Page 69 of The Version You Hide

“To tell me what?”

Her eyes close as she inhales a shaky breath, but still, she says nothing.

My heart thrashes against the walls of my chest. “What are you saying, Grace? Do you know my mother?”

“Yes,” she croaks. “Very well.”

“How well, exactly?” I whisper.

She shakes her head, her clear, blue stare focused purely on mine as her brow pulls down in sadness. She doesn’t answer me though.

She doesn’t have to.

Because when I look at her, really look at her, the answer is staring me in the face.

I see myself in the reflection of her storm-blue eyes. Her wavy hair, ash blonde streaked with grey, is wild and untamed. So much like the girl’s golden strands in the painting hanging above us.

So much like mine.

It doesn’t make any sense that she’s standing here before me. A woman I never knew to exist. And yet, here she is. An enigma I’m struggling to comprehend. It’s only when I speak the words out loud that their meaning begins to register.

“You’re my grandmother.”

She nods, the corners of her mouth drawing downward, a frown creating deepened lines across her forehead.

My instincts tell me to run.

To remove myself from this situation. At least until I can have the time to process it.

But I can’t leave without asking her the one question that has plagued me most of my life.

“Where is she?” I murmur. “Where’s my mother?”

Even before her face crumples in agony, before her weathered hands begin to shake, before she opens her mouth to speak, I know.

I know something isn’t right.

“Gone.”

Gone? What does that even mean? The definition of gone is vast. It could mean anything in this context. She could have gone into town, gone on vacation, fled the country to the other side of the world, but there’s a heaviness in the way she says the word that lets me know. A finality unsubtle in its meaning.

“Gone where?” I dare to ask, knowing full well that the answer she’s about to provide is not the one I want to hear.

Her voice breaks, reaching a pitch I’ve never heard from her before. “She passed away, Mackenzie. Almost a year ago now.”

A fierce pain rips through my chest. “No,” I wheeze, shaking my head in denial. I am not ready to hear this. I’ll never be ready. “You’re lying.”

I back toward the door as she reaches for me, tears now streaming steadily from her eyes.

“Please, don’t go!” she pleads. “Please don’t leave like this. We need to talk.”

I pull away from her, saying the one thing I know in this moment to be true. “I can’t be here.”

The bell above the door chimes as I throw it open, ringing more haunting than inviting in my ears now. As I step out onto the street, I feel as though I’m living someone else’s life.

But of course, this is happening to me.

Of course, it is.

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