gasp, my anger instantly morphing into familiarity and regret. It’s like I’m back in Silver Lake all over again, exposing my emotions through strange events that I’m forced to take the blame for.
“I’m so sorry,” I whisper while raising a shaky hand to my mouth.
Will Rose blame me for this? Clearly, she just lost control of her tea. But even as I try to comfort myself with the explanation, deep down, I know Rose isn’t to blame.
I expect her to be upset, to yell, and to kick me out of her home. I don’t expect the howling laughter. She’s doubled over, unable to contain herself, and tears spring from her eyes.
Charlotte walks in at that moment. Her eyes are wild as she stares between us then assesses Rose’s appearance. “What in the heavens?” She hurries over to Rose and attempts to clean her off, but Rose is still laughing. “What happened here?”
I just shake my head, too afraid to speak.
Rose pushes Charlotte’s hands away, insisting she’s fine. “It was just a little accident,” she tells Charlotte before standing and brushing away the wrinkles on her long white skirt. “Come, dear. We’ll talk more in my study.”
That’s all Rose says before she starts to walk. No anger. No resentment. No blame. She’s completely nonchalant, as if nothing at all happened. Charlotte gets my attention, breaking me out of my bewildered stare, and gestures for me to hurry and follow Rose. I do, because I can’t think of how else to proceed.
Speechless, I follow my grandmother down the hall to her study. Once inside, I take a quick glance around the room and nearly balk at the precious antiques that fill the space. A glittering glass chandelier hangs from the middle of the room, lighting up numerous statues, bookshelves, and glass cases displaying objects that appear too delicate to touch.
Rose sits behind a desk and gestures for me to take a seat on the opposite side.
My eyes catch on the mahogany built-in bookshelf behind Rose. “Are those photo albums?”
She turns to look over her shoulder then reaches for a stack of the books before turning around and dropping them on her desk. A cloud of dust poofs all around it. I wave it away then open the top album and start flipping through the pages. A young couple smiles back at me from the first yellowing black-and-white photograph.
“That’s George and me standing on the lot before this home was built. We were so excited to build our dream home here.”
“How old were you?”
“I was twenty-eight, your grandfather thirty-two. An older man,” she boasts. “Our parents were the best of friends and decided to move here to start the School of Gaia together when we were just kids. I was eighteen when we married, and we immediately started traveling the world. We spent a lot of time in Athens, where we were both born. But after ten years of travel, George and I decided to plant our roots in Apollo Beach to continue what our parents started.”
As she’s saying that, I flip to a beautiful landscape photo of houses on a hill overlooking the water, followed by other familiar Greek landmarks that I can’t name. I can only wish to visit them myself one day.
The next three albums Rose gives me are filled with photos of my mom’s teen years. I spend more time flipping through those as Rose tells me about my mom’s friends and what she did in her spare time. She was a cheerleader. My mom, a cheerleader? I never would have believed it, but I can see it for myself. My mom stands in front of the sign for Apollo Beach High School in her long green-and-black skirt and matching sweater.
Halfway through the photo album is when I start to recognize a face appearing in many of the photos, always next to my mother—hugging her, kissing her cheek, holding her hand, studying back-to-back, or chasing her into the water. I realize all too slowly that I’m staring at photos of my father. A pang hits my chest.
“Did your mom tell you how they met?”
My eyes flicker up to see that Rose has been watching me, then I nod. “It’s about all she told me.” I start to question why she never told me more—and why I never asked. Deep down, I already know the answer. I was afraid to know more, to worsen the feelings of rejection and abandonment that already weighed so heavily on my heart. No one