Wildfire

Chapter 42

42. Manipulate

The bus journey to my hometown of Brainerd seemed anticlimactic, almost. With each approaching mile, the nerves in my stomach grew stronger. My mind kept cycling through what ifs, but the truth was: I had no idea what to expect. I was so used to suppressing memories of him, that I couldn't even be sure what he looked like.

All I had was impressions of him; the imprint of affection, the rough edge of his voice when he disapproved of my behaviour. It was strange how the bad memories were stronger than the good. I was sure that there were at least ten good memories for each bad but instead of remembering them, I was left with an impression of love.

Is that what it will feel like when Diego is gone? I wondered.

My grandmother's car was waiting for me at the bus stop. She smiled wanly at me when I climbed into the car, her eyes wrinkled with worry. My grandmother looked like me, in a strange way. Her eyes were shaped like mine and when she smiled, I imagined she was who I'd look like in the future. Mom had been like us too, but not to the same extent.

"I wondered if you'd actually come back," she admitted as she started the engine. I didn't blame her; she, more than anyone, knew how stubborn I could be.

"This is something I have to do," I told her. "I don't have the time to put it off."

She nodded once, accepting my answer. "Well, if you think you're ready, I'll stand by your decision."

"Thank you."

She drove us back to her small house on the outskirts of town. The road brought is down past the house I had once lived in as a child, the house that had haunted my nightmares for years after my mother's suicide, and I felt a jolt of surprise hurtle through me when I noticed the car parked outside.

I opened my mouth to ask my grandmother about it, but a part of me already knew. The house had never been placed on the market for sale — not that I remembered, anyway. And if my father was in town, it made sense that he would live in his own house...

My stomach cramped with anxiety and I looked away, my eyes locked on the road.

When we reached my grandmother's house, I followed her into her quaintly-decorated kitchen, finding solace in the familiarity of the place. As severe as my grandmother could be, her house was the one place where her inner warmth came through. The walls were a bright, sunny yellow and photographs lined every surface available.

"I made up your old bed," she told me. "If you're planning on staying here."

I glanced at her in confusion. "Why? Where else would I —?" Realization dawned. "Oh. No, I can't... I don't think I could stay in that house."

She nodded. "That's okay. You know you're always welcome here."

I went to put my things in my old room while she prepared lunch. Everything was as I remembered it; right down to my mother's old dolls lying on top of the armoire. It felt weird being back here, especially after all that had transpired over the past few weeks. Like the girl I had been in this room was another person, someone I had never been.

My grandmother had salad bread on the table when I came back downstairs and we ate in relative silence. It reminded me of when I'd first come to live with her; the silence that permeated the house, the heavy cloud of depression that seemed to sit on the rafters. It was easy to forget that she had lost a daughter the night my mother died.

We were almost finished when the doorbell rang.

My stomach squeezed in panic and my head shot up, my whole body jumping into alert mode. "Is that —?"