Chapter 9 #2
Her long black hair is pulled into a taut ponytail, and she brushes aside a few wisps that have escaped.
Her eyes are hidden behind round transition lenses, and she’s wearing several layers of gauzy fabric—skirt, shirt, cardigan, and scarf.
It’s impossible to tell how old she is; she could be anywhere from forty to seventy. Her energy is timeless.
“Let me get this food in the freezer and then we’ll get to work.”
There’s no time to ask what work she’s referring to before she hurries to the kitchen and the front door swings open again. A pack of people filters in, but I only recognize Lina, Abby, and the two little ones. Everyone is carrying casserole dishes or cleaning supplies.
“Good morning, Eden.” Abby shuffles by while chasing her sister, who makes a beeline for Sonny’s drums, pounding her little fists on the rawhide.
I smile at Abby and squat beside her sister. “We didn’t officially meet yesterday. I’m Eden.”
The little girl looks up and grins as she beats a frantic rhythm.
“Fiona, say hi,” Abby says.
“Hi,” she yells over her music. Fiona has fine blond shoulder-length hair with errant strands that fall forward into her eyes.
She’s wearing penguin pajama pants, a ruffled pink Easter dress, and yellow rain boots.
I love this stage—the stubborn independence, willful individuality.
When Jeff’s niece, Aarya, graduated from baby to toddler, she decided I was her favorite.
She’d slip into my lap with a picture book and giggle when I’d make voices for every character.
She made me doubt my own reassurance to Jeff that, yes, I was still okay remaining childless. Until I wasn’t.
“Let me guess. You’re four?” I ask.
“And a half,” Fiona says, in between beats on the drum.
“And a musician,” I say.
“Nope. I’m a peacock.”
“Obviously.”
She smiles so broadly that her nose scrunches up, and her freckles bunch together in a new constellation, but then she darts away. Abby drops to the floor by the guitars, sitting gracelessly with her legs splayed out in front of her. “You’re really gonna stay?”
“I am.” It’s helpful for me to say it out loud.
“That’s cool.” Abby seems both younger and older than her years. Too confident and observant to be just thirteen and too earnest and sweet to be a teenager. She points to her brother as he storms over. “That’s Benny.”
He looks like Fiona but with a bowl cut and Kelly-green glasses.
He doesn’t stop running long enough for introductions.
But his dad pauses to say hello. Ian is tall and thin, with tortoise-frame glasses and an easy smile.
When he shakes my hand, he grasps it in both of his, finds my gaze, and says how happy they all are to have me here.
He’s warm and friendly and about as different from Caleb as I can imagine.
But he darts away after the briefest of conversations when Benny topples the banjo, triggering an avalanche of musical instruments.
“Eden?” At the sound of my name, I scan the room to find Adelaide striding toward me, carrying a bucket and several hand towels. “We have very little time to get this place ready for your mama.”
Over the next hour, Adelaide introduces me to everyone at least twice. I officially meet Carmela, the innkeeper who served me breakfast yesterday, her husband, Bob, a dead ringer for Santa Claus, and Dakota, the pretty bartender from Nowhere Saloon, as well as a dozen others.
Everyone is put to work. Carmela transfers Mom’s clothes and essentials from the loft to Caleb’s old bedroom. Bob fixes a loose step on the porch while Dakota supervises a group of teenagers organizing the donated meals. And several others disinfect surfaces that were pretty clean to begin with.
I’m good with names. It’s an occupational hazard because nonprofit fundraising is a people business.
But this lightning round of introductions is making my head spin.
I’m too tired and overstimulated by the chaos.
And I’m uncomfortable because I don’t know if any of them know about my history with Grand Trees.
But if they do, they’re operating with collective amnesia.
Adelaide completes the introductions while subtly showing me where everything is. Thank goodness I didn’t have to ask Caleb for the tour. He’d insert an if you’d have visited, you would already know where the extra sheets are accusation at every stop along the way.
“And you’ll sleep up here,” Adelaide says after I reluctantly follow her up the spiral staircase. My panic escalates with each step. I’ve never been up here, and I avert my gaze from the wall of windows across the back as my palms start to sweat.
“Oh, no, I’ll stay on the couch.” I paste a smile on my face.
Adelaide quirks her mouth to the side and squints. “You can’t do that for long. Your mom will want you to be comfortable.”
“I’ll be plenty comfortable there, and I’ll need to be close to her.” There is no way I can sleep in this room. I steal a glance at the glass wall—and the shadow of the ravine in the distance—and feel my stomach turn.
“Grams!” Abby’s voice carries from downstairs, before a chorus of “welcome home” confirms Mom’s arrival.