Chapter 12 Lorna Now #2
“I didn’t ask him, to be honest. I agreed with him that this is a money pit.”
Liz was silent for a moment. “Excuse me? You did what?”
Too blunt! “I agreed that he should probably sell it, because that is the only way he might get back what he put into it. That’s what I would do. And really, it should be a single home.”
“Oh hon,” Liz said, and smiled sadly at Lorna, as if she pitied her. “But it’s not a single-family home. Not anymore.”
“Okay, but hear me out,” Lorna said hesitantly.
“It makes sense to me because he’s only got four units.
He could go up a thousand dollars a month on each unit and probably still wouldn’t be able to collect what he needs to make major repairs on top of paying taxes and upkeep.
The house never should have been split up. ”
“Yes, but again, that train has left the station,” Liz said.
“And we’ve all made this our home. If he really intends to sell it, we should have enough time to find other living arrangements.
A serious amount of time, too, because there is hardly anything affordable in Austin anymore.
And what about Bean? He already lost his mother, and now he’ll have to change schools? ” Liz shook her head.
Lorna winced. If anything would make her give up her idea, an appeal to Bean’s best interests might be it. But then again, she couldn’t be such a softy about this. She’d been planning this a long time. It was her turn now. She deserved it. She deserved it.
“I don’t want to move,” Liz insisted. “This house is the perfect location. It’s central to everything.” She looked at Lorna. “Do you want to move?”
“No! I belong here.”
“Exactly,” Liz said.
Lorna’s palms were perspiring now, and she quickly debated telling Liz the truth. She swallowed down her guilt and fear and the overpowering need to have this house. It was inexplicable. She was inexplicable. So there was no sense in even trying to explain it.
They were interrupted by a knock at the door. Liz hopped up and went to open it. “Martin!” she said cheerfully.
“Hi, Liz. Oh, hi, Lorna.”
“She brought brownies,” Liz said, hurrying to fetch the tray. She held it up to Martin, who took one and bit into it.
“That’s dope,” he said.
“Bean made them,” Lorna said, and stood. “I have to run. I’m watching Bean today.”
“No worries!” Liz said brightly. “I’ll fill Martin in. Thank you for coming up. Come anytime! I’m always here.”
Lorna nodded and slipped out past Martin as he took another brownie. “He should be a baker, that kid,” he said as the door closed behind her.
Lorna ran downstairs. Maybe one day she would tell them. She didn’t even know the words she would use, but one day, she might say it. Maybe she’d go up to Liz’s apartment for an afternoon just to hang out, like women did, and tell her.
Then again, maybe not.
Once she was safe in her apartment, she looked down at herself. The run in her stocking now disappeared into her shoe. Her skirt was covered in cat hair. She was still perspiring, and she felt like a gargoyle. She felt entirely at odds with herself, like pieces of her were not fitting together.
Later that night, after Bean had gone home, Lorna and Aggie were in bed, nestled against the pillows. Lorna wore a conditioning cream on her hair, covered in plastic. The ad had promised it would make her hair smooth and silky. She hoped so. She intended to sue if it didn’t.
Aggie was asleep, twitching now and then, snoring softly, and Lorna was flipping through a photo album, trying to confirm her memories of the playroom.
The photos were mostly taken in the years before they had lived here with Nana.
Before Kristen was the worst sort of problem.
She was annoyed with herself, at her inability to tell her neighbors why this house meant so much to her.
That this house, and all it represented, was the only thing she had left of her family.
Of her life, really. But she feared her reasoning wouldn’t be good enough, that they’d tell her she was wrong.
That they would resent her or shame her or dislike her.
She couldn’t bear to experience that.
There were pictures of her and Kristen, their arms around each other, laughing, their tongues stained dark red by candy or juice.
One of Nana in her ever-present homemade blouses, smiling with love at the two of them.
There were pictures of them swinging in the backyard and looking at the kittens a neighborhood cat had birthed under the house.
Pictures of her entire family, smiling happily, hiding the turmoil that engulfed them.
Another set of pictures showed Kristen braiding Lorna’s hair, then putting makeup on her.
Lorna remembered it was for a birthday party she’d been invited to.
In another, teenage Kristen looked beautiful and happy.
And then there was one of Kristen asleep on the couch, her hair covering her face. Passed out.
There were pictures of their bedrooms in this house, decorated for Christmas. Mom had let them each have a tree, and Kristen had let Lorna pick her ornaments first. Then the two of them, laughing in matching Christmas pajamas. Nana helping Kristen and Lorna make Christmas cookies.
Lorna had been happy here once upon a time. They’d made a happy family here. Once upon a time.
