Chapter 4 Rachel
The Baldpate Road video is still amassing views. It’s also amassing some serious dollars. Sweet. Not that I have anything to spend it on because I have no life.
When I first started making some extra income on ClikClak, I told Richie I’d use the money to help pay her medical bills.
I envisioned us being in debt for years, living on ramen and franks and beans.
I also envisioned myself being very thin, because I hate beans, so that would mean I’d have to skip every other meal.
It’s not an ideal plan, but it certainly beats where I am now—debt-free and sisterless.
So now I have all this money rolling in and nothing to do with it.
I could plan a trip. I glance at Richie’s list, which is never far from my person. I consider laminating it so I don’t ruin it, but I want to be able to touch the pen strokes.
Go somewhere on a plane
I’ve never been on a plane before. It seems like such a big task.
Way too much for the first thing to cross off.
I freeze, the paper still in my hand. I can’t cross things off the list. There’s no way I can mark up something Richie did with her own hands.
I am now paralyzed by the weight of this problem.
"Rachel, what’s wrong? You look like you saw a ghost. Is Richie here?" Uncle Robert laughs as he brushes by me, heading to his desk. I can’t blame him, as I’m standing squarely in the middle of the office.
"Richie left me a to-do list, but I can’t cross anything off it." I hold the paper out, shaking in my trembling hands.
He ambles over and takes the precious parchment, his lips moving as he reads. "Man, she got you good. She knew you’d never do any of these things without her, and she’s guilt-tripping you from the great beyond. God, I miss that kid."
Sometimes I wonder if the roles had been reversed, if anyone would miss me the way we all miss Richie.
"Yeah, well, if only I could fly there on a plane, at least I’d get to cross one off, but I can’t even do that because I don’t want to ruin the letter," I say, hoping he can’t see what’s really on my mind—the thought of being utterly forgettable.
Uncle Robert shakes his head, handing me back the paper. "For a smart girl, you can be pretty dumb. Make a photocopy." He gestures to the antiquated, hulking machine that takes up the south corner of the office.
Well, that was obvious.
To be safe, I make six copies. Then I carefully fold up Richie’s original letter, putting it in my purse for safekeeping. I know where I’ll store it at home. All my problems are solved. Except, of course, the big ones.
Gramps walks in. "Bobby, did you hear from Marchand?" Gramps is the only one allowed to call Uncle Robert Bobby. Richie tried … once. It did not go well. I didn’t know he could yell that loud.
"Yeah, he says we’re good to go on the South Shore expansion." Uncle Robert looks at his email. "Just waiting on the lease for the office space to be finalized. We got the place in the town of Sharon."
Gramps laughs. "You know she’s never going to let us forget that." My grandmother’s name is Sharon.
I hadn’t realized how close to fruition the plan was. "Will you call this location Cramer-Romero Associates Pumps Number 2?"
Uncle Robert laughs. "Or how about Sharon’s Cramer-Romero Associates Pumps?"
"Can I design the logo for that? Something in nice shades of brown?" I manage with barely a smile.
Before the jokes get too out of hand, Gramps stops us. You’d think he’d have a better sense of humor, doing what he does, but he really hates toilet jokes.
He’s in the wrong business.
"Rachel, I want you to work out of that office. We need someone who knows the ins and outs of how we do things."
My mouth goes dry. My heart starts to race. I don’t like new things. I don’t like change. I’ve had enough of that to last a lifetime.
"But Gramps, you need me here," I protest lamely.
"I’ll need you more there. You get how I think. I won’t have to babysit you. You’re mature for your age."
Uncle Robert mutters under his breath, "Because Rachel is an old fart in a young body."
I give him a dirty look. He’s not wrong, but that was a little uncalled for. I’m a delicate flower.
Who films shit for a living.
"Wait, where is this new place located? Sharon?" My hand moves the mouse at lightning speed, using Google Maps to calculate the distance. "Holy Pete, do you know what that commute is like? If you think I’m late now, can you even imagine when I have that drive?"
It’s an hour without traffic. Around Boston, there’s never not traffic.
Gramps looks at Uncle Robert. Then he looks down at his desk. Then he looks out the window. Basically, anywhere but me.
"Gramps?" I stand up and cross to his desk. He’ll have no choice but to look at me.
"We think it’s time you move out."
He might just as well have kicked me in the stomach. It feels—almost—like hearing Richie’s diagnosis for the first time. My body certainly has the same reaction, the bile rising in my throat and threatening to make an appearance. The periphery of my vision begins to darken.
"What do you mean?" Maybe I heard him wrong. I know I didn’t, but one can hope.
"Gram and I think it’s about time you stepped out on your own."
"I don’t want to be on my own."
"Rachel, you’re almost thirty. I get why you’re a homebody. I understand it. But it’s not normal. You have to go out into the world at some point."
"I go out into the world!" My voice rises three octaves. "I went to West Boxford two days ago."
