Page 24 of Jacob Michaels is Trouble

Oma dragged the sugar jar across the counter and began searching through the utensil drawer for a spoon. Apparently, Oma needed more than just caffeine to get through the day this once.

“Did it just…go blank when I…left?”

“Well,” She looked thoughtful as one, then two spoons of sugar got dumped into her mug, “I’d say ‘yes,’ but I ain’t certain. It was blank the first time I looked at it after you run off to Hollywood, though.”

“That’s weird, right?” I asked, my stomach suddenly feeling like lead. “I mean…why?”

Oma chuckled to herself as she stirred her coffee and shoved the sugar jar back to its place on the counter next to the flour and brown sugar. With the amount of cooking and baking Oma did, I never did understand why she poured the ingredients into decorative jars from their original sacks.

“’Bout par for the course, I’d say.” She turned around with her sweetened mug of coffee gripped in her hand as she propped herself up against the counter. “You decided to take things into your own hands, ran off to Hollywood—things have been weird for a long time, Robbie. Hell, if something wasn’t weird around here at least once a day I’d probably cream my britches.”

“You’re the weirdest thing around here,” I mumbled to myself.

“What’s that?” She glowered.

“Nothing.”

“Mm.” She eyed me warily.

Sitting there in Oma’s kitchen, thinking of the previous night’s events, I found myself pouring through my old memories that still seemed to be adjusting to being back in my brain. Things that Oma had said when I was a teenager. Things Lucas and I had done when we were younger. Things I had seen, things I’d been taught, things I had known on a deeper level than I seemed to know them at present. There was a nagging pull at the back of my skull, something telling me that I should remember something that I couldn’t. Not because the memory wasn’t in my mind but because I was human and humans are forgetful. At best, humans don’t have the extraordinary brainpower to connect the dots that link memories together.

With no better obvious course of action, I slammed back a swig of my coffee, wincing at the slightly too warm liquid, and stood from the table. Oma watched me from her place by the counter as I walked over and emptied my mug down the drain and rinsed out my cup before setting it in the sink. I laid my hands against the counter edge and stared out of the window that provided a view of the backyard. The white picket fence that surrounded the garden looked so pitiful with no garden to protect. Frowning to myself, I thought about all of the years Oma had tended to the garden dutifully, and how I was sad that she seemed to have no intention of ever doing it again.

“What are you thinkin’ about?” She asked. “All the money you’re losin’ by not takin’ your dumbass back out to Hollywood?”

“I don’t need the money,” I said, then corrected myself. “I don’t want the money.”

A sharp whistle emanated from Oma’s lips.

“Ain’t you fancy as shit?” She waggled her head slightly. “Guess your retirement plan is good if you decide to give up work before thirty?”

“I don’t have a retirement plan.” I looked at her out of the corner of my eye. “Just a shit ton of money.”

Her face twisted with disapproval.

“Wouldn’t have said it if you hadn’t pushed.” I shrugged, looking out the window at the barren garden once more. “Like you always do.”

“Well, what are you gonna do when you run out of money, smartass?” She asked though she wasn’t trying to be rude.

She was just being Oma.

“Unless I lived to be a thousand, I should be okay.” I retorted. “But the way things are going, I’ll be lucky to make it to twenty-eight.”

“You’ll be lucky to make it to twenty-seven, ya’ brat.” She replied nonchalantly. “If you keep sassin’ me you won’t make it another two weeks.”

“Oh. Yeah.” I said, vaguely remembering that my birthday was not far off.

“Mm,” Oma repeated her go-to humming noise. “What kind of cake you want for your birthday anyhow?”

Turning with an incredulous look, I pushed my hip against the counter and crossed my arms over my chest as I stared my grandmother down.

“Really, Oma?” I snorted. “Do you want to get me a cake and throw a party? Play Pin the Tail on the Donkey?”

“There’ll be more than one jackass gettin’ something stuck in its ass if you keep being a shithead.” She replied. “Thought it might be nice since we ain’t seen each other on your birthday for ten years. Have a cake. Blow out some candles.”

“Make a wish?” I teased.

“Oh, fuck you.” She dumped her coffee mug in the sink.