“I couldn’t do it,” Travis says. “Sorry, Quinn.”
“Travis!”
He rolls the window back up. Gives me the peace sign. And then they’re gone in a cloud of exhaust.
The sun is just beginning to disappear but it’s still warm outside—way too warm to be in a velvet costume. But I’m not quite ready to go back into the air-conditioning. I need time to think. Erin and Travis probably think I’m a horrible person with a black heart. But they don’t get it. Neither of them knows what it’s like to have someone shatter your family. Someone you used to consider a friend.
It’s not something you ever get over.
ten.
“I guess that’s it,” Celia says, setting her tape gun on top of the box. That box is the last of a small stack stuffed with Gran’s personal belongings. Things neither of us want but don’t have the heart to get rid of. The rest of her stuff is now sitting in a thrift shop, waiting to belong to someone else. It’s unbearably depressing. And it makes me wonder what Gran would think, if she knew. If she would care that her memories are being given away to strangers.
“I guess so.” Looking around at the empty room gives me a stomachache, so I walk to the window and peek out at the front yard. Gran’s lace curtains are gone, packed away somewhere, but her ancient venetian blinds are still in place.
Celia comes up beside me. “I should probably have someone come and do something about the garden,” she says, sighing heavily at the brown grass and dying rhododendron. “It looks awful.”
My shoulders tense. This is a dig at my dad, at his complete lack of interest in keeping the place up. Even though he hasn’t lived here in weeks.
Out of habit, I start to defend him—Celia did kick him out, after all—but it’s hard to argue against the truth. My dad stands to benefit from the sale of the house, too, so leaving all the grunt work to us isn’t fair.
“My mom probably knows someone,” I say, and Celia nods. She gets along well with my mom, always has. In fact, every time she comes to town, she stays with us. Even when Gran lived here, Celia preferred our guest bedroom. She didn’t want to be around my dad.
That’s part of the reason I’m so protective of him. I’m the only person, aside from Gran, who’s ever on his side. No one will cut him a break, especially in our family. It’s like they can’t see past his mistakes to who he is. They don’t see the good in him anymore.
“Let’s get these out to the car.” She lifts a box marked FRAGILE. I packed that one, so I know it’s filled with porcelain ballerinas and other knickknacks that Celia is convinced might be worth something someday.
She holds the door open with her foot while I grab a couple of old tennis rackets and a crystal lamp that was too awkward to cram into a box. The front porch is bare—Celia hauled the wicker porch swing to the dump last week. The thought of it decaying with piles of other junk bothers me. Gran and I spent a lot of time in that swing, drinking lemonade and trading stories. The memory kicks me in the chest, and my hands start to shake. I have to tighten my grip on the lamp so I won’t drop it.
Celia’s rented van is parked in the driveway, the rear door open. She slides the box across the gray felt carpeting so it butts neatly against the backseat. “Just put that stuff over there,” she says, gesturing to a patch of grass. “We’ll put it in last.”
I carefully set the lamp on the lawn, then toss the tennis rackets down beside it. I insisted on keeping them, despite the fact that the duct tape on the handles is fraying and they need to be restrung. Gran played tennis for years and there’s something so depressing about getting rid of her rackets, even if they are in crappy condition and will probably continue to molder in the back of my closet.
It takes us less than ten minutes to finish loading the rest of the boxes, and then we’re standing on the porch and Celia is locking the front door. My heart breaks a little. I can’t believe this is the last time I’ll ever be at Gran’s house. All my memories of her are here. And I won’t be making any new ones. At least, not any that I’ll want to keep.
I still haven’t been brave enough to go to see her. But the plan is to drop everything off at the storage locker Celia rented a few miles away and then visit her at the home.
When Celia suggested that we visit Gran, I couldn’t think of an excuse fast enough. I guess Celia, like my mom, figures I’ll regret it later if I don’t make the effort. And maybe I would. Or maybe I would be happy to not have to remember Gran the way she is now. But it seems unbelievably selfish to admit that.
“Hop in,” Celia says, heading over to the driver’s side. I climb in beside her and buckle my seat belt. It’s grossly hot out but she won’t turn on the air-conditioning—she says it’s terrible for the environment, which is ironic considering she’s driving a van—so I roll down the window and let the warm air rush over me.
We drive through the neighborhood, past cute little houses with flowerpots in the windows. Down Broadway and onto Madison, neither of us saying much, just listening to Willie Nelson—the only musical choice when you ride anywhere with Celia. I don’t really mind. There’s something comforting about his voice.
She stops in front of the industrial-looking building where what’s left of Gran’s life is kept behind a rolling metal door. We hop out and reverse the task, unloading the boxes into an already almost-full storage locker. It takes some creative juggling to get all the new junk stuffed inside, but we finally do, and by that time I’m cranky and hot and my shirt is sticking to me.
We climb back into the van and Celia starts to babble about Gran, how the new medication she’s on makes her drowsy and not to be surprised if she doesn’t seem like herself. I know she’s trying to prepare me, but she shouldn’t worry. I already know that Gran’s not herself. She hasn’t been for a long time. And in that moment, I sort of hate Celia for making me do this.
We pull into a circular driveway in front of a squat, colorless building half hidden behind a bunch of maple trees. The trees are tall and leafy and aren’t letting in a lot of light. I step out of the car and it feels dark and murky, like we’re lost in the middle of a forest. Which is perfect because it exactly mirrors how dark, murky, and lost I feel inside.
I’m not sure what I was expecting, but it was definitely not this. This place is so, so different from Gran’s house. And not in a good way.