Chapter 4
Chapter
When I arrive home from work, I immediately seek out my mom, finding her peeling potatoes beside a massive papier-maché horse head on the kitchen table.
“Hey.” My eyes take the normal scan of her, from the top of her head with its close-cropped cut, to her bare feet with freshly painted toenails. “How’s it going?”
How are you feeling? Is the question I actually want to ask, but I’ve tried to stop after she told me my constant worrying over her health caused her more anxiety.
Besides, according to her doctors, Charlotte Lundberg has been cancer free for almost a year now.
“Good.” Mom smiles up at me from her seat. “Making mashed potatoes.”
She doesn’t cook when she’s in pain, and I find the slick sound of her peeler cutting through the skin of the spud soothing.
“Where’s Marge?” I ask.
“Fighting with the neighbors,” Mom gravely informs me.
“The squirrels are back?” I sigh the frustrated question on my way to the fridge, where I stow the half a pie Sam wrapped up for me at the end of my shift.
The Cornfields are sweet like that, going above and beyond giving me a job.
They always try to take care of my family in small ways, like making sure we have dessert.
There was a point in time when they were the only reason we had food on the table at night.
“They are. Grumps was barking at the ceiling.”
Our cocker spaniel came from the shelter with a different name—Digger or something like that—but we wanted to claim him as our own. Day one, he settled himself on the recliner in the living room with a judgmental grumble, then growled at a group of kids who rode their bikes past the front window.
He has the spirit of a grumpy old man, so we dubbed him Grumps.
“You should let him loose in the attic,” I suggest. “Maybe that’ll keep the squirrels out.”
Mom chuckles at the idea, and I take a moment to savor the small noise. There was a long time when she wouldn’t even smile, let alone laugh. For a while I thought I’d lose her before she found happiness again.
But things are different now with her health and medication.
I remind myself of those positive changes anytime I stress about money and Shawn. That at least I have my mom back. And I plan to keep it that way.
After pouring myself a glass of water, I sit down heavily at the kitchen table, biting back a groan as my body lets out twinges of protest for being made to work a ten-hour shift.
Still, Mom must sense my exhaustion.
“You were only supposed to work eight hours.”
I shrug and try for a reassuring smile. “Things got busy. And the plane-crash-girl label kept earning me extra tips.” I grab a potato and the extra peeler and get to work. “Besides, if nurses can handle twelve-hour shifts saving lives, what’s ten hours serving burgers?”
Mom snorts, but I feel her eyes on me as I help with dinner prep.
“How are you feeling today?” she asks. “Shaky at all? Any panic attacks?”
Only when George popped up at my place of work. “I’m fine.”
“You don’t have to be.” Her hands keep working. “It’s okay to not be okay.”
I’ve heard the assurance before, and I’m glad that Mom’s therapist brought it into her lexicon.
But it doesn’t apply to me. Not in this case.
“Seriously, Mom. I’m good.” And because I know that won’t be enough, I add, “The emergency was scary while it was happening, but I’m okay now.”
She pauses her peeling to reach over and give my wrist a loving squeeze. But what I find most reassuring about the gesture is the sight of silver polish on her nails. The chemo she underwent made her nails chip and fall off, so she never bothered painting them.
They’ve grown back. And she’s taking care of herself.
While I decompress from the demanding day to the sound of my peeler slicing through potato skins, I end up staring at the more-than-life-sized horse head on the table. The thing gazes back at me with wide eyes and a gaping mouth.
Probably the same expression I had on when George made me that offer.
Say yes. That’s a good girl, a deep voice from my imagination rumbles.
I bite the inside of my cheek hard and remind myself that my near-death experience rewired my brain. That’s the only explanation for why I’m suddenly attracted to a man I intensely dislike and want him to act out a newly acquired praise kink.
I never gave George an answer, and when Shawn returned from the bathroom, the pilot didn’t make any more arguments, staying silent on the topic for the rest of lunch. Maybe George thought Shawn would get him to make even more concessions if my brother joined in the discussion.
Still, when they rose to leave, George slipped a folded napkin my way before following Shawn out the door. On it, I found a string of digits and a simple message.
Call me when you’re ready to go up.
I’m tempted to pull out the number and stare at it, just to make sure it’s real. But then Mom would ask questions, and I’d probably end up telling her about the offer.
