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ERIC
Late Friday afternoon, Arthur pulls up outside Mom and Carl’s house in the suburbs. It’s a large two-story house with pale gray siding, white trim, and a covered porch facing a wide lawn shaded by old trees. There’s a pool out back and more bedrooms than they could ever need. It’s much smaller than the house where Daniel, Tom and I grew up, but there’s nothing modest about it.
Mom’s silver sedan sits in the driveway. Carl’s truck isn’t here, so he’s probably still at work.
I stay in the back seat. Arthur waits behind the wheel without looking around or asking what we’re doing.
For a moment, I consider telling him to keep driving.
Last night, I brought Thai food to Rachel’s apartment. We ate on her couch and watched reruns of The One, a dating show she loves.
Between episodes, I noticed an old photo tucked onto the bookshelf beside the television. Rachel looked about six, standing behind the Hartwell’s front desk beside her grandfather. They wore matching hotel badges.
When I asked about it, she pulled a photo album from the bottom shelf and told me about the Sunday mornings she spent following George on his rounds.
He visited different departments, checking in with the front desk, kitchen, housekeeping, and maintenance. He asked what they needed, followed up on problems from the week before, and stopped whenever a guest wanted a word.
Even at six, George was teaching her how to run the hotel. Rachel just thought she was spending Sunday mornings with her granddad.
Her whole face changed when she spoke about him. She smiled at every photo and started laughing before she reached the funny parts of each story. I kept asking questions, and every answer led to another memory.
After almost thirty minutes, she glanced at the time.
“Sorry. I’ve been talking about Granddad forever.”
“Don’t apologize.” I pointed to another photo. “What’s happening in that one?”
I liked the stories, but what stayed with me was the way Rachel beamed while telling them.
This morning, I called Mom. She didn’t answer. By four, I had decided to come anyway. Now I’m sitting outside her house with no idea what I’m going to say.
I get out before I can change my mind, cross the lawn, and knock.
She answers wearing an apron over a cream blouse and dark trousers. Surprise flashes across her face before she reaches for me.
“Eric.”
Her hug is warm but quick. She holds my arms for a moment after stepping back.
“What are you doing here?”
“I called.”
“You did?”
“Earlier.”
“Oh.” She touches the pocket of her apron, then looks toward the kitchen. “I’ve been cooking.”
“I thought I’d stop by.”
“Of course.” She steps aside. “Come in.”
The place smells of tomato and garlic. Photos cover the table beside the door and continue up the wall along the stairs. Mom and Carl stand on beaches, beside ski lifts, and in front of buildings I don’t recognize. There are school photos of Ava and Jackson, Ava at her graduation, and Jackson holding a trophy. Newer pictures show all four of them at birthdays and on holidays.
There isn’t one of me, Daniel or Tom.
