He muttered so quietly I had to ask him to repeat it.
“A new phone. Two weekend trips. Some tabs at bars. Clothes. I don’t know. Just… things.”
“That is not seven thousand dollars’ worth of mystery,” I said.
He sank lower in the chair.
“You’ve always helped me,” he said. “I know I haven’t been great about calling and all that, but I really do love you.”
I believed that too, in its way. Toby loved me the way some people love the tree in their backyard. They assume it will be there, giving shade, because it always has been.
“I love you too,” I said.
Hope flashed across his face.
Then I continued.
“I’m not giving you any money.”
The hope vanished so quickly it almost angered me.
“You’re serious?”
“Yes.”
He sat back, stunned.
“Grandma, I could get evicted.”
“You could also sell the phone, stop drinking downtown every weekend, and get a second job.”
“That’s easy for you to say.”
“No,” I said. “Easy would be writing you a check. This is hard.”
He looked at me with open resentment now.
“So you’re punishing me because you’re mad at Dad and Mom.”
I shook my head.
“No. I’m refusing to keep helping you injure yourself.”
“What does that even mean?”
“It means every time I rescue you from the consequences of your own choices, I make it easier for you to keep making them.”
He gave an incredulous laugh.
“You sound like a podcast.”
“Maybe podcasts are right once in a while.”
He rubbed both hands over his face.
“So I’m just supposed to magically become responsible?”
“No,” I said. “You’re supposed to become responsible the way everybody does. Slowly. Uncomfortably. On purpose.”
He stared at the coffee table.
The room was quiet for a few seconds.
Then I said, “I’m not giving you money. But I do have something else.”
He looked up.
“Francis Whitaker needs a part-time runner and file clerk. Basic office work. Phones, copies, document runs, intake packets. It won’t solve everything, but it’s income. Real income. If you want me to call him, I will.”
Toby blinked.
“You’d still help me with that?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I am still your grandmother,” I said. “I’m just done being your back door to consequences.”
He lowered his eyes.
For the first time in that conversation, he looked very young.
“Okay,” he said finally. “If you’ll call him… okay.”