I barreled down the stairs and parked myself behind Linden. "I'll ask you one more time. What is your problem?"
He glanced at me over his shoulder, his eyeroll undisguised. "Are we still doing this?"
"Yeah, we're doing this. You're in my basement. You can answer a damn question."
He shifted to face me, holding out his hands and letting them drop to his sides. "I'm gonna grab these last two boxes and then I'm leaving. You happy now?"
"Not in the slightest."
He tipped his head to the side as if he needed a better look at me. "Are you really upset about this? Or have you decided this is the sort of thing you want to be upset about and you play the part real good whenever you get the chance? Because it seems like you haven't experienced a true emotion since you realized you can manipulate people with those plastic smiles and fake-sugar comments."
My heart lodged in my throat. I tried but I couldn't speak around it. Couldn't form the only defense I ever had—my words.
"Yeah. That's what I thought." He bent, wrapped his arms around the remaining cartons, and left me alone in the basement.
A minute later, I heard the front door close.
I sat down on the stairs, my elbows on my thighs and my head in my hands. Nothing was working for me this week. Nothing was going right anymore.
First it was the water heater and its assorted problems. This house needed serious work and there was no way I could finance all these projects on my own without steady employment. While I did have a few offers, most of them were of the political commentator variety, but creating a talking head persona out of my on-air scandal wasn't the path for me. I wasn't even particularly good at the mechanics of television—hence the hot-mic screwup—and the idea of it made me cold. Being penned up with the other squawking politicos and scrabbling for five uninterrupted seconds of airtime was my last resort.
I didn't get into politics because I wanted to make it seem like the sky was falling as a result of every little political maneuver. I didn't come here for entrenchment and tribalism, or purity tests.
A long, long time ago, I was an idealist. A believer. I thought change was possible and that people did this work for the purpose of serving the greater good.
A few weeks ago, I was a master campaign strategist. A weapon of political destruction. I had the personal phone numbers of everyone who was anyone and I wasn't afraid to call in favors. All that in my hot little hands.
Now…well, now I was persona non grata in a big way. I was exactly what Linden accused me of being. Everything was an engineered moment, a sound bite, a photo op. Always a political maneuver.
I had a run-down old house which I couldn't afford to repair. Not the big stuff, anyway. If it was only a matter of ripping up the shag carpets and tearing out the weird cabinets, I'd have this locked down. But I couldn't rewire a house or replace turn-of-the-century plumbing.
It was a mess but it wasn't like I could go home. No, home was nothing like Hogwarts—help wasn't granted to those who asked.
Even if I did return to Georgia, my pride and principles slashed and burned, it wouldn't make anything better. I'd get the same old bullshit as always, the same toxic stories about where I belonged, what was good for me, what I deserved, and the same trap of shame and powerlessness.
That place was like falling down a well. I could always see the light but it didn't matter because I'd already screamed myself hoarse and worn my fingers down to the bone trying to climb out.
Home wouldn't help. Even if I was allowed to stay there rent-free—doubtful—I'd be endlessly crucified for everything I'd done since leaving there almost twenty years ago.
Earning a college degree? Elitist.
Working for a progressive candidate? Baby-killing devil worshipper.
Moving to D.C., sharing a bed with a man before marriage? Harlot. I refused to repeat the word they'd use if they knew I'd also shared a bed with a woman before marriage.
Bad-mouthing that candidate's lactose intolerance on live television? Shrew.
That last one though…I wouldn't be able to fight that.
Home wasn't an option, and that was an ancient ache but it didn't trouble me. I'd solved that problem ages ago. There was no sense being sad about it now.
Selling Midge's housewasan option. Even in this condition, the market was ripe enough to leave me with enough cash to get through a few years without a paycheck. If I played it right and made the place look a little less like a forgotten fallout shelter and more like an exciting fixer-upper opportunity, I'd walk away with enough money to reinvent myself.
All I had to do was bide my time and keep my ear on things, and I'd have my choice of campaign gigs.
That sounded fantastic but it also required me tosell the house. To hand it over to someone else and never return again. I wasn't sure I could do that. I wasn't sure I wanted to. It had taken me two years and a personal disaster to acknowledge Midge's death in a real way. Selling her house meant accepting it and I was nowhere near prepared for that.
Hell, I teared up every time I found another Country Crock tub filled with expired coupons or buttons or matches from restaurants she'd visited back when matches were still viable swag. I shed a tear or two when I ripped out the raspberry carpet in her bedroom, which she'd loved and treasured to no end, and again when I found a load of her navy blue nylon knee socks in the dryer, cold and waiting all this time to be paired. I cackled and cried over the boxes of All-Bran in her cupboards and the coffee can of Allen wrenches labeledL-shape thingsunder the kitchen sink. And I didn't think I could stay in my skin after discovering the plastic bag filled with all the Mother's Day cards I'd sent her over the years, from the crayon-scrawled homemade ones to the drugstoreFor a Special Auntvariety as I grew up. There were Christmas and birthday cards in there too, and photos my mother must've sent from graduations and other celebrations.