Sometimes she fretted what would become of her if she didn’t find happiness. She was afraid of dying alone.
She picked up her laptop and opened a blank document. She began to type.
Hello Kristen,
I visited a neighbor today. Shocker. I wore a skirt and hose like I was going to give a presentation and looked like a jackass.
You probably think that’s funny. When did I lose the ability to dress myself appropriately for the right occasion?
It’s a confidence thing. I don’t have any, you know.
Except in software sales. No one can touch me there.
But out in the world, with others involved, I lose all confidence and worse, I start to sweat.
Or tear up. Like, literally, what the hell is that?
You know Mom sold Nana’s house to pay for your last stint in treatment.
Or did you forget because you were high all the time?
Anyway, fat lot of good it did for her to sell it, obviously.
I hope I don’t have to remind you of all the things that happened after we moved.
I still can’t believe that you made us lose everything.
Sometimes I wake up and think, Oh yeah, we lost everything because Kristen couldn’t stop using .
I know I’m supposed to be compassionate because you have a disease, and I am, I really am.
I can’t imagine what it must be like to live in your skin.
Especially now. But losing the house pissed me off. You knew how much it meant to me.
I’m going to buy it. I know it’s crazy, and it will cost a fortune, but all I do is work. I will be okay.
Speaking of okay, I hope you are. I’ve been meaning to tell you that I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. I think you know why.
Lolo
She printed the letter, put it in an envelope, and stuck an address label on it, then padded into the main living area.
She added this letter to the stack. When she returned to bed, she noticed the envelope Peggy had given her on her bedside table.
She still hadn’t opened it, was almost afraid to pick it up for fear of releasing mayhem into her life.
But this was ridiculous. If someone on her staff was taking so much time to complete a project, she would have had a few choice things to say about it.
She had never understood why people didn’t just get on with the task of doing what they were supposed to do.
Yet here she was, not doing what she was supposed to do, paralyzed with indecision and fear.
Either she was going to do what she must to have her house back, or she was going to start looking for another apartment.
“For heaven’s sake,” she said angrily, and, in a moment of decisiveness, swiped up the envelope, breaking the seal.
She withdrew a folded piece of standard notebook paper, which had yellowed slightly over the last four years. On the outside was scrawled Lorna in her mother’s handwriting. She drew a breath and unfolded it.
There it was, in black and white: the apologies Lorna needed to make because of her crazy family.
They were her own words thrown back at her.
It was surprisingly difficult to look at the list and not feel the pain associated with the things that had created it to begin with.
She wasn’t sure how addressing these things now was going to work.
It was entirely possible this exercise would send her deeper into her bomb shelter, where she was safe.
Too safe.
But she didn’t want to be alone anymore. She didn’t want to cling to old hurts. She didn’t want to be this person. And if she wanted things to be different, she needed to start somewhere.
The sight of her mother’s handwriting unleashed a wave of longing.
Start with Callie. You were so close. She was so important to you.
Lorna’s eyes began to well again, damn it.
You didn’t have to end things. She would have understood. Reach out to her. Tell her you love her. She will welcome you because she loved you too. I heard she is in Pflugerville.
Lorna blinked. How could her mother have known where she was?
And anyway, she didn’t believe for a moment that Callie would welcome her reaching out.
Lorna would never forget the last time she saw her, that lethal mix of disappointment and fury in her eyes.
“She hates me,” Lorna murmured. She reached for the laptop and typed Callie Ann Kleberg in the search bar.
A few Callies popped up. One was in Pflugerville.
She was a teacher, according to the link that led her to a news article about a middle school teacher.
Callie Kleberg, girls’ coach, world history, geography.
That was Callie, all right. She’d always wanted to be a teacher.
Lorna navigated to the school’s website and found an email listed for her.
She let her fingers hover over the keyboard.
But she couldn’t bring herself to click the link. Coward.
She slammed the laptop shut and picked up her mother’s note.
Forgive your father, Lolo.
Lorna gaped at the notebook paper. “Never,” she whispered.
He handled things poorly, but he didn’t mean to hurt you.
“But he did, Mom.”
You didn’t know any better either.
Mom hated Dad. Why was she defending him? And why was she defending Lorna, for that matter? Lorna had betrayed her too.
There was more written, but Lorna had read enough for one evening.
She recalled the way her mother had lain in bed in the garage apartment, so frail, the few remaining tufts of her white hair sticking up every which way.
“You’ll understand one day, I hope,” she’d said, her face filled with a cadaverous smile. “When you have children of your own.”
It was too late for children of her own. All she had left of her family was this house.
She reopened her laptop, went to Facebook, and found Callie there. She didn’t want to ruin Callie’s whole day at work with an email. She clicked on the message icon.