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Authors: Jessie L. Star
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shame," my mum said, so at least I wasn't the only one failing to not sound frustrat ed. "Elliot’s a good kid and he could take you far in the sort of place you are now."
Which was hard to take any other way than : 'Elliot, as a rich person, is better than you and, to achieve anything, you'll need to hang off his fancy coattails'.
Determined not to start an argument, I kept my voice controlled as I said, "Regardless, Elliot hasn't told me anything about Nan, could you fill me in?"
"Oh, poppet," my mum's voice instantly softened and my stomach clenched, instinctively knowing that whatever she was going to say next was going to be awful. "She had a stroke about a month ago. A mild one," she hastily added as I poured horrified silence down the line at her.
"How mild?" I asked through clenched teeth, my mind making a firm connection with another event that had happened about a month ago.
"Some of her speech is slurred and she's weak down her left side. She's tough as an old boot, though, you know that." Something in her tone prompted me to ask,
"But...?"
M um sighed and then said quietly, "But she’s not recovering as well as she’d hoped and the doctors say she's got a high risk of more attacks. She's moved into the big house so we can keep an eye on her."
And that last bit, more than anything, told me how serious it was. The Sinclair family owned many properties, one of which Elliot 's mum's mum was usually stationed in. That Nan had consented to being brought to the house Elliot's parents were based out of, AKA 'the big house', was horribly telling. Nan had always been the first to point out that 'big house' was a colloquialism for prison, a reference Elliot, Nan and I had always found particularly warranted.
"Is Nan there now?" I asked, stung into action. "Can I talk to her?"
There was a moment where it was clear my mum was hesitating, but then she relented with the warning, "But don't keep her on long, she tires easily."
The straight talking, irreverent, dance until the sun comes up woman I knew being described as someone who tires easily was enough to make my eyes fill with tears. As I said goodbye to Mum and waited for the ringing extension to be picked up, I balled the hand not holding the phone into a fist to remind myself to hold it together. Nan didn't like sooky-la-las.
As always, Nan's first words were a kicker. I didn't even get the full way through 'hello' before she croaked, "You slept with my grandson."
" Nan !"
"Now, don't try and deny your dirty deed, Elliot told me all about it."
The words were so her, but the delivery was all wrong. She was speaking slowly and she tripped over the t's like she was drunk. I tried to reassure myself that, being Nan, it was quite possible that she was drunk, but there was no getting past the fact that there was something seriously wrong.
For a moment I wavered uncomfortably between following the 'you slept with my grandson' conversation path, or pointing out the elephant in the room by asking how she was. Having grown up spending whole afternoons curled up listening to Nan's imperious views on the world ('never trust a boy who puts his hands in his pockets, you never know what he's doing down there'), I knew what was expected of me.
"He's been awfully loose with that information," I said through gritted teeth, genuinely annoyed at Elliot, but also aware that I was hamming it up a bit for Nan's sake. "What? Was he texting you during or something?"
Her dirty cackle was fainter than usual and so devoid of her usual spirit that I wondered whether she was acting for my benefit like I was for her. What a depressing thought.
"He's a good boy; he knows what'll amuse his old nan in her decrepit state." As if to provide emphasis to her 'decrepit' point, she stopped talking and I could hear guttural gulps as if she was struggling to swallow.
My hand gripped the phone tighter and I was swamped by a flood of sadness and guilt. Nan had been the blasting light of the
Which was hard to take any other way than : 'Elliot, as a rich person, is better than you and, to achieve anything, you'll need to hang off his fancy coattails'.
Determined not to start an argument, I kept my voice controlled as I said, "Regardless, Elliot hasn't told me anything about Nan, could you fill me in?"
"Oh, poppet," my mum's voice instantly softened and my stomach clenched, instinctively knowing that whatever she was going to say next was going to be awful. "She had a stroke about a month ago. A mild one," she hastily added as I poured horrified silence down the line at her.
"How mild?" I asked through clenched teeth, my mind making a firm connection with another event that had happened about a month ago.
"Some of her speech is slurred and she's weak down her left side. She's tough as an old boot, though, you know that." Something in her tone prompted me to ask,
"But...?"
M um sighed and then said quietly, "But she’s not recovering as well as she’d hoped and the doctors say she's got a high risk of more attacks. She's moved into the big house so we can keep an eye on her."
And that last bit, more than anything, told me how serious it was. The Sinclair family owned many properties, one of which Elliot 's mum's mum was usually stationed in. That Nan had consented to being brought to the house Elliot's parents were based out of, AKA 'the big house', was horribly telling. Nan had always been the first to point out that 'big house' was a colloquialism for prison, a reference Elliot, Nan and I had always found particularly warranted.
"Is Nan there now?" I asked, stung into action. "Can I talk to her?"
There was a moment where it was clear my mum was hesitating, but then she relented with the warning, "But don't keep her on long, she tires easily."
The straight talking, irreverent, dance until the sun comes up woman I knew being described as someone who tires easily was enough to make my eyes fill with tears. As I said goodbye to Mum and waited for the ringing extension to be picked up, I balled the hand not holding the phone into a fist to remind myself to hold it together. Nan didn't like sooky-la-las.
As always, Nan's first words were a kicker. I didn't even get the full way through 'hello' before she croaked, "You slept with my grandson."
" Nan !"
"Now, don't try and deny your dirty deed, Elliot told me all about it."
The words were so her, but the delivery was all wrong. She was speaking slowly and she tripped over the t's like she was drunk. I tried to reassure myself that, being Nan, it was quite possible that she was drunk, but there was no getting past the fact that there was something seriously wrong.
For a moment I wavered uncomfortably between following the 'you slept with my grandson' conversation path, or pointing out the elephant in the room by asking how she was. Having grown up spending whole afternoons curled up listening to Nan's imperious views on the world ('never trust a boy who puts his hands in his pockets, you never know what he's doing down there'), I knew what was expected of me.
"He's been awfully loose with that information," I said through gritted teeth, genuinely annoyed at Elliot, but also aware that I was hamming it up a bit for Nan's sake. "What? Was he texting you during or something?"
Her dirty cackle was fainter than usual and so devoid of her usual spirit that I wondered whether she was acting for my benefit like I was for her. What a depressing thought.
"He's a good boy; he knows what'll amuse his old nan in her decrepit state." As if to provide emphasis to her 'decrepit' point, she stopped talking and I could hear guttural gulps as if she was struggling to swallow.
My hand gripped the phone tighter and I was swamped by a flood of sadness and guilt. Nan had been the blasting light of the
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