Page 81 of The Version You Hide

I’m still struggling to come to terms with the fact that I have a grandmother, let alone how she may have come to find me in Cliff Haven.

When I round the corner, it’s the bright red ‘closed’ sign on the door of the studio that grabs my attention first.

“Damn it,” I mutter under my breath.

I’m disappointed but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t feel a little relieved that maybe this dreaded conversation could be put off for another day.

That relief is dampened as I catch sight of a silhouette in the window. She’s here, standing with her back to me, a mop of wavy, greying curls cascading around her. She turns and her swollen eyes and blotchy cheeks take my breath away. We may not know each other at all, but we’re still connected and my heart aches to see her in such distress.

I raise a hand in a wave. The smile Grace aims at me in return is laced with sadness before she moves toward the door to let me in. The lock clicks loudly, then the door swings open, the tinny ring of the bell sounding from above.

“You’re closed,” I say, stating the obvious.

She curls her hair behind her ears, nodding in response. “I didn’t feel much like being creative today. I cancelled all my classes.”

Guilt twists in my gut knowing that I’ve been a factor in that decision. “I can go,” I offer.

“No. Please stay,” she pleads. Her response is quick, her hands coming up cautiously before she moves aside, allowing me to enter the studio. “Come in.”

“Okay.” I shuffle inside.

“I owe you an apology,” she begins. “For how I went about saying what I said. There’s just so much I need to tell you and there was no easy way to go about it. I’m sorry that I sprung that on you.”

I nod, though I feel somehow that I should be the one apologising to her. I have so many things to say but the words are caught in my throat. Instead, I find myself gravitating to the painting hanging on the wall above. The image of the woman, arms spread wide, palms open, the golden strands of hair floating out around her like a halo.

Grace’s gaze follows mine. “She was talented.”

“My mother painted this.” It’s more of a statement than a question. Somehow, I just know.

“I hadn’t seen her in a long time, but then she started visiting the studio all of a sudden. She painted that picture while she was here. Little did I know it would be the last time I would see her for many years. If my calculations are correct, she painted this one not long after you were born.”

“It’s amazing,” I say, my eyes not leaving the painting. “So ambiguous. I can’t seem to figure out whether she’s floating or drowning.”

“She was drowning,” she chokes. “I didn’t realise it at the time.”

“I don’t know how I’m supposed to feel,” I say, my eyes tearing up. “I’ve spent my life being angry at her. For leaving me with a father that couldn’t properly care for me. I didn’t know her. I never got to know her, but I still feel this overwhelming sense of loss.”

“No one can tell you how to feel, Mackenzie,” she replies. “There’s so much to process.”

Bracing myself for an answer I know will be painful to hear, I dare to ask the dreaded question that’s plagued me since learning of my mother’s death. “What happened to her?”

She lets out an uneven breath as she curls her lips into a thin line. “Breast cancer. A very aggressive form.”

My heart picks up speed, a sick feeling turning in my gut. I feel like I’m going to throw up. I sink down into the nearest chair and Grace joins me, occupying the one across from me, resting her elbows on the table.

Suddenly I’m angry, rage igniting from somewhere within. I’m furious about this whole situation, but I have nowhere left to direct it except at Grace.

“Why did you only come to find me now?” I cry. “Why couldn’t you have visited when I was little? Do you know how nice that would have been? To have a grandmother there to care for me? I had no one!”

“Oh, Mackenzie.” Her eyes mist over, but the genuineness in them remains. “I wish I could have, but I didn’t know about you.”

“What?” I had no clue this woman existed. My father had always told me that my grandparents had passed away before I was born, but how is it possible that she didn’t know about me either? Realisation dawns on me. “My mother never told you she was pregnant, did she?” I suddenly feel drained. “Was she that ashamed of me?”

“She was never ashamed of you, Mackenzie.” Grace reaches to the centre of the table and plucks a tissue from the box resting there. “If anything, she was ashamed of herself.”

“What do you mean?”

“She had an affair with a married man and got pregnant with his child. There were a lot of things at play.” She sighs as she shakes her head, looking as exhausted by this conversation as I feel. “She was always a bit rebellious growing up, and I admit, I was too strict on her as a teenager. I was too controlling and all it did was make her rebel. I had only wanted what was best for her, but I guess I never made it easy for her to tell me things like that.”

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