Chapter 2
I took all afternoon Tuesday and Wednesday getting myself unpacked and wiping down both sides of the duplex from the dust that had settled into every nook and cranny possible. Construction leaves its signature all over a house.
The primary side—my side—had half the old living room, two bedrooms, and a bathroom all to itself.
The secondary side looked almost the same, except it had only one bedroom.
That bedroom was a fairly good size, and Gabriella would have the other half of the backyard, plus what used to be a carport, which gave her more outside space.
Now, both sides had fresh flooring and paint and separate entrances, though right now it made no sense because of the shared kitchen at the back.
We shared the wall in our living rooms, and that wall swung into an L on both sides.
No open concept for us. But behind the short legs of our L’s was one kitchen that stretched all the way across.
With the lowered rent and the problem we’d run into with the air-conditioning vents and roof issues, it might be several months or years before I was able to finish the project and completely seal off both halves of the duplex.
I was grateful somebody had been willing to share an almost-duplex with me. At the same time, it made me fidgety. What-ifs kept peeping around every corner, making me doubt myself again and again. Good thing there was plenty to unpack, set up, and wipe down to keep my mind busy.
* * *
A few days later, Mary Buford brought news that the town might soon have its first set of triplets, as far back as anyone could remember. “Everybody’s excited.”
“Good for them,” I said.
She hoisted a giant shopping bag full of mail from the space between her seat and the door. “Here’s your old mail.”
“Oh. Wow.”
“Yeah. Mostly junk, but we can’t rightly throw it away without your permission for a while.”
“Thank you again. You’ve been very helpful to me.”
“It’s what I do.” She winked at me.
I ended our visit abruptly with a wave of my hand when I saw my daughter’s name on my phone. Mary waved back and went on her way.
Terri was finally returning my calls in between seeing her clients. It’s always the clients with her, just like it was always “the office” or “the project” with her father. “Good to see your name on my screen,” I said when I answered. She deserved a little passive-aggressiveness.
“Mom. You called, like, three times today.”
“Is that the magic number before I get a response?”
“It’s not even noon yet.”
I just don’t believe anyone is so busy that they can’t take two minutes to return a call from their mother. We had this same conversation when she went to college. When she got her first job. When she got married. It’s ridiculous.
But I didn’t say any of those things, because honestly I was too grateful to hear from her. “How’s my grandson?” I started on neutral ground.
“He’s fine.”
Silence.
“Well, I just finished moving all my stuff into Grandma Jewel’s house.”
Silence.
“And?”
“And I wanted you to know. I’m settled now. I’m okay. This is going to work out for me, I think.”
She huffed. “Sounds like I’m not the one who needs convincing.”
“Listen, I know you don’t understand why I left your father. It was a hard decision. But I’m asking you, my only daughter, for a little support.”
“I can’t support what I oppose.”
“You oppose me?”
“I oppose what you did. You broke up our family, Mom. Now Dad calls me, like, every single day to do something for him. Order food, send thank-you notes. Like I’m his secretary.”
“So you do understand a part of my problem, then,” I twirled her words around.
“No. I’m saying that I did not sign up to be his life partner. You did. And now you’ve reneged, and now I have to step in where you left off. It’s not fair to me or my husband or Elijah. I can’t run two households.”
“Let your father run his own life,” I blurted out. “Tell him to stand out here on his own two feet like you’re telling me, right?”
Terri barked, “He didn’t ask for this. He’s not the one who left.”
My whole body thrummed with anger, blood rushing through my system to prepare me for danger.
So I took a breath. Tried not to let myself get entangled in this argument with Terri again.
She was—and had always been—a daddy’s girl.
Everyone’s entitled to a favorite person.
Maybe I’d have to accept this the same way I’d accepted that my marriage was over long before the Big D.
“I just wanted you to know I’m settled in now,” I said with new calm.
“And don’t take on your daddy’s life. You’ve got enough on your hands already.
” I stopped shy of mentioning her most vulnerable moment, the one that always reminded me that Terri might have her father’s bravado, but she’d inherited my tendency to worry.
It happened late one Thursday night, her freshman year in college. She’d called me huffing and puffing, frantic. “Momma, I can’t breathe!”
Those three words nearly took me out, too. I told her to hang up and call 9-1-1 while I raced to the campus. Eric was out of town on business, and Eric Jr. was at basketball practice, if I remember correctly.
By the time I arrived, paramedics had correctly assessed her situation as a panic attack.
Terri was holding an oxygen mask to her face, looking into the eyes of the emergency technician who was coaching her back to a normal state while keeping an eye on her blood pressure.
“You’ve suffered a panic attack. You’re coming out of it now.”
Later, once the EMTs had left and Terri’s freaked-out roommate excused herself, I sat holding my daughter on the couch, her head resting on my shoulder in a way it hadn’t since she was a little girl.
“Mom. My heart felt like it was about to explode. I thought I was dying.”
“I’m so sorry that happened to you, Terri. It must have been terrifying.”
She wiped a tear away. “I don’t understand. Nothing happened. Like, no trigger. It just came out of nowhere.”
“Sounds like you’re under a lot of stress.”
She softened and leaned into me more. “I took an overload of classes this semester. Nineteen hours.”
“Nineteen, Terri. Really?” I’d convinced myself to let her handle this whole college thing by herself, especially that second semester. “Why would you do that?”
“I want to graduate early,” she confessed. “Get on with my life.”
“Sweetheart, there’s no prize for finishing early. Take it at a pace that works for you,” I told her.
We sat in silence for a minute. Then she asked softly, “Please don’t tell Dad about this.”
“Your father wouldn’t—”
“No.” She sat up and looked me in the eye. Her black eyeliner and mascara had smeared all the way into her hairline. “Please.”
“Fine. I won’t tell him. But I need you to agree to stop overloading yourself,” I bargained with her.
She’d sniffled, then whispered, “Okay.”
I pushed past layers of box braids and kissed the side of her head. “It’s going to be all right, Terri. Everything always works out the way it’s supposed to in the end.”
Those words, declared back when I used to have more faith, came back to me now.
Terri and I were water and oil, but I had to believe we loved each other still.
Otherwise, she would have done what all the other people in her generation do—block and unfriend and change the password to the streaming-music app we share.
She sighed. “Well… I hope you enjoy your time in Robin Creek.”
She was trying to sound all hard, but I heard the tiniest crack in her voice. I continued, “And you’re welcome to visit me. When you’re ready.”
“Do you have room for me?”
“Yes. Another bedroom. Just enough space for a short visit.” It took everything in me not to emphasize the word short.
“Did you do a background check on your tenant?”
“Yes, I did.”
“Credit check?”
“No. She’s already paid the deposit, though.”
“I guess. You got a weapon?”
“It’s Robin Creek, Terri.”
“I’m just sayin’… People do weird things these days. I don’t want to see you get hurt.”
Well, at least she was concerned for my basic human safety. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine. Sounds like your daddy’s keeping you busy, anyway.”
I heard a scratchy speaker call my daughter’s name in the background: “Dr. Riley.”
“I gotta go, Mom. My next client is here.”
“I love you, Terri.”
“Love you, too, Mom.”
The day of my new roommate’s arrival had finally come.
And gone. Wouldn’t be too long before the sun set, and there was no sign of Gabriella Santos.
Today, this last Thursday in May, was to be her move-in day, according to text messages mostly.
People barely talked these days, especially after the pandemic.
Which suited me just fine except when what I needed to say couldn’t be adequately conveyed by tapping my thumbs across a two-inch keyboard.
Who thought of that foolishness, anyway?
These optometrists are going to be rich from all these kids who grew up with their eyes glued to a screen, Terri and Eric Jr. included.
It was 7:45 p.m. already.
I sat on the couch with one leg folded underneath me, the other dangling, though I knew it would cause my folded leg to fall asleep.
I had an episode of a house-hunting show playing on the screen as I second-guessed myself.
Maybe I got it wrong? Maybe when I said “next” Thursday, she thought next-next Thursday.
People had different definitions of so many things.
Another reason why I should have insisted on talking to Gabriella instead of all that texting.
Who signs a six-month lease without going inside a house, anyway?
I felt the tension rise higher inside my body, from my hips up through my stomach. Where is this child? I hope she didn’t have an accident.