That day, I found her sitting on the edge of the double-size bed in the cramped bedroom, staring at her hands. I crawled onto the bed beside her. Leaned against her, shoulder to shoulder.
My mother had liked Cleveland. The two older women down the hall had taken her under their wing. They had her over on Friday nights to play pinochle and sip Crown Royal. Our apartment was tiny, but nicer than the one in St. Louis. No cockroaches here. No high-pitched scream of the local commuter rail screeching to a stop one block away.
My mother had found a part-time job as a cashier at the local grocery store. She would walk to work in the mornings after seeing me onto the bus. In the afternoons, we'd take long walks through the quiet, tree-lined streets, stopping at a nearby pond to feed the ducks.
We'd lasted a whole eighteen months, even surviving the bitterly cold winter. My mother claimed that the gray slushy snow didn't bother her at all; it simply reminded her of life in New England.
I think my mother could've made it in Cleveland.
"I'm sorry" I whispered to her as we sat side by side on the bed.
"Shhhhh."
"Maybe, if we both said no—"
"Shhhhh."
"Mom—"
"You know what I do on days like this?" my mother asked me.
I shook my head.
"I think about the future."
"Chicago?" I asked in confusion, for that's where my father said we were going next.
"No, silly. The ten-year future. Fifteen, twenty, forty years from now. I picture your graduation. I imagine your wedding. I dream about holding grandbabies."
I made a face. "Ugh. Never happen," I told her.
"Sure it will."
"No, never. I'm not getting married."
Her turn to smile, ruffle my hair, try to pretend we both didn't see her shaking fingers. "That's what all twelve-year-olds think."
"No. I'm serious. No husband, no kids. Children mean having to move too much."
"Oh, sweetheart," she said sadly, and gave me a hard, tight hug.
I THINK OF my mother as I leave my apartment now, Bella in tow. I have my Taser in hand. It feels melodramatic, creeping down the stairs in my own apartment building in broad daylight. Bobby was right: My apartment was no longer safe. As it went in the world of secret agents and double lives, my cover was blown. So I might as well take Bobby's advice and hole up in a hotel for a while.
It's what my father would've done.
But leaving meant packing. Packing meant suitcases. Suitcases were kept in my storage locker; one was assigned to each tenant, in the basement below.
I had retrieved items from my storage space countless times before. I told myself that today was no different.
The stair creaked beneath my foot. Instantly I froze. I was on the third-story landing, right outside apartment 3C's door. I stared at it, my heart pounding, waiting to see what would happen next. Then, in the next minute, I pulled it together, scolding myself.
I knew the tenants who lived in 3C. A young professional couple. Had a gray tabby cat named Ashton who liked to hiss at Bella from beneath the door. Ashton's attitude aside, we'd all managed to coexist for the past three years. There was no logical reason to suddenly be afraid of them now.
It was more like, why not be afraid of apartment 3C? With no tangible focus for my anxiety, it was easy to look at every dark shadow and see the possible outline of evil Uncle Tommy.
I descended to the second floor, then the first. In the lobby came the hard part. My hands were shaking. I had to work to maintain focus.
I sorted through my ring of keys, finally finding the right one and inserting it in the lock. The side door, old and heavy, groaned inward to reveal a black plunge into the bowels of the centuries-old building. I fumbled overhead until I found the chain for the bare-bulb stairwell light.
The smell was different here. Cold and moldy, like mossy stones or damp earth. Like the smell from Dori's grave.
Bella scrambled down the narrow wooden stairs without a second thought. At least one of us was brave.
At the bottom, the crude plywood storage structures were bolted against the far wall. As the fifth-floor tenant, I had the storage unit at the end, secured by my own metal padlock. It took me two tries to get it undone. In the meantime, Bella worked the basement perimeter, making the happy woofing sounds of a dog discovering hidden treasures.
I got out my parents' luggage. Five pieces, pea green, made of some kind of industrial fabric that had been heavily patched with duct tape over the years. The largest piece squeaked alarmingly as I wheeled it along the floor.
And in that instant, I saw so many snapshots of time. My father, that last afternoon in Arlington. My mother, merrily unpacking the suitcase in our first apartment, giddy over the bright Florida sun. Packing up in Tampa. Checking into Baton Rouge. The brief stint in New Orleans.