"Only because there was sewage all over the place," Uncle Robert mutters. He is not helping. Seriously, whose team is he on anyway?
"Yeah, well, it’s hard working here full time and then doing all the social media. And you both know this business has exploded because of my channel. We’re only expanding because of me, and now you’re sending me away? You’re kicking me out?" My voice breaks on the last word.
"Gram and I aren’t kicking you out. We’re giving you an opportunity to spread your wings."
"Yeah, by pushing me off the perch!"
"Rachel," Gramps says, his patience wearing thin. "You don’t go anywhere. You don’t do anything. We’re worried about you."
"I go places! I’m planning things." I’m totally not, but my rational brain is shutting down in favor of my go-to, panic brain.
My gaze darts around the room, looking for a lifeline—something, anything—that will save me and anchor me to this place.
I spy the stack of copies of Richie’s letter.
"I’m going to a professional soccer game.
" I plop down in my seat and start wiggling my mouse again.
"I was just going online to buy myself a ticket. "
Gramps folds his arms over his chest. "When?"
"Right now. It’s what I was doing before you so rudely interrupted me by kicking me out.
It’s one of the things on Richie’s list." My fingers shake as I do a Google search for the team.
"Ah, right here. There’s a game on September first." It’s almost a month away, so maybe I can use that to delay the inevitability of my moving out.
"Sounds perfect. The Buzzards play right near the new office. It’ll be something to do while you get settled down there."
My mouth falls open in disbelief. Before I can respond, Gramps walks back into his office and shuts the door. The discussion—not that there was one—is over.
I’ll appeal to a higher power.
"I’ve got to run back to the house for a minute."
Uncle Robert doesn’t look up from his computer. "Coffee kicking in?"
Usually saying I’ve got to run back to the house is code for needing to use the bathroom.
Though we literally make a living on other people’s excrement, I don’t feel the need to have my own habits analyzed or scrutinized by whoever may be passing through.
Plus, I work with a bunch of old dudes, so the bathroom is pretty nasty here.
No, this time, I’m actually appealing to a higher power.
"Gram. GRAM!" I yell as I barge through the kitchen door. She comes bustling in from the living room. She works part-time at the office, but this time of day, she takes a mid-afternoon break. She claims it’s to let her lunch digest, but I’m pretty sure she’s taking a catnap while her soap operas are on in the background.
That woman has been hooked on General Hospital for as long as I can remember.
"What is it? Are you okay? Are you bleeding?" That’s Gram’s code to ask me if I’m physically hurt or if I’m having another panic attack.
"I’m not okay. Gramps said he’s sending me down to the south office, and that I have to move there."
Her face melts into a sympathetic expression as she opens her arms to offer a hug. Sometimes I want the contact, but when I’m really heightened, I can’t stand the touch. This isn’t a panic attack with no rational cause. It’s my life, spinning out of control, by no volition of my own.
Again.
I take a step forward and sink into her arms. These are the arms that were there my entire childhood.
These are the arms that held me when I cried over a mother who wasn’t there.
When I had my first panic attack. When I got my first period and thought I was dying.
When we found out Richie was literally dying.
These arms are where I find comfort and peace, and know everything is going to be okay, even when it’s not.
"It’s going to work out, Rachel. I told Al I’d talk to you. I can only imagine how he dropped the news on you. That man never did have any tact."
It takes me a minute to process what she’s saying. The second I do, I drop my arms and step back as if she’s on fire.
"You knew?" I can’t keep the betrayal out of my voice. "You knew he was planning on kicking me out, and you didn’t do anything to stop him?"
Gram holds my gaze. "Rachel, it’s for the best. If we don’t pull the Band-Aid off right now, you’ll never move on. You’ll never get better. You’ll never live."
I recoil as if she’d slapped me. Get better? It’s not like childhood trauma can be discarded and stored away like winter boots.
"I’m fine right where I am!" I yell, spittle spraying from my mouth, my arms flailing about.
"But you’re not, and you can’t see that. Trust me, in a few months, you’re going to be happy about this change. It’s going to bring wonderful new things into your life. I feel it in my bones."
I’m too stunned by this betrayal to even cry. I take steps backward, small at first, gradually growing larger, until I’m across the room from my grandmother. "I’m happy here."
"Rachel, be real. You’re only a breath above catatonic. I’ve already lost one granddaughter because of a disease in her brain. I’m not going to lose another one."
Her words feel like a physical strike. "I’m sorry my mental health is too much for you to bear.
I’ll start searching for an apartment today.
" I whirl around and begin to stomp out.
At the last minute, I throw one last parting shot over my shoulder.
"I only hope that the Sharon I’m moving to accepts me for me, since you never will. "
That was childish. I’ll probably regret talking to my grandmother like that at some point in the future, but for right now, I can’t be sorry. I’m too angry. Too hurt. They want me out? I’m out.