(Dis)closure

“Potential Spam,” reads Greg aloud, operating on instinct before the text registers to his eyes. The ‘Spam’ name shows up so much in his call log, he’s surprised he hasn’t been invited to the Mr. and Mrs. Spam wedding yet.

But this time, it doesn’t say Potential Spam. It doesn’t say anything at all. The area code is local, which is promising and ominous.

Greg doesn’t have time to search for the phone number. Something tells him he shouldn’t reject it. This isn’t the time to succumb to his anxiety-driven nerves. It’s never really the time, but this could be even worse than most.

He hastily slides to unlock, fumbling with the fiddly touch-screen mechanism. He misses the days of emphatically flipping open one’s phone and slamming it shut for emphasis. He holds it up to his ear to greet the caller, hoping he’s not about to be congratulated by a robotic car-insurance saleswoman. “Hello?”

“Greg McIver?” says the other person. To his unpracticed ear, it sounds like an old man.

“...Yes?”

“I’m your grandfather.”

“Well, that’s just not possible,” says Greg. “I haven’t got one of those.”

“You do now,” says the old man.

Greg pauses. He swallows hard, calming himself, and grips the phone so crushingly tight that he’s glad he still has a warranty. Grandfather, really? Surely it's a practical joke, but how did this stranger get his name right? He'd better see it through. “Which– which one?” He backtracks quickly. “What’s your name?”

“My name is Gerald Rider,” the stranger says. “Charlotte Rider’s father.”

“Charlotte MacIver, to you.”

There’s a few moments of silence. “I see,” says Gerald. Greg can feel him itching to ask where she got the new name from, and he refuses to give his mother’s estranged parents the satisfaction. “Well, as you can probably guess, Greg,” Gerald finally continues, “Elizabeth gave me your information.”

That’ll be his so-called grandmother. “Oh, she still has my business card? I thought she’d lost it in the wash. Seeing as I’d never heard from her.”

“She felt it would be too awkward to reach out,” says Gerald, in a strained voice.

“And you did it anyway?”

“Well… Charlotte’s still my daughter.”

“No thanks to you!” Greg sits up, eyes blazing brightly. “How could you do that to her? To me?!”

“This isn’t– I– I don’t have any of the answers for you. Not over the phone.”

“Would you prefer to be disappointed in person?” Greg’s tone is bitingly bitter. “No, I’m sorry. You don’t deserve that! Meeting face to face is a privilege you haven’t earned. You should look my mother in the eye and apologize first!”

“That’s why I wanted to reconnect,” says Gerald. He’s accepting Greg’s attitude with unexpected patience. “I know there’s no justifying any of it, but there is an explanation. Did Charlotte ever tell you?”

“No. And when I was old enough, I told her I didn’t want to know.” Greg pauses. “It couldn’t possibly be justified. I’m glad you won’t waste your breath trying.”

“I don’t have a lot of breath left to waste,” says Gerald. “They told me I have some time, so I’m trying to make the most of it. This is the biggest regret that’s haunted me my entire life, so… Can you put me in touch with Charlotte? I want to make amends.”

“I’m sorry?” Greg holds the phone at arm’s length and blinks, collecting his nerve. Maybe he'd been too hasty. He usually is. “...Just like that?”

“You said you thought I should talk to Charlotte first, and I agree. I don’t want to go behind her back for anything.”

“Are you going behind your wife’s back to talk to me?”

Gerald awkwardly chuckles, noticing that Greg has pointed questions to spare. He has his mother’s same fiery personality. “You’re not a journalist, are you?”

“Not enough self-control for that,” says Greg. “I’m an art restorer. As my business card says.”

“I just asked Elizabeth for your number,” says Gerald. “She has the card. But I did look you up.”

“Find anything interesting?”

“Not much.”

“Good,” says Greg. “How about Mum? Oh, wait, you don't know her current name, because you haven’t spoken to her since she was a bloody teenager!” He grits his teeth, then tries to practice conscious stress-relieving breathing. It doesn’t do much for him. Never did. “I’ll discuss this with her. Thank you for calling me.”

“Thank you for picking up the phone,” says Gerald. “I know this is probably a shock.”

“I’ll say,” says Greg. “I– I’m… glad… to hear from you. I suppose. How much time do you have left, anyway?” He has enough sense not to ask what’s wrong with him.

“Less than a year,” says Gerald, in a tone of resigned acceptance. “Or so I’m told.”

“I’m very sorry,” says Greg. Nothing feels sufficient. “Why not reach out before now?”

“We… didn’t know where to find Charlotte.”

“Really? Even though she was in the care of your relatives? She moved to Scotland, not Pluto!”

“I know. I’m sorry,” says Gerald. “I’m very sorry, to both of you. It wasn’t fully my decision.”

“Whose else could it have been?!”

“Not all mine, and not all Elizabeth’s, either,” says Gerald, vaguely suggesting outside intervention. “It was a complicated situation.”

That sets off more alarm bells, which Greg could’ve done without hearing. “Are you trying to say–”

Then his phone beeps with another incoming call. The caller ID takes a moment to register. It says: Potential Spam.

Greg sees an exit strategy.

“I’m so sorry I have to go. It’s my boss.” He says it all so quickly it sounds like one word, then he hits the right button, ends the call, and sits there, having an existential crisis.

Only then does he notice the unread email in his notifications, addressed to him from… Elizabeth. Oh, hell. That'll be his grandmother, writing to inform him Gerald just expired.

But it’s only a missive from the secretary, Lizzie. It says: Please come to the office ASAP. We need to talk.

“Bloody lovely.” Greg somehow brought that one upon himself. He's sure of it. For all of last semester's luck, it's now backfiring on him at every chance. He shouldn't have wished for closure.