Page 4 of The Embers That Remain

“It’s not the way I remember it, but we’ll fix it up and make it good as new.” The optimistic tone was just a tad too cheerful, as if my own words would convince me it was true. He didn’t argue, just nodded once and headed toward the porch with me.

I knocked hard, knowing that Grandpa might not be able to hear me.

“Grandpa?” My voice sounded younger than I was. “It’s Cali. I’m here with Jace.” Nothing. I knocked again, louder. I tried the handle, squinted past years of dust through the window; nothing moved inside.

“Grandpa!” I raised my voice, the way I used to when he’d been working in the barn. “It’s Cali!”

Jace wiped a clean spot on the dusty glass and peered in, he pulled back with a shrug.

“Are you here to play?” The voice came from the far end of the porch, singsong and bright. I spun around, startled.

Grandpa stood by the railing, holding up a small green toy tractor as if it were a prize. He was wearing only gray boxers, which were being held up with suspender straps, and a huge smile that was borderline too wide with eyes equally as big. Jace choked on a laugh, then immediately began scrubbing above his top lip with the side of his index finger, as if he had an allergic reaction to what he was seeing but didn’t want to be so rude as to cover his eyes.

I couldn’t move. This wasn’t forgetfulness. This was something else entirely. Something that had been growing quietly while I stayed away. There were a lot of things I’d like to see in this life, but my grandpa being naked as a jaybird wasn’t one of them.

“Hey,” I said finally, softly. “Hi, Grandpa.”

He stepped closer, bare feet slapping against the porch boards. “Grandpa’s not here,” he said cheerfully. “I’m Jimmy.”

He poked a finger at his bare chest as if he were proud of his name. His hair was askew in every direction, silver straight on end.

“Are you here to play?” he asked again, thrusting a toy tractor forward, before reconsidering and yanking it back. “This one’s mine. I’ve got more to share.” He took off toward the side yard, and we followed, slow and stunned. Jace leaned toward me and whispered out of the side of his mouth.

“Why isn’t he . . . dressed?”

“I don’t know,” I whispered. “But we’ll figure it out.”

He swayed back and forth while he ambled, as if he were dancing to music that no one else could hear. As we rounded the corner of the house, I stopped, glued in place as my brain raced to absorb exactly what I saw.

A farm.

Not the real one, but a miniature one. Fields carved into the dirt. Tiny hay bales stacked with care. A barn built from scrap pieces of wood, with doors that actually opened and closed. Toy tractors lined up in neat rows. It was meticulous. Detailed. Hours and hours of intricate work.

“Whoa, this is pretty cool.” Jace crouched, awe cutting through his confusion.

Grandpa beamed. “Do you wanna be my best friend?” The question hung there, raw and hopeful.

Jace swallowed. “Yeah,” he said. “Sure, dude.”

“I’m not dude. I’m Jimmy,” he corrected. “You can play with the swather.” He pointed toward the row of toys, but Jace hesitated.

“Second from the right,” I whispered, since he was unfamiliar with farm equipment. They sat together in the dirt, Grandpa explaining every feature of the toy as if it were real. I watched, rooted in place, guilt blooming hot and heavy in my chest.

“I’m gonna unpack our stuff,” I said eventually. “Okay?”

Grandpa . . . uh . . . Jimmy nodded without looking up. “The front door is locked ’cause of strangers. But you’re not strangers. You’re my best friends.”

Friends.

Tears welled in my eyes as he grinned widely; the quiet, stoic man of my childhood was nowhere to be found.

“We’re here to live with you, J-J-Jimmy.” I nearly choked on his given name.

“Okay!” he said with another too-wide grin. “I always wanted a family.”

My eyes met Jace’s, and I knew that no matter what happened, we’d figure out how to take care of Grandpa, even if the situation differed from what we had thought.

I stepped away, toward the house that had built me and the life I’d run from. As we crossed the county line, I understood that coming back hadn’t just reopened old wounds. It had ripped them wide open. Because there was no way I was going to be able to fly under the radar when my grandpa needed far more help than I anticipated.