Read Online The Form of Things Unknown by Robin Bridges - Free Book Online Page A

cry. “Where is Dad?” I ask her.
    â€œTell me what you did with my notebooks, bitch!” I’ve never heard my grandmother cuss before.
    My mother doesn’t even bat an eyelash, but I can feel an icky, tense energy filling the house. “We can look for them in your bedroom, Judith,” Mom says. “I haven’t seen them down here.”
    I pull my phone out of my purse and call Dad. His phone goes straight to voice mail. Where the hell is he? I wonder if I should call David for backup. I don’t know what he’d tell Colton and the others, though. Mom and I should be able to handle this.
    â€œGrandma, would you like me to help instead?” Mom obviously needs to have a break. She deserves a week in the Bahamas, or at least a weekend at her favorite hotel in Hilton Head, but maybe I can at least give her a few minutes.
    My grandmother glares at Mom and then at me. Her eyes shift back and forth rapidly. The crazy is right there, beneath the surface. She might explode at any moment. “Did she tell you where she hid them?”
    â€œI’m sure they just got misplaced,” I say, going up the stairs and hoping she’ll follow me. “Maybe I accidentally put your laundry on top of the notebooks yesterday. Remember? I left out the fabric softener like you asked?”
    She’s following me. That’s a good thing. “I hate the smell,” she mutters. “Reminds me of Jim.”
    Ever since Grandpa died, I think Grandma’s had a hard time. She’s not taking her meds anymore, and I don’t think she’s grieving properly. She didn’t go to the funeral. She wasn’t released from the hospital until two days after Grandpa was buried. “Maybe we should find a different brand,” I say, opening the door to her room.
    It’s a mess in here. The laundry basket I brought up last night is turned over on the bed and clothes are strewn everywhere. There’s an empty coffee mug on her dresser and another one half-full of cold coffee on her nightstand. I’m still shaking from her and Mom’s confrontation downstairs.
    Grandma pushes past me and starts pacing. She’s forgotten to bathe again and the smell makes me want to gag. It makes her small bedroom seem even smaller. I stay in the doorway, ready to escape at a moment’s notice. I don’t think she’s ever become violent, but right now I really can’t trust her.
    That realization makes me tear up. I lean against the door frame. “Maybe they fell under your bed?” I suggest, hoping my voice sounds normal. “Or behind it?”
    â€œOnly the rats live below,” she mutters.
    â€œThere aren’t any rats here,” I say. We’ve all been taught to counter her hallucinations with quiet truth. Reassure. Reaffirm. And for me, I pray I never see the same things she sees. To tell her there are no rats is also me reassuring myself. Otherwise I might end up unable to sleep tonight in the attic as I listen to every noise this old house makes. “Want me to look under the bed?”
    â€œThey’ll bite you,” she says, but she makes no move to stop me.
    I wish David were here. Or Dad. But I can brave the rats and God knows what else is under her bed all by myself. “Let me grab a flashlight,” I say.
    â€œHere,” she says, pulling a heavy one out of her nightstand. She hands it to me and puts her hands on her hips, waiting. The crazy is still there, right under the surface.
    I click the flashlight on and get down on my hands and knees. I hold my breath, almost scared to see what’s under there. Socks, a dirty bowl with a spoon, books. Maybe a notebook. The flashlight’s beam hits two green eyes and I shriek.
    Grandma jumps behind me and climbs up on a chair as her cat hisses and darts out from under the bed.
    â€œNat?” Mom comes rushing into the room. “What’s wrong?”
    â€œIt was just Zora.