Page 4 of Fireworks & Forehead Kisses

After my grandfather’s funeral a month ago, my grandmother announced she was moving from their home in Atlanta here to their summer home in Firefly Island. She’d spent three weeks getting her things in order and had moved here four days ago.

That news had completely blindsided me for a couple of reasons. She hadn’t visited the residence for nearly three decades. After my father died when I was eight, my grandparents boarded up the house and stopped coming here entirely. The other reason it came as a shock was the Atlanta home was the only place my grandmother had ever lived as anadult. At the age of eighteen, she’d immigrated to the States from Paris after marrying my grandfather, and she lived there for the next seventy-four years. Why would she leave the only home she’d ever known?

At ninety-two years old, I wanted her close. I worried about her because she was the only family I had in this world, besides my brother, who was more of a liability than anything else. I didn’t know how much longer I had with her.

I’d done everything I could to talk her out of it, to convince her to stay close to me in Atlanta, but she insisted. So, if I wanted to see her, my choices were to drive six hours each way, from Atlanta to the island, or fly. Since time was money, it seemed I was going to be spending a lot of time in the sky.

Once I’d shut off the engine, checked my fuel levels, and reviewed my instruments, I climbed out of the cockpit and looked out over the white-capped cobalt-blue waves of the Atlantic Ocean as they crashed against the sandy shores that backed up to our property. I hadn’t visited here since I was eight years old, but my most vivid memory was the way the beach lit up at night with the glow of lightning bugs, which I could see from my bedroom window. I used to think they were magic, likeHarry PotterorThe Chronicles of Narnia—that this place was magic.

Memories began to slowly populate my mind as I made my way across the wide green field up to the main house. I learned to ride my bike in the driveway here when I was five. I lost my first tooth by tying a string to it and shutting the door after watching aDennis the Menacemovie. I learned how to surf in our backyard basically when I was seven.

When I was four years old, I caught my father cheating on my mom while she was sick in bed from a round of chemo. I found my mom unconscious in bed the morning of my sixth birthday, and she had to be airlifted out of the house three months beforeshe passed away. The police came to the door in the middle of the night to tell my grandparents that my father had wrapped his car around a tree, and he was in the intensive care unit on life support.

Not all the memories were good.

About halfway across the field, something caught my eye. I stopped, turned, and saw two horses grazing in the pasture. Back in Atlanta, my grandfather boarded and owned show horses up until about ten years ago. He’d always been partial to American Quarter Horses and Friesians. But the horses roaming in the south pasture were Clydesdales. It didn’t surprise me to see the breed. Gran had always talked about how beautiful and majestic they were and made it clear she would like to have them. Grandfather either ignored her wishes or didn’t even notice them; neither scenario would surprise me.

As I approached the stallion at the fence, who was the larger of the two, he made a huffing noise and lowered his nose. I held out the back of my hand, and he nuzzled his snout against it. I then said hello to the mare, and she did the same thing.

After spending only seconds with the beautiful creatures, all of the anxiety that had built up from the flight began to evaporate like dry ice in a sauna. Animals had a way of calming me faster and more efficiently than anything else ever could.

I’d had several therapists suggest I get a therapy dog, but in doing so, I would be admitting I had a problem, and that would be seen as a weakness, something I could never have done, at least not when my grandfather was still alive.

The first time I saw a school counselor, I was six. My mother had just died, my father was off doing god knows what—or should I saywho—so my brother and I moved in with my grandparents. They enrolled me in a private school, and within a few months, it was determined I should speak to someone there. Dr. Crane diagnosed me with OCD and anxiety. My grandfatherfound out and told the school that it was a bunch of ‘malarkey,’ I believe was the term he used. He threatened to pull me out of the private institution if I continued having ‘quack’ sessions.

Then, when I was in boarding school, in my sophomore year, one of my teachers, myfavoriteteacher, Mrs. Ramirez, recognized that I was struggling. She arranged for me to see the school psychologist, Dr. Gamble. He diagnosed me with a generalized anxiety disorder and germaphobia. He traced both conditions to my mother’s health and death.

When I was three, and my brother Derek was two, my mother was diagnosed with a rare form of leukemia that significantly compromised her immune system. Even the most common cold could be fatal for her. Because of that, we always had to be diligent about washing our hands and making sure that we never caught any colds or brought any illnesses or germs home to her.

Once again, my grandfather got wind of my sessions and diagnosis, and the same threats were made. This time, however, the teacher who had recommended I see the psychologist was fired as a form of retaliation for doing her job. The school didn’t want to lose not only the tuition of my brother and me but also the hefty donations my grandfather made.

After that, I never showed any outward signs of anything I felt internally. I masked and suppressed all of my emotions. No one ever suspected I struggled with anything.

That worked for a while. Until one day, my senior year in college, I experienced a debilitating anxiety attack, and I couldn’t leave my dorm room for two weeks. I visited a professional and received a diagnosis of OCPD, obsessive-compulsive personality disorder, and mysophobia. I was able to keep that private from my grandfather.

The conditions can show up in people in a lot of different ways, but in me, they present by making me a hyper-vigilant control freak and germaphobe on steroids. I have to have order,structure, schedules, and near-perfection-level standards in my life to feel any sort of normalcy or peace. It’s difficult for me to connect with people and create meaningful relationships, as well as navigate the world around me that is contaminated with disease, germs, and filth.

I’ve always believed knowledge is power. In this instance, that proved to be the case. Once I was aware of what was happening in my brain, it became easier to deal with. I started practicing mindfulness and using relaxation and breathing techniques that allowed me to navigate the world and mask my inner demons.

Over the past sixteen years, I’ve managed to mitigate and conceal both conditions to the point that no one in my family or immediate circle is aware of them. I graduated magna cum laude with an MBA from Princeton. I am engaged to be married to a woman I’ve been in a relationship with for seven years. And now, with the passing of my grandfather, I will be stepping up as the majority shareholder and CEO of a billion-dollar corporation, Wolfe Enterprises, the role I was born and bred to step into.

I took a deep breath and exhaled as I pressed my forehead against the stallion’s snout once more. After allowing myself one more moment of peace, I straightened and began to cross the field. On my way, I disinfected my hands with the mini-sanitizer I kept with me at all times and wondered what Gran’s plans were for the two horses. At ninety-two, surely she wasn’t planning on riding them. At least, I hoped she wasn’t.

Although, with her newfound independence since the passing of my grandfather, I wouldn’t put anything past her. Moving to Firefly Island wasn’t the only change she’d made. She’d also cut her hair, changed her wardrobe, and started a social media account, which I only knew about because my assistant Hannah, who was much more social media savvy than I was, informed me that Gran now had an Instagram account.

I walked up the steps to the front door, and before I reached it, Dorothy opened it. The tension in her shoulders and the smile frozen on her face told me something was wrong.

“Hi, Dorothy.”

“Hello, Mr. Wolfe. How was the flight?”

“Declan,” I corrected her, “and it was fine.”

Anyone who had known me since I was in diapers shouldn’t call me by my last name. She’d only started referring to me in the formal way once my grandfather passed, and I’d stepped into the role of head of the family and the business.

“I saw the article in Forbes. You looked so handsome.”

“Thanks, Dorothy.”

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