrier you got pulled into this, Samuel. You of all people. It's not right."

I wait for her to ask me, but she doesn't. So I finally say-- tentatively, because after spending days with lawyers it feels wrong to state anything like an actual fact-- "I didn't do what they say. I didn't use steroids and I didn't hurt Dylan."

"Well, for goodness' sake, Sam." She brushes impatiently at her hospital blanket. "You don't have to tell me that."

I swallow hard. Somehow, the fact that Grandma accepts my word without question makes me feel guilty. "The lawyer's costing a fortune and she's not helping. Nothing's getting better."