Chapter 6 - ETHAN DIDN’T WANT A GRANDFATHER SPEECH
Ethan chose pizza.
Not the expensive restaurant I had reserved and then canceled before Emily found out.
A neighborhood place on the Upper West Side.
Paper napkins.
Booths.
A television showing baseball with no sound.
Emily sat beside him.
I sat opposite.
The locket was not visible.
Good.
I had spent two days deciding what to say.
Every version was terrible.
So I asked:
“How's school?”
Ethan looked at me.
“Fine.”
“Favorite subject?”
“Science.”
“Least favorite?”
“Writing.”
Emily said:
“He likes writing.”
Ethan looked betrayed.
“Not school writing.”
Good.
Then he asked:
“Why did you throw the necklace?”
There.
No warm-up.
I answered.
“I thought somebody was trying to trick me.”
“Me?”
“No.”
“Then why were you mad at me?”
Good question.
“I shouldn't have been.”
“Mom said you thought she was dead.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Emily tensed.
We had agreed child version only.
I stayed inside it.
“Your mom and I stopped speaking for a long time. During that time, I saw someone who looked like her after an accident. I thought it was her. I was wrong.”
Ethan frowned.
“Mom knew she wasn't dead.”
“Yes.”
He looked at Emily.
She nodded.
“Adults handled it badly.”
Ethan considered.
Then:
“Dad says adults say ‘complicated’ when they mean they messed up.”
I laughed.
Emily did too.
“Your father is occasionally correct.”
“Usually.”
Of course.
Then pizza arrived.
Ethan ate first.
Good.
No need to preserve dramatic pacing at the expense of lunch.
Halfway through, he asked:
“Are you rich?”
Emily closed her eyes.
I answered:
“Yes.”
“How rich?”
“Enough that your mother is going to kick me under the table if I give a number.”
Emily kicked me anyway.
Ethan smiled.
Then:
“Can you buy a Lamborghini?”
“Yes.”
“Do you have one?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“I'm fifty-eight.”
He seemed to accept that as an automotive limitation.
Then he asked:
“Do you have other grandkids?”
“No.”
“So just me?”
“Yes.”
His expression changed.
I recognized opportunity and nearly ruined everything.
I wanted to say:
I've missed so much.
I want to know you.
You're all I have left of Nora and Emily's childhood and—
No.
That would turn a seven-year-old into a grief assignment.
So I asked:
“Do you play baseball?”
“No.”
Good.
Different subject.
We talked about dinosaurs instead.
I knew embarrassingly little.
Ethan corrected me.
Good.
At the end, I paid.
Emily allowed that much.
Then I reached into my coat.
She saw.
Her expression sharpened.
“No gifts.”
“Not a gift.”
I placed a small envelope on the table.
Inside was a photograph.
Nora.
Emily at twelve.
Me.
The same image from the locket.
A duplicate from my old family album.
Ethan looked at his mother.
“Can I?”
Emily nodded.
He picked it up.
“That’s you?”
he asked me.
“Yes.”
“You had more hair.”
Emily laughed hard enough to choke.
I had forgotten what her laugh sounded like.
That hurt.
Then Ethan pointed at Nora.
“Grandma Nora?”
“Yes.”
“Mom says she was funny.”
“She was.”
Emily looked at me.
Nora had been funny.
I had spent years making her memory respectable.
Foundation dinners.
Scholarships.
Portraits.
Nora hated formal dinners and once glued googly eyes onto a sculpture in our vacation house because she thought the artist took himself too seriously.
I told Ethan that.
He laughed.
Good.
A real story.
Not an inheritance story.
Then he handed the photo back.
“Mom can keep it.”
Emily looked surprised.
“Why?”
“I have the necklace.”
He pulled it from beneath his shirt.
There.
Nora’s locket.
The dent I had added visible beside the older scratch.
I stared.
Ethan noticed.
“You can't throw it again.”
“I won't.”
“Promise?”
“Yes.”
He thought.
Then held it toward me.
Emily froze.
I did not take it.
“What?”
Ethan said.
“You can look.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
There.
Ask.
I held the locket in my palm.
Opened it.
Nora’s handwriting.
For Em. Keep what matters.
I closed it.
Returned it immediately.
No speech.
Ethan put it back around his neck.
Then he asked:
“Did Grandma give it to Mom because she knew Mom would run away?”
Emily nearly fell out of the booth.
“No.”
I laughed.
“No.”
“Then why?”
Emily answered.
“Because she loved it and wanted me to have it.”
Simple.
Objects do not need prophecy.
Good.
After lunch, Ethan went with Emily to the restroom before they left.
I waited.
A man approached my table.
Officer Cole.
Off duty.
Coffee in hand.
Apparently the universe enjoyed callbacks.
He recognized me.
“Mr. Hale.”
“Officer Cole.”
“Family lunch?”
“Something like that.”
He looked toward the restroom.
“Kid okay?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
Then:
“You ever get the locket fixed?”
“No.”
“Probably wise.”
He started to leave.
“Officer.”
He stopped.
“I owe you an apology.”
“For?”
“Reaching past you after you told me to back up.”
He shrugged.
“Occupational.”
“And for making you manage my family in a mall.”
“That was less unusual than you think.”
New York.
Fair.
Then he said:
“You scared that boy.”
I looked down.
“Yes.”
“Don't forget that part because the ending got interesting.”
There.
Useful.
He walked away.
When Ethan came back, he had chocolate ice cream despite the fact we had just eaten pizza.
Emily did not explain.
Parenting.
I did not interfere.
At the curb, Ethan asked:
“Do I call you Grandpa Richard?”
My heart did something inconvenient.
I looked at Emily.
She did not answer for him.
I said:
“You can call me Richard if you want.”
Ethan frowned.
“That sounds weird.”
“What do you want?”
He thought.
“Grandpa Richard.”
“Okay.”
No ceremony.
Then he got into the car.
Emily stayed outside for one second.
“Thank you for not making that lunch about us.”
“I had help.”
“From who?”
“A seven-year-old.”
She almost smiled.
Then:
“Next month.”
I stared.
“What?”
“Maybe another lunch next month.”
“Okay.”
“Don't schedule anything.”
“I won't.”
“Don't send the car.”
“I won't.”
“Don't—”
“Emily.”
She stopped.
“I heard you.”
That was new too.
She nodded.
Then got into the car.
I stood on the sidewalk after they left.
No sudden healing.
No daughter running back.
One lunch.
That was all.
May you like
It was enough to make me afraid of losing the next one.
Which meant I finally had to learn not to grab.
