Chapter 18
I sit at a conference table in the title company's office and sign my name forty-three times. Forty-three — the same number of steps from the ER exit to my car. I notice this. I smile.
She hands me two keys. Brass, new. One for the front door, one for the mailbox. I hold them in my palm. They weigh almost nothing.
I put the key in. Turn it. Open the door.
Empty. Clean. South-facing light pouring through the windows. The quartz counter gleaming. The smell of fresh paint — the seller touched up before closing.
I stand in the doorway and I count.
Rooms: five. Windows: nine. Steps from the door to the kitchen: eleven. From the kitchen to the bedroom: thirteen. Closets: four. Outlets: twenty-two (I count them all — I'll need to know where to put things).
I walk to the center of the living room. Stand on the hardwood floor. It's real wood — not laminate like the apartment. I can feel the grain through my socks.
This is mine. Every square foot. Every outlet. Every window. Nobody else's name is on the deed. Nobody else has the key. Nobody else can drain the value of this place while I sleep.
It's smaller than Archer Street. One bedroom fewer. No yard. No maple tree. And the mortgage is mine alone — no one to split it with, no safety net if I get sick or my car dies. Every payment comes from one paycheck. Mine.
I sit down on the floor because I don't have furniture yet. The hardwood is cool and solid. I press my palms flat against it and I breathe.
In for four. Hold for seven. Out for eight.
My phone buzzes. Rosie: Did it close?? Are you THERE?
I take a photo — the empty living room, the light through the windows, my shadow on the floor. Send it.
Rosie: I'M CRYING
Me: Don't cry on my hardwood.
Rosie: ?????? When can I bring the wine?
Me: Saturday. I'm moving this weekend.
Moving. Not much to move — I've been in a furnished apartment, and most of the furniture belonged to the marriage. I'm keeping the couch (mine before Marco), my bed frame, my dresser, my kitchen things. Everything fits in one trip with Rosie's SUV and two trips with my Honda.
I sit on the floor for twenty-two minutes. I don't look at my phone. I don't count money. I just sit in the silence of a home that's mine.
Then I lock up. Drive to the apartment — the old one. Start packing.
Boxes. Tape. Sharpie. I label everything. KITCHEN (1 of 3). BEDROOM. BATHROOM. BOOKS. LINENS. The counting applies here too — every item accounted for. Every box numbered.
By midnight I have fourteen boxes packed. The apartment looks sparse now — gaps where things were. The bookshelf half-empty. The bathroom stripped to essentials.
I sleep well. The best I've slept in months. Six hours — not twelve. I don't need twelve anymore. I'm not exhausted from carrying a secret. I'm just a woman who bought a house and needs to move into it.
* * *
Saturday. Rosie comes at 8 AM with her SUV and her husband Jake and coffee for three.
"Let's do this," she says.
Three trips total. Rosie's SUV handles the couch and the bed frame. My Honda takes the boxes — seven per trip. Jake carries the heavy things. I carry the labeled things.
By 2 PM I'm in. The condo has furniture. It has my plates in the cabinets and my clothes in the closets and my snake plant in the south-facing window. It has my bed made with clean sheets and my towels hung in the bathroom.
Rosie brought a housewarming gift — a candle. Lavender vanilla. She sets it on the kitchen counter.
"Don't light it yet," she says. "Light it on your first night. Make it a thing."
"A ritual?"
"A ritual."
They leave at 3. I'm alone in my new home. My home. I walk through every room again. Count everything again. Outlets: twenty-two. Steps between rooms: eleven, thirteen, seven, nine. Windows: nine. One of them is slightly sticky — I'll fix it tomorrow.
At 5 PM I go to my shift. First time driving to work from the new address. Different route. I count: eleven streetlights instead of fourteen. Four stop signs instead of six. Shorter. Three fewer minutes.
I badge in at 6:52. Eight minutes early. Deborah looks up.
"You look different."
"I moved today."
"The new place?"
"Closing was Thursday. Moved today."
She smiles — rare for Deborah. "Good for you, kid."
I work my twelve hours. The ER is steady — two MVAs, a stroke, a pediatric seizure, the usual cascade of minor complaints. I chart. I count. I hang bags and push meds and hold hands.
At 3 AM I'm in the med room. Thirty Dilaudid. Fourteen syringes. Two saline bags. Everything accounted for.
I think about the candle on my counter. Lavender vanilla. Waiting for me to come home and light it.
Home. A word that changed meaning today.
I drive back at 7:15 AM. Eleven streetlights. Four stop signs. Park in spot 7. Seven steps to the entrance. Fourteen to my door.
I light the candle.
I stand in my kitchen, in the morning light, watching the flame steady itself.
Then I blow it out — because I'm about to sleep, and you don't leave candles burning. But the smell lingers. Lavender and vanilla. The smell of a thing that's only mine.
I set my alarm. Brush my teeth. Thirty-two. Thirty-two. Ten.
Twelve tiles in this bathroom — same as the old one. Same number. But these tiles are mine.
I sleep.