“He might be tired,” he says. “He had another visitor this morning.”
I exchange a glance with Wes. “Who was it?”
“Some distant cousin. Maybe you know him since you’re Bentley’s niece. A John McGregor?”
I press my lips together. I’m not surprised to hear that my suspicions were correct—McGregor and my grandfather are connected. But a distant cousin? It might explain why McGregor was so affected by this visit, though is it enough to make him lose the election?
“Yeah, I know him,” I say slowly. “A politician, right?”
The nurse shrugs. “I don’t know. But he was pretty upset when he left. That can happen sometimes, when visitors aren’t prepared for the state their friends and family are in.” He looks both of us over. “Just . . . be ready.”
“Okay,” Wes says. I don’t answer, in no way prepared for whatever I’m about to find on the other side of this door.
The nurse knocks. There’s no response, but he opens the door anyway.
“Mr. Bentley?” he calls out into the room. “You have another visitor. She says she’s your niece.”
There’s a groaning sound, and then a muted thump, like a body turning over in bed. “Have no niece,” a scratchy voice responds.
I gasp. It sounds rusty and low, but that is definitely my grandfather’s voice.
“Of course you don’t,” the nurse says soothingly. “But why don’t you talk to the pretty girl anyway?”
There’s no answer. The nurse steps back from the door. “Go on in,” he says. “He’s not dangerous to anyone, and he’s having a good day. I’ll be just outside the door in case you need me.”
I cannot move, so Wes nods for us and takes my hand. He tugs me gently, and I step forward. The room is bare—there are only two beds pushed against opposite walls, and two freestanding wooden closets. A big, white lump occupies one of the beds. The other bed is empty and neatly made.
I slowly walk forward. The rubber soles of my shoes squeak against the linoleum floor. As I get closer, the white lump turns into the outline of arms and legs, a rounded middle, and finally a head with black and gray hair that sticks up out of the blanket.
The head turns and looks up at me. I squeeze my hands into fists, and my breath comes shallow and tight. This man looks like a stranger, with his longish curly hair and snarling grin.
And then something in his face changes, calms, and I want to throw myself against him. This is the man who helped raise me. One of the people I love most in the world. My grandfather.
CHAPTER 9
Grandpa.”
Wes makes a warning noise in the back of his throat, but I hardly notice.
The man in the bed narrows his eyes and his face changes again, looking feral and suspicious. “What did you say, girl?” he spits out.
“Uncle,” I amend quickly. “It’s good to see you again, Uncle.”
His eyes sweep up and down my body, landing on my face. “I don’t know who you think you are, but I have no niece. Have no brothers or sisters. You’re no relative of mine.” He cocks his head, staring at me intently. “Though the eyes are right. You’ve got Bentley green eyes.”
“I am a Bentley. Lydia Bentley.”
“Lydia.” He makes a humming noise. “I knew a Lydia once, when I was a small boy. She had red hair, too.”
My mouth falls open and I turn to Wes. He’s frowning. “You must be confused.” His voice is hard. “Lydia is your niece. That’s where you recognize the name from.”
Grandpa sits up in his bed and waves his hand in the air. “I know, I know what you all think of me. I’m ‘confused.’ I can’t hold on to reality. But it’s not true. They’re the ones who can’t see what’s right in front of them.” His eyes glaze over, and he starts to smooth the blankets down around him. “So what are you doing here, oh niece of mine?”
It takes a moment for me to speak. He’s younger than I remember, but has the same long face, with high cheekbones and a full mouth. But his hair is not completely white like I’m used to, and he’s not wearing his wire-rimmed glasses. He must be around fifty now; his face is mostly unlined, though there are deep grooves around his mouth and eyes.
I met my grandfather in 1944, when he was just a small boy. It was strange to see him as a child, but in a way it was easier than this; he felt like a completely different person then. Now he is enough like the man I remember that I cannot separate the two people in my head. But this version is too young and too angry. It’s like looking through old, wavy glass where the image on the other side is only slightly distorted.
“I, um . . .” I clear my throat. “We don’t want to tire you out. We heard you already had a visitor today.”
“I’m not tired.”
He doesn’t say anything else, so I try to prod him in the direction of McGregor. “Was your visitor someone close to you? Another family member?”
“Another family member? I thought we established you’re not my family.”
“But this visitor was family?”
“McGregor?” His voice becomes lighter. “Son of my great uncle, don’t know what that makes him. Second or third cousin, I guess. Known him all my life.”
“Does he visit you often?”
“First time I saw him in years. No one comes here.” His eyes cloud. “Not even my son anymore.”
I glance at Wes.
“Did you know McGregor was a politician?” Wes asks.
“’Course I know that! Running for city council.” Grandpa turns his head to the side, as though dismissing us.
I take a small step closer to the bed and say the first thing I think of. “Why don’t you tell me a little bit about your childhood? About how long you’ve known McGregor.”
But it’s like he doesn’t hear the second part of my suggestion. He looks
