Chapter 3 #2
Yet I wouldn’t mind researching this more.
It says the quote embodies the qualities of resilience and post-traumatic growth.
Jeez. That sounds like exactly what I need.
Maybe if there’s anything left over after the next check and that security deposit, I can look for one of these self-help books. Nah, better stick with the library.
Shrugging off the thought, I get back to the work of gathering up things and heading toward the rental truck.
There is room to store everything at my mother’s place so I can vacate this apartment more quickly when the time comes.
I’m praying I can manage to find a room for rent or something equivalent fairly quickly. Or better yet, a house-sitting job.
Mom’s place is my fallback, but only as an absolute last resort. I fear once I move in, I’ll never move out. Not until she’s gone, anyway. An invisible band tightens around my heart, causing me to get emotional again. It’s too soon to be thinking this way.
End-stage emphysema has stolen so much from her. From both of us, really. Her worsening shortness of breath has caused her to be on oxygen around the clock. She uses a wheelchair most of the time now, because she gets fatigued doing even simple tasks.
Worse still is the depression this illness has brought on. I know she feels like a burden. I don’t want that for her. No one chooses this. I’m sure if she could, she would’ve put the cigarettes behind her years earlier.
I blame Dad. She said she’d never smoked until she met him. And I’m certain his leaving didn’t make quitting any easier. Heck, I’m just glad when he left she didn’t pick up drinking too.
My mother needs assistance, but not full-time live-in care yet. So far, it’s been enough to have the neighbor check in on her when I can’t be here. If I move in, she’ll slip into letting me take over everything to save her energy. Not to mention, she deserves her independence.
And so do I.
I drag the last box across the cracked concrete, the bottom bowing under the weight of the few remaining things I own that didn’t fit in a suitcase. It’s lighter than it should be. My entire life, reduced to a handful of mismatched boxes and a plastic laundry basket.
As I reach the rental truck, a strange unease creeps up my spine. That slow, crawling kind of feeling that makes your shoulders tighten and your pulse skip a beat. It’s like someone has just said your name behind you.
I pause. The air suddenly feels too still.
I glance over my shoulder. But nothing. Only a few empty parked cars lining the street, their paint dulled by sun and neglect.
One of them sits a little crooked at the curb, weeds curling up around its tires.
It looks like it hasn’t moved in months. Maybe longer.
This isn’t exactly the best neighborhood. It never was. But it was what we could afford when we signed the lease.
Heck… I can’t even afford it now.
A bird flutters overhead, landing on the sagging power line with a sharp chirp. Somewhere in the trees, squirrels rustle and nibble, their tiny movements sounding way too loud in the quiet street.
I scan the sidewalks again. At the windows, doorways, and again at the parked cars.
Still nothing. And yet the feeling doesn’t go away. It’s like the fluffy tailed rodents are part of some private little audience, perched and munching on their nuts and seeds as if they’re watching my life unravel in real time, waiting for the next act. I shake my head, trying to laugh it off.
Get a grip, Grace.
As I climb into the rental truck to lock it up until I can return it tomorrow, I find something small rattling around in the floorboard of the driver’s seat. Bending to retrieve it, I discover a small tarnished brass compass. The engraving is faint, but I can make out the words.
Follow your heart.
I slip it into my pocket to return it to the rental office later. For now, I need to get to work. Because the very last thing I need is to lose this job.
Jumping into the old Dodge truck, I turn the key. The engine sputters once, like it’s about to cooperate… and then dies with a flat, hollow click. My stomach drops.
“No. You have to be kidding me.” I try again. Same result. A whole lot of nothing. I slump back in the seat and stare at the ceiling, already knowing what this means. It’s more than possibly being late. I’m going to have to drive the rental truck to work.
The giant, bright, impossible-to-ignore rental truck. The one that screams my life has become nothing more than cardboard boxes and questionable decisions.
Heat crawls up my neck as I imagine pulling into the employee parking lot in something that looks like it should be delivering furniture. Everyone will see it. There will be questions. And more degrading commentary.
I drop my forehead to the steering wheel with a quiet groan.
This is not how I want my awful coworker, Tiffani, finding out that my life has sunk into even further personal chaos.
By the time I park in the furthest spot available, humiliation burns behind my eyes.
Knock it off, Grace. Your ten minutes are up.
I square my shoulders, trying to replay the lyrics from the Kelly Clarkson song in my head as I walk to the front entrance. Tomorrow. Maybe tomorrow will be a better day.