Page 3 of Room for Us
“Where are you? Call me back.”
“This isn’t funny, Zoey. Now I’m worried. You always answer! Where are you?”
“Zoey. I need you to pick up your phone. Please, honey, call me back. Now. Love you.”
“I debated waiting for you to call me, but I don’t want you to find out from someone else. Aunt Barbara died today. It was a heart attack. Call me back, honey. I love you. I…I’m sorry.”
To say I wasn’t expecting those words is a vast understatement. Aunt Barbara is—was—the healthiest sixty-year-old woman I know.
Knew.
“Shit.”
Catatonic as my heart is, I don’t feel anything but a distant pang. My emotions must be firing on some level, though, because tears dribble off my chin as I open a browser and punch in a search for flights from JFK to Boise, Idaho.
I book the first one I see.
2
Lilac. Cloying. A big floral, one that marches right up to your face and demands attention. Salty sweetness, both dense and bold. The fragrance is one of those love it or hate it scents. Personally, I love it.
And I hate it.
Let’s talk about people who fit the Lilac’s unique profile, shall we? There’s always that one relation. An aunt or cousin. Maybe even a mother or sister. Well-meaning, dignified, