Love and Sorrow (Small Town Secrets Book 5), стр. 24
The way my mother’s eyes continued to bore through me gave me chills—but she didn’t say a word. Briefly, I thought about moving in here, that if I did, I’d probably have the guest room or maybe they would convert the office/ sewing room into a bedroom. The biggest problem I foresaw was that the rooms my mother referred to as belonging to my kids didn’t really. Instead, they were for all her grandchildren. One was a boys’ room, the other a girls’. How would that sit with my sister Megan if I moved in and took it all over? Or would living here change things? Would my parents have me share a room with my kids or have the kids share a room or? I needed to stop it. The last thing I needed was my mother’s voice in my head more than it already was.
I had other reasons for hesitating when it came to my parents’ offer. Aside from their religious beliefs that I no longer adhered to, my parents had also shifted from being middle class to upper-middle sometime after I’d moved out on my own. Here at this large, beautifully decorated house they had a tennis court and a pool, for Christ’s sake. If I and the kids moved in, my children would be spoiled rotten.
I had to decide if that was a good thing.
Still, I resisted. I didn’t want my kids wearing rose-colored glasses like I had growing up. Life wasn’t an easy ride and shit wouldn’t be handed to them on a silver platter. They had to work for what they wanted—and doing so would allow them to appreciate what they had. Here at my parents’ house, I didn’t know if they would learn that lesson.
“Let’s have a cup of coffee,” my mom said and, as I followed her to the kitchen, I realized my mind was already made up.
But that they’d offered…well, that reminded me that my parents weren’t monsters. They loved and cared for me and my kids. Even though that didn’t stop them from chiding me about my stupid decisions over the years, I realized then that I might do the same thing with my kids when they grew up.
Behind me, I could hear Devon tearing down the basement stairs, probably off to the den to play video games, because he knew where everything was.
I was growing more satisfied with my decision by the minute.
I set my purse on a chair while my mother crossed to the sink to pour water into the coffee carafe. As she filled the coffeemaker, she asked, “What’s going on, honey?”
“What do you mean?” Even though I had a lot of guesses as to what she might have meant.
“I sense some strange things going on here. How much do you want to tell me?”
That was a very good question, and I wasn’t sure of the answer. “Well, I don’t have a lot of time.”
“You can give me the abridged version.” She flashed me a slight smile, pulling out a chair at the table and sitting.
As I settled in next to her, I lowered my voice, because I wasn’t sure where my daughter was at the moment. “Something is going on with Sarah.”
“What is it?”
“That’s the problem. I don’t know, and she won’t tell me.”
My mom tilted her head, squinting her eyes. “Do you want me to see if I can find out?”
“If you want. I haven’t been pushing her, because she seems so…fragile lately. Anyway, that’s what we were doing yesterday. I’ve started taking her to a child psychologist.”
“Is it that bad?”
“The psychologist seems to think so. She thinks it’s something pretty serious.”
My mother’s eyes widened in an almost cartoon-like fashion while I tried to focus on the sound of the coffee pot pushing water through the coffee grounds. She asked, “Does he think she has some kind of mental illness?”
“The psychologist is a she. And I don’t know, mom. She said she needs more time with Sarah so she can learn to trust her and be comfortable with her. And she thinks Sarah is afraid to talk about her problems with me.”
“Good heavens.”
“The psychologist—Rebecca—thinks that once Sarah is comfortable with her, I need to actually not be in the room.”
“Does she think you’re the problem?”
“No, she just said she thinks Sarah would feel more comfortable talking without me…like Sarah’s holding back and doesn’t feel like she can tell me whatever it is. So I don’t know. Maybe I am the problem. But what could I have done to make her like this?”
“What’s she been doing?”
“Remember when we were down here at Easter? How she kept yelling at Megan’s kids and Devon? And then when dad finally told her to knock it off, she just sat in the recliner the rest of the day pouting?”
“How could I forget?”
“She’s been like that a lot, especially lately. Quiet, acting depressed. But earlier this week she set a fire in the girls’ bathroom at the school. I talked with the principal and the school counselor, and we agreed that putting her in therapy might help us get to the root of the problem.”
My mother stood, retrieving two mugs from the cupboard. “Well, I’m glad you told me. Maybe I’ll be able to find something out.”
“Don’t be surprised if you can’t. She hasn’t been talking much lately. She didn’t even say much to the psychologist yesterday.”
After mom set the cups full of steaming coffee on the table, she brought a bowl of sugar and a small pitcher of cream. “But don’t forget I’m her grandmother. She and I have a special relationship. Who knows what she might tell me?”
“Don’t be surprised if she doesn’t.”
While I doctored my coffee, my mother sat down again. “So, is there any certain way we should treat her? Anything we