Page 3 of Head Under Water

“I’ve got the address written down inside,” Mom says.

“Why didn’t you tell me about it before now?”

“Well, we just came up with the plan this morning. She knows someone who needs a roommate, and it’s a really nice little place. You’d have your own bedroom and bathroom, and the rent isn’t as much as the other places you were looking at.”

I sigh. “I don’t know, Mom. A roommate? I’m thirty years old. Isn’t that too old to have a roommate?”

She just stares at me, this woman who only had patches of grass separating her from her best friends all of her adult life. Probably the wrong person to ask.

“Who is it?”

“She didn’t say,” Mom says as I lower the box into the trunk cautiously.

She didn’t say? Why wouldn’t you ask?

“But why don’t you come inside? I’ve got lunch ready and waiting. And then we can get it all figured out.”

I slam the trunk and follow her inside, wrapping my arms around myself as a cool breeze sweeps in.

My eyes find the pink house again without warning, and Mom wraps an arm around my waist. “This place isn’t the same without her. I just keep looking over expecting her to wave at me from the window. Nearly a month, and it still hasn’t set in.”

“I know. I started to call her the other day when my car started making a weird noise.” My insides twist at the thought. Every time something like that happens, it’s like I lose her all over again. “Did you talk to an estate attorney or something about selling her house?” I ask gently. I know Ruth would’ve wanted me to have it—one of us anyway—but it still feels wrong to bring it up so soon. I haven’t had the heart to before now.

“Well, I’m assuming it’ll pass to her son,” Mom tells me, holding open the door so I can pass in front of her.

Her son. Right. I always forget she had a kid.

“But courts take a long time with these sorts of things. Margie and I were just saying we should reach out to him. It just… It was yesterday, you know? It wasn’t, but how is it possible it wasn’t?” Her voice is soft, like she’s lost in her own thoughts. Then it goes sharp again, coming back to me. “Don’t worry, I’ll find out his plans. If he gets it, we’ll do everything we can to buy it.”

“Do you have a way to reach him? It’d be weird to have anyone else living out here.” Not just weird, impossible. Unfathomable. The land has always been all of ours. To lose Ruth’s portion and have someone else grilling on the concrete pad marked with our tiny handprints feels invasive. “Ruth would’ve wanted one of us to have it. She should’ve had a will. I just…I can’t believe she’s gone. Like this.”

“Honey, just breathe,” Mom says with a calm breath. “I don’t want you worrying about this right now. Margie and I will figure it out. We always do.” I’m used to this—my mom burying her head in the sand rather than dealing with her problems. But now that I’m home, things are going to change. One way or another.

She sets out two plates next to the bowl of chicken salad. “Now, I want to hear all about your trip in.”

CHAPTER THREE

PRESENT DAY

Two hours later, I follow my phone’s GPS to the address Mom wrote down on a scrap of paper, a little heart beside it with a note.

Welcome home ♡

The pencil marks are smudged, like it was written in a hurry.

I pull to a stop in front of the building—a two-story, stand-alone brick building surrounded by a gravel parking lot. There’s just one vehicle here. A cola-brown truck sits at the far end of the lot, backed in and facing the road.

I swallow, suddenly more nervous than before. Margie wouldn’t send me to live with some creep, I know that, but I wish I’d been able to talk to her before I arrived. I’m sure it’s some little old woman she knows from around town, but a confirmation would’ve been nice either way.

I tried to call her once on the way over, but she’s getting her hair done and couldn’t talk for long. Mom says I should just trust them, but that feels more suspicious than anything else.

Some part of me feels like they’re setting me up to live with a woman they’ve decided should be my best friend, too. Like they need my life to mirror theirs in some way.

Trust the process.

The building is relatively narrow. It looks like there’s just one floor of apartments, probably only two actual apartments inside. The bottom half looks like it used to be an old garage of some kind. A place where things were fixed. Or stored. Or hidden. It’s not exactly luxury, but then again, teachers in Clinton can’t exactly afford luxury, can they?

Teachers in general, probably.