“I’m not seeing a therapist, Mom. I— God, this place. It’s time to get to bed. It’s really late.”
“You say you hate this place, but you don’t. If you did, why did you come?”
“Because I loveyou, and wanted to see you.” I set my cup down with a clatter and run my hands over my face. “And because I kissed a guy. And then I hurt his feelings. It’s a long story… And I’m kind of terrified of what happens next.”
I peep up at her through my fingers. “Do I apologize to him? Tell him what I really think of him? Why can’t I just let things happen like a normal person?”
“Did you ever stop to think you’re feeling that way because you’re subconsciously avoiding settling down and putting down roots in New York? You wanted to come home. You came home.” She stands, gathers up my cup, and then pauses, a sympathetic and knowing expression on her face. “We can talk more in the morning. Your bed is made up. I freshened the sheets.”
By the time I pad into the kitchen, my crutch barely needed, it’s clear my mom has been up for hours. She’s curled the ends of her short hair so that it dusts the underside of her chin, and she’s wearing a pair of khaki shorts and a tee from Joe Canal’s Discount Liquor.
It took me way too long to fall asleep, my mind busy replaying my last interaction with Jack over and over. But at least I’m dressed for the day. The digital clock atop the stove still calls me a lazy bitch, though: quarter past noon.
Mom turns and hands me a plate. “I made you some eggs. I only had wheat bread.”
“Wheat is good, thanks. Do you have coffee?” I pull a fork out of a drawer and lean against the counter, picking at my plate.
“Tea is better for you. Hot water in the kettle.” Without coffee, I will literally die, but it feels churlish to demand it when she’s made me breakfast. “Hurry and eat. We need to go.”
“Go where?” I ask around my mouthful of eggs, but she’s already grabbing her handbag.
“We’re going to be late. Come on.”
I chase after her with a makeshift breakfast sandwich. Minutes later, we turn onto Greenly Street. Disbelief dawns. She would not. But sure enough, she did. We roll to a stop in front of the home that once belonged to the late, great Cathy Santini, she of full-size-Halloween-candy-bar fame.
A realtor—tall, fair-haired, and relatively fit—waves from the porch. His light-blue eyes and white eyebrows give him a washed-out look.
“Brian!” My mom waves back as she exits the car.
Brian. I frown, a memory niggling.Maryellen’s son Brian asked about you the other day, you know? I ran into him at the grocery store. He’s a realtor now.
Being back here, having Mom attempt to manage my life… It brings a crushing but familiar weight to the center of my chest. I’d forgotten the constant state of vigilance living here necessitates.
The Brian my mother kept mentioning to me was a vaguely familiar phantom from the past, hidden somewhere in a corner of my mind, but I couldn’t place him entirely. Now that phantom has been pulled into the light. BrianBackerman. His last name comes to me suddenly, making me wonder what critical piece of information was bumped from my brain because this info was taking up that space. His pale hair is thinner on top, but otherwise he still looks more or less like his high school self. As he approaches, I remember he had the longest white-blond eyelashes that forever made me think of twin albino tarantulas.
He reaches our car—still has the tarantulas. “Wow, Penny. I haven’t seen you in forever.” He pulls me in for a hug before I can react.
I pat his back exactly twice and lean away. “Hi, Brian. Likewise.”To the point I forgot you existed.I have to force a cordial note into my voice. Brian didn’t do anything. My mother is the one to blame.
Brian’s eyes light on me with undisguised interest. God knows what my mom has said about me or how much she’s pushed for a match on his end. “Well, come on in and see the place. It’s such a great property. Cathy was a neat freak, and she kept up with the maintenance.”
My mother beams at me. I wonder if she senses the murder behind my benign look and is ignoring it or if she’s truly oblivious.
“Mrs. Santini died in this house, right?” I ask, pausing before the threshold.
“Well, yes, but—” Brian stammers.
“I don’t think I really want to live in a place where someone died.”
“We’re just looking, Penelope.” My mom’s voice carries a warning. “But if you truly want to skip this, maybe you can go grab that coffee you wanted with Brian.”
Rage. Rage. Raaaaage.
Brian bats his tarantulas at me, a hopeful expression on his face. “I’d love to treat you to a coffee.”
I want coffee. The prospect of finally obtaining some is the only thing keeping Cathy Santini’s home from being the site of an additional death. “Okay. Coffee.”
Mom fairly skips back to her car, mission-accomplished vibes oozing from her every pore.
