Chapter 8
Tilda
My stomach grumbles, and I sigh.
Time to make some food.
I shift forward in the chair, planting my bare feet on the deck, readying myself to stand, and my knee protests.
When I fell, I landed on both of them. But my right knee clearly took the brunt of my weight. The sun felt good on my legs, but now that I’m looking at the mud and blood on my skin, I feel itchy.
My next sigh turns into a groan as I stand.
I’m glad my body tends to run hot, because the weather here is certainly cooler than I was expecting, and I’m dressed for a desert summer.
But the mild temperature is appreciated since I didn’t break a sweat hanging my suncatchers. Hauling my boxes into the house was a different story. But it was a good distraction from… everything.
Reaching through the empty screen door frame, I push open the inside door and step through.
One of these times, I’m sure I’ll trip on the lip of the screen door, but right now, stepping through it is a tiny touch of fun that I desperately need.
Stop it.
Stop feeling sorry for yourself.
Standing in the space between the living room and kitchen, I hold my arms straight out from my sides, close my eyes, and take a deep breath.
I’m fine.
I’m better than fine.
I have a house.
I have property.
A truck.
I have a home that’s mine. That no one can take from me.
I’m fine.
I take another breath and slowly lower my arms.
But Uncle Jack is gone.
I squeeze my eyes shut tighter. And I breathe.
Two weeks ago today, a man knocked on my apartment door. When I answered, he handed me an envelope without a word, then turned around and left.
The envelope had my name handwritten on the front, in neat block letters.
I shut the door. I opened the letter. I read it. And then I sat on the floor. Right there. In the entryway to my tiny studio apartment. I sat on the floor, and I cried.
And I read it again.
Uncle Jack is dead.
The letter explained it all. But…
I lift my arms and breathe again.
He had a terminal illness.
But he never told me.
Never told anyone.
Breathe.
He knew it was over. Said he wanted to control his own destiny. So…
Breathe, Tilda. Just breathe.
He chose death with dignity. Physician-assisted dying.
He did it his way.
I drop my arms and open my eyes.
Uncle Jack, Great-Uncle Jack, brother of my mother’s mother, arranged his death.
And he arranged my life.
The house is in my name.
The land is in my name.
The check for twenty thousand dollars was in my name.
And the plane ticket… the driver…
He had it all planned.
Two weeks ago, I got the letter. The one in Uncle Jack’s handwriting, telling me that he loved me. That I was his hope and his joy. That he was sorry we didn’t spend more time together. That he was sorry he didn’t visit more often. That he was sorry he couldn’t tell me his plan.
The letter that had a single house key taped to the paper.
Two weeks ago, I put my notice in at my apartment.
I put my notice in at my jobs.
I started the process of selling my furniture.
I deposited the check, purchased moving boxes, and packed my belongings.
Two weeks ago…
A traitorous tear rolls down my cheek.
This morning, I answered the door again. And the same man who delivered the letter was once more standing on the other side of the threshold.
But this time, he spoke.
He asked if I was ready.
And then he helped me carry my boxes and my one suitcase down to his waiting van. Before driving me to the airport and helping me carry my boxes all over again.
I didn’t know you could check cardboard boxes as luggage. But you can.
Uncle Jack knew that. He prepaid for it.
And when I landed in Denver this morning, there was another driver waiting. Another van. All paid for.
Two hours later, the new stranger slowed to a stop in front of this very house.
My house.
The stranger waited beside the van while I unlocked the front door with my key.
And he waited while I had a breakdown. Right here, where I’m standing now.
Two minutes later, I found the garage door opener sitting on the kitchen counter, on top of a box of microwave popcorn, the brand I used to love as a kid. Which led to another breakdown.
Then, with red-rimmed eyes, I went back outside, and the nice stranger helped me put all my boxes in the garage, next to Uncle Jack’s old pickup truck.
It didn’t feel right having someone else in the house. Not yet.
It felt right to do that work by myself.
Of course, at the time, I didn’t realize that even though the garage is attached to the house, it’s not connected. So, I had to haul them all across the gravel-patch yard area through the front door.
I open my eyes and look at all the boxes.
I’ll unpack tomorrow.
Taking another slow breath, I cut through the living room to the door next to the dresser with the TV, into the one and only bedroom.
My bedroom.
The bedroom part is on the left. And navy-blue curtains are pulled open, showing off a pair of windows that have the same amazing view as the back deck.
There’s a bed, with royal blue bedding folded inside a clear plastic storage cube sitting on top of the mattress. It has a plain wooden headboard pushed against the far wall, opposite the door, and a pair of matching nightstands.
Across from the foot of the bed, sharing a wall with the TV in the living room, is a closet, with room to hang my dresses beside the stacked washer and dryer.
And to my right is the sole bathroom.
There’s just the one, but that’s all I need.
I step into it and think the same thing I did the first time I came in here.
My bathroom is spacious.
It has a long vanity with a single sink and lots of counter space. Plain white cabinets below match the floor-to-ceiling cabinets to the right of the vanity. On the other side of the sink is a toilet. And then the shower.
It’s plain. But it’s bigger than the one I had in my apartment.
The house is bigger than anything I’ve ever had to myself.
My fingers fumble as I attempt to pull down the zipper on the side of my dress.
I pause and stare at myself in the large mirror.
“You’re fine.” My hair is a mess. My eyes are sore. My throat aches. “You are going to be fine.”
With purpose, I reach for my side zipper again and pull it down.
I exhale with accomplishment, then slide the straps down my shoulders and let the mud-stained material fall to the ground.
My bra and underwear go next. And as I drop the white material to the floor, I bite my lip.
When I fell… did that man see…
I shake my head.
It doesn’t matter.
Who cares if the grumpy ranger jerk saw my underwear.
Or my butt.
Or my thighs that aren’t toned.
I turn away from the mirror.
The plain white shower curtain is loud as I draw it back, revealing a clean porcelain tub with a standard shower head jutting out high up on the wall.
Uncle Jack was tall.
I swallow.
He may not have lived here full-time. And I may not have been here before. But I can see him in the details.
This was Uncle Jack’s home.
Was.
Because now it’s mine.
Reaching down, I turn on the water, and I cross my fingers, hoping the hot water situation works.
I’ve only ever lived in apartments. I’ve never had to deal with water heaters before. I don’t know the first thing about them.
I’ve never even owned a car.
Standing next to the tub, waiting for the water to warm, I shake my head. “What were you thinking?”
I shake my head again, remembering the out-of-body feeling when I deposited the twenty-thousand-dollar check Uncle Jack gave me.
I knew he wasn’t hurting, but I didn’t think he had that sort of money sitting around.
Or maybe it was his retirement? That he didn’t get a chance to use.
Tears build along my lashes. Again. And I groan.
It’s too quiet.
That’s the problem.
And it’s going to remain a problem because there’s no internet here. Barely any cell service.
Maybe I could get internet? But I don’t really know how to go about that either.
I’m so far away from everything. I doubt the company I used in Vegas can just come plug a router into the wall.
And, well, twenty thousand is more money than I’ve ever had in my life.
But it’s not enough to live off, so I need to make it last.
I’ll start to worry about my job situation tomorrow.
The house is paid off. I don’t have rent or a mortgage. So minimum wage might be enough. I have to figure out how the utilities work, but I know how to grocery shop on a budget. And electricity, garbage, and water can’t be that much.
Or am I on a well?
Unsure what my water source is, I look back down at the water pouring out of the faucet into the tub.
Not wanting to waste it, I bend and stick my hand under the flow.
Hot!
A real smile pulls across my mouth, and I pull the little doodad on the faucet to redirect the water to the shower head. There’s a pause. A stutter. Then steaming water shoots out with a hiss.
Excitement fills me as I step under the stream and pull the shower curtain closed behind me.
Then I remember that I haven’t unpacked my toiletries.
I don’t even know which box they’re in.
My shoulders slump. “Crap.”
I’m tempted to just stand here, let the water do its work, but I have blood on me. And dirt containing who knows what caked onto my cuts.
Dripping wet, I step out of the shower onto the white bath mat.
Crossing my fingers, I take hurried but careful steps across the bathroom to the tall cabinets and pull open one of the doors.
A massive bottle of shampoo, and a six pack of green bars of soap—minus two—stare back at me.
“Yes!” I snag a bar of soap and start to turn back to the shower, but then I see the empty towel bar on the wall.
I open the other cabinet door and spot a stack of white towels. After grabbing one, I drape it over the towel bar, then step back under the spray of water.
Fifteen minutes later, I reemerge from the shower. My hair is twisted back in a damp braid, not washed, but the rest of me—forehead to toes—is scrubbed to a squeaky level of clean.