An offer made by a guy who works for—and is an heir to—the company that tried to ruin Charlotte Lundberg’s life.
Yeah, that’s something I’m keeping to myself.
After her health issues, I’ve made it my goal not to bring unnecessary stress into my mom’s life.
For one, she’s had it hard enough and deserves the quiet, happy existence she’s always wanted.
But more importantly, I’ve come so close to losing her—multiple times—that I’m not about to take my chances by setting off her anxiety and sending her back to the hospital.
Luckily, I was the one to tell her about yesterday’s emergency landing, so she already knew I was safe on the ground and unhurt.
Would knowing I want to go up again worry her too much?
That I’m considering going up with George from BBN?
I set my finished potato on the cutting board and realize it was the last of the bunch. Without a task, I consider if Marge would want some help in the attic.
Probably not. I’d only ruin her hunt. She claims I’m a loud breather.
At that moment there’s a triumphant “Aha!” shouted from two floors up, and I’m sure I’m not needed.
Mom smirks. “Must have been a successful quest.”
The old house’s bones creak as Marge McFarland descends, the groan of wood so pronounced and familiar, I can easily track her route by ear alone.
Out of the attic…down the hall…stop in the bathroom…continue down the hall…descend the main stairs…aim toward the back of the house and…
“Beth! You’re home. Good.” The woman I think of as my second mother—Sally and Sam are tied for third—grins wide, the expression creasing wrinkles in the suntanned skin at the corners of her eyes. She holds up a humane trap, which currently holds a frantic, fluffy rodent. “The squirrels are back.”
I’d call the thing cute if it and its buddies didn’t keep breaking into our house.
Grumps comes scrambling into the kitchen, his white and brown body shaking with furious affront as he growls at the furry prisoner.
“Did you find how they’re getting in?” I ask loud enough for Marge to hear me over the chittering and snarling, no longer shocked by the pests that sneak into this timeworn building. Mainly just annoyed that we still haven’t plugged all the holes.
When Mom, Marge, and I bought this well-aged Tudor-style house five years ago, I knew it was a fixer-upper. But I had no idea how many things could go wrong inside a house when the outside maintained a presentable appearance.
The roof leaks.
Carpenter bees are eating the back porch.
The water heater is on the verge of death.
Electrical outlets have stopped working.
Random breakers still trip without warning.
Half of the faucets drip, the soft sounds a maddening taunt.
And we cleared the bats out of the attic only to make room for squirrels, apparently.
“East side.” Marge waves in a general direction with her free hand, then pushes some errant brown curls out of her eyes. “There’s a hole in the back corner of the attic. Shadowy, so we didn’t spot it. I did a quick patch job.”
I try not to sag in relief. This day has burned me out, and I’m not up for my second, unpaid job as repairwoman.
But I relax too soon.
“The light in the upstairs bathroom is acting up. Could you tinker with it while I drop off Anubis?” Marge gestures at the cage.
The squirrel, who should not have a name, chitters in affront.
Drop off means driving it to the local park and setting the critter free far from the house.
She has a whole system, having done this at least ten times now.
“Sure.” I tilt my chin toward the new equine table centerpiece. “School project?”
Marge teaches history at the local middle school, and the remnants of her students’ work often end up on our kitchen table as she grades.
“The kids had to re-create an image from an ancient text.” She chuckles. “Take a look inside.”
With a raised brow, I pick up the head. When I tilt it, I find a hollow cavity with a single item inside. A Barbie doll dressed in battle wear.
“The Iliad?” I guess, and her smile widens with pride and Mom snickers as she cubes the potatoes.
“They made the whole Trojan horse. Wonderfully creative. Brought that piece home to show you both.”
“I’m properly impressed.” And once again, I’m convinced Marge was born to be a teacher. The woman is enthusiastic and engaging, and she genuinely enjoys connecting with her students. She’s won Teacher of the Year for her district twice.
If she wanted, Marge could move up the ladder, make more money as an administrator. But going on thirty years now, she still prefers to stay in the classroom.
Which leaves a waitress, an underpaid teacher, and a part-time flower shop worker trying to cover a mortgage on a house we never should have bought as it attempts to fall to pieces around us.
But Mom and Marge are happy. That’s what matters.