Rinoa/Caraway: Grandpa
Title: Grandpa
Prompt: Smile, Introspection, Unsent Letters (#33, #59, #79),
Rating: G
Claim: Rinoa/Caraway
When I was four years old, I fell into your arms.
You smelt of the stale liquor cabinet beneath your desk; the one you assumed we knew nothing about. But we both knew. There was a sad, silent knowlede both of us shared together while you were gone. She thought, inevitably, that my age would mean I wouldn't understand. But kids pick up on everything, sadly.
She put up with it, sometimes. A lot of the time she'd wince if you took a glass of wine with your meal. I realised when I was eight and I overheard some gossip about 'your little problem'. To me, you were the distant hero, with a jacket that glittered with polished buttons and brightly coloured medals. To some people, you were balancing on the tip of a knife edge.
Not that it was ever that noticeable. You did your job well, charmed people, commanded respect. Only I caught the glint of the hip flask as you took a drink so you could go to sleep. It happened more and more after she died. I'd never seen you cry about it, and to be honest, I doubt I ever will.
When I was fourteen I went into your cabinet and drank half a bottle of vodka. The cold glass rolled against my forehead as I vomitted. It was the ten year anniversary of her death, and you weren't home. I spent the whole night getting high. Always that next high. That next joint, the next kiss with that person-you-shouldn't-really-be-kissing, that next gin mixed in with your orange juice.
We were both half-drunk, screaming at each other every night. But we were really screaming at ourselves. I think we're more alike that we both like to admit. That used to scare me too.
I took a few glasses to get to sleep, to get to school. Not that I spent much time learning. You tried to get me to school, but I'm as stubborn as you are. I never got the good grades you wanted. Just like you lived up to what your Father wanted, I was determined not to. Nowadays you tell me I was impossible to pin down, just like Mom.
Parents expect so much of their children, and vice versa.
Now I'm twenty four years old. We sit together at the park, things gradually becoming easier between us. My own son babbles at my side, warm and constant. I never want him to taste the acrid scent of whiskey on my breath. I'm a Mother, and it took me a while to realise I was a good one too. I'll always be there for him.
Today you look like Grandpa in a shirt and slacks, a quiet smile and a glass of lemonade.
You look amazed as he reaches up for your hand. I can see you flinch. I want to tell you not to let go, not to be scared, because sometimes people change. People won't recoil at your touch. Sometimes human warmth is enough, sometimes the feeling of callused fingers can be the most gentle touch in the world, but only if you hold on. Don't let go of his hand, please, please, don't let go of my hand again...
You rub his hand with your thumb.
I want to say thank you, but I think you know. Like a lot of things with you now, I don't need to explain.