Page 26 of An Introvert's Guide to Life and Love
“Angela!” I call. She’s on the court, wearing a mint-green outfit today. She thwacks the ball toward her partner and then looks around.
“Mallory?” She squints at me from underneath her visor.
I half jog over to her, panting and flushed. “Have you seen Gramps this morning?”
“Leonard? No, I haven’t seen him today. Why, what’s wrong?” She rests her racket against one shoulder.
“He’s not at home and I can’t find him anywhere.” I try to sound calm, but some of my worry seeps into my voice.
“He didn’t leave a note?”
“No, no note.”
“I haven’t seen him, doll. Is his car here?”
“His car! Good idea. I’ll check. Thanks, Angela.” I take off toward the parking lot, leaving Angela looking after me with her mouth puckered in concern.
I jog through the garage and find Gramps’s parking space. His white Mazda Miata is gone.
Chapter 12
So he took off in his car. It shouldn’t necessarily be alarming for a man in his eighties to drive somewhere by himself. But it feels off to me. He hasn’t driven anywhere the whole time I’ve been here, and I know he doesn’t do his own grocery shopping. Where could he have gone?
Should I call him? Even if he has his phone, I don’t like the thought of him trying to answer the call while driving. The man can barely use his phone while standing still. Sounds like a recipe for disaster.
Before I drive all around Pinellas County looking for him, I try one last thing.
“Hey, Trish,” I say when my aunt answers on the second ring.
“What’s up?”
“Gramps isn’t with you, is he?”
“What? No. I’m at the office. What’s going on?”
“Do you know of anywhere he might have gone today? An appointment or… the library?” I guess wildly.
“No. Mallory, what is it? Have you lost my dad?” She says it in a kind of joking way, but I’m not finding this very funny at the moment.
“No. Sort of. Maybe. I should go. I’ll talk to you later.” I hangup before she can say anything. And then I get in my rental car and drive into town.
I drive slowly past the shops and restaurants of Reina Beach. I don’t see a Mazda Miata in front of Ken’s Market or the Crab Shack. This feels increasingly pointless. What if he’s driving down the highway, making a bid for freedom? I’ll never find him. And I need to log into my work computer soon—it’s almost nine on the West Coast. Maybe there’s some sort of shop for nerds around here, someplace that sells scientific textbooks and chess sets. That’s where he would go if he were in need of retail therapy.
I’m driving so slowly, scanning the public beach on my left and the shop parking lots on my right, that the truck behind me honks and swerves. I’m wondering at what point I should give up, or call in a silver alert to 911, when I see it. A little white sports car parked in front of a strip mall that’s home to a nail salon, a liquor store, and a couple of tourist shops.
I park in the first open spot and hurry over to Gramps’s car. He’s sitting in the driver’s seat, and from behind, it looks like he’s laughing lightly, maybe to something on the radio. Trying not to startle him, I approach the driver’s side. I’m about to tap on the window when I see that he’s not laughing at all. His posture is rigid and straight, his eyes are closed, and tears are coursing silently down his cheeks.
Oh no.I freeze. Part of me wishes I could run back to my car and pretend not to have seen him. I’m standing there like a moron when Gramps opens his eyes and sees me.
Hi, I mouth.I’ll just…I point to the passenger side, walk around the car, and climb in.
“Hi,” I say again.
Gramps looks straight ahead. His shoulders have stopped shaking, but the tears are still flowing. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a grownman cry before, except for my dad when the Seahawks won the Super Bowl. And my brother-in-law many times, but he doesn’t count.
I consider reaching for Gramps’s hand, or saying something, but finally I just fish around in my purse for a pack of tissues and hand one to him. He dabs at his cheeks and then blows his nose with a sound like a ferry horn.
“You found me,” he says with a wry chuckle.
