We continue to fold clothes neatly into the suitcase—one of the two suitcases my family actually owns. The only time we went on vacation as a family was when we went to Vancouver for the weekend when I was seventeen. My mother explained at the time that she wanted us all to go “international.” We even got passports for the occasion. Mind you, Canada is only two and a half hours away by car. It was still fun though.
We didn’t need a lot of things growing up, which was good because we couldn’t afford a lot of things. But my parents made sure they made up for it with love. I was never left wanting, and my parents were always affectionate and caring. I feel lucky that I’m so close with my family. Nothing compares to the camaraderie of the immediate family.
“What about furniture?” she asks, eyeing my bed.
“Nope. Cecelia says the guesthouse is furnished. I’m just bringing some clothes and decorations—like when I went off to college.”
“Okay,” she says skeptically.
I look over at her. At almost fifty, she looks like she hasn’t aged a day past thirty. She’s shorter than me, with short, brown hair and dark-brown eyes. She’s half-Puerto Rican, though she doesn’t know a single Spanish word. She’s beautiful, exotic. I got my green eyes from my father, who’s tall, pale, and half-Scottish. Elijah and I both got our skin coloring from Mom. It shows—we’re always tanned, and my dad is always sunburned.
“I hope they don’t work you too hard. I’ve heard horror stories about live-in nannies…”
“I get the feeling they’re pretty laid back.”
“Okay,” she says, unconvinced. What is it about mothers that makes them so skeptical about everything? “God, the whole situation is just so sad, though,” she says softly. “Widower with a young daughter. I can’t even imagine.” She places a stack of clothes next to the suitcase. It’s getting full. I know I won’t be able to take all of my clothes this time around, but since my family and I agreed on Sunday dinners, I can replenish my clothes every week.
“I know,” I mumble, thinking of Matthias. Something about his eyes still haunts me. Maybe it’s because he was so young when he… I can’t even think about it. It’s too tragic.
“What does Mr. Wilder do for a living?”
I look down and frown. I don’t remember Cecelia ever telling me what he does. I shrug my shoulders.
“I actually don’t know. Cecelia never said. Must be something fancy…” I trail off. I’ve told my mother all about the giant house and the fancy furniture. I continue. “The house is seriously huge,” I say, smiling. “I can’t wait to show you guys.”
“I can’t wait to visit,” she counters, smiling. “I hope you like it there.”
“I’ll be fine,” I say for the thousandth time.
My mom continues to sort my clothes silently. I can always tell when she wants to say something, because she gets unnecessarily quiet. She’s being unnecessarily quiet right now.
“So you’ve never met him?” she asks.
“No. He was gone for work when I went on the interview.”
“Huh,” she clucks, and I immediately know she’s thinking something outlandish or inappropriate.
“What?” I ask, eyeing her sideways. “I can practically see the wheels spinning,” I accuse.
“Nothing, nothing. I just wonder what he’s like. I wonder if, you know… long days, living with him, if he’s attractive. He’s a widower, after all…”
“Ew, Mom!” I yell, throwing one of my pillows at her. “He’s a dad. He’s probably old. That’s disgusting,” I say, swatting her with the pillow again. “I can’t believe you would even suggest that.”
She just laughs and pats me on the butt before leaving.
“You can’t always help whom you fall in love with,” she chimes, and before I can throw another pillow at her, she’s gone.
I sigh and heave the suitcase and my clothes off the bed. I fall back into the soft comforter and close my eyes.
It’s true. I have no idea what he’s like. He sounds nice from his emails, but he’s my employer. I shake my head violently for even allowing myself to think about it.
“Evi!” Elijah screams from the bottom of the stairs. “Dinner’s ready!”
Would it have been too much trouble for him to come up the stairs and tell me in person? He basically just cattle-called me. He might as well have used a cowbell.