“For starting over.”
He blinks, then gives me an apologetic frown. “We just had one returned. I’ll get it inspected for you.”
“Thank you.”
I pick up the keys almost an hour later and drive back to what used to be our apartment.
It’s almost empty now. Thrift store furniture, mismatched dishes,my clothes… that’s basically it. There’s barely enough here to fill a moving van, but I don’t trust putting it in his old broken-down truck. I’m already nervous I could need a tow. What would happen to what’s left of my things if it were back there? And I need to get this place spotless if I want my security deposit back. I don’t have savings left after picking up Mom’s most recent prescriptions. So I need that check.
I hang my head. There’s a truck out front on borrowed time. And a mother who… well, I don’t want to consider how much time she has left. Because her emphysema has been waging a hard battle this year.
Today has been bad enough. I’m allowing myself ten minutes to cry this out. That’s it. He’s not worth a minute more.
Once I’m done, I wipe my face, plug in my phone, and cue up “Stronger” by Kelly Clarkson. With my head held high and my back ramrod straight, I tell myself, “You’ve got this.” I begin bouncing in place to the rhythmic beat of the tune, like a boxer, punching the air, all the while pretending it’s Brad’s stupid face I’m pummeling. I belt the words out along with her as she sings of how they think they may have bested her, and thought they’d left her broken, but she’s going to come back even stronger.
The song is now on auto-repeat, the powerful lyrics coursing through me like adrenaline. My heart thunders beneath my sternum. It’s a good feeling to be alive. Focus on that, Grace. As I reach for my phone to pause the loud music, I do a quick Google search of the famous quote this song was apparently derived from.
“That which does not kill us makes us stronger,” attributed to German philosopher Friedrich Nietzche.I read aloud. Hmm. I was never big into poetry or philosophy in school. So most quotes tend to go a little over my head. I’m not dumb, just not interested. There’s a difference.
Yet I wouldn’t mind researching this more. It says the quote embodies the qualities of resilience and post-traumatic growth.Jeez. That sounds like exactly what I need.Maybe if there’s anything left over after the next check and that security deposit, I can look for one of these self-help books. Nah, better stick with the library.
Shrugging off the thought, I get back to the work of gathering upthings and heading toward the rental truck. There is room to store everything at my mother’s place so I can vacate this apartment more quickly when the time comes. I’m praying I can manage to find a room for rent or something equivalent fairly quickly. Or better yet, a house-sitting job.
Mom’s place is my fallback, but only as an absolute last resort. I fear once I move in, I’ll never move out. Not until she’s gone, anyway. An invisible band tightens around my heart, causing me to get emotional again. It’s too soon to be thinking this way.
End-stage emphysema has stolen so much from her. From both of us, really. Her worsening shortness of breath has caused her to be on oxygen around the clock. She uses a wheelchair most of the time now, because she gets fatigued doing even simple tasks.
Worse still is the depression this illness has brought on. I know she feels like a burden. I don’t want that for her. No one chooses this. I’m sure if she could, she would’ve put the cigarettes behind her years earlier.
I blame Dad. She said she’d never smoked until she met him. And I’m certain his leaving didn’t make quitting any easier. Heck, I’m just glad when he left she didn’t pick up drinking too.
My mother needs assistance, but not full-time live-in care yet. So far, it’s been enough to have the neighbor check in on her when I can’t be here. If I move in, she’ll slip into letting me take over everything to save her energy. Not to mention, she deserves her independence.
And so do I.
I drag the last box across the cracked concrete, the bottom bowing under the weight of the few remaining things I own that didn’t fit in a suitcase. It’s lighter than it should be. My entire life, reduced to a handful of mismatched boxes and a plastic laundry basket.
As I reach the rental truck, a strange unease creeps up my spine. That slow, crawling kind of feeling that makes your shoulders tighten and your pulse skip a beat. It’s like someone has just said your name behind you.
I pause. The air suddenly feels too still. I glance over my shoulder.But nothing. Only a few empty parked cars lining the street, their paint dulled by sun and neglect. One of them sits a little crooked at the curb, weeds curling up around its tires. It looks like it hasn’t moved in months. Maybe longer.
This isn’t exactly the best neighborhood. It never was. But it was what we could afford when we signed the lease.
Heck… I can’t even afforditnow.
A bird flutters overhead, landing on the sagging power line with a sharp chirp. Somewhere in the trees, squirrels rustle and nibble, their tiny movements sounding way too loud in the quiet street.
I scan the sidewalks again.At the windows, doorways, and again at the parked cars.
Still nothing. And yet the feeling doesn’t go away. It’s like the fluffy tailed rodents are part of some private little audience, perched and munching on their nuts and seeds as if they’re watching my life unravel in real time, waiting for the next act. I shake my head, trying to laugh it off.
Get a grip, Grace.
As I climb into the rental truck to lock it up until I can return it tomorrow, I find something small rattling around in the floorboard of the driver’s seat. Bending to retrieve it, I discover a small tarnished brass compass. The engraving is faint, but I can make out the words.
Follow your heart.
I slipit into my pocket to return it to the rental office later. For now, I need to get to work. Because the very last thing I need is to lose this job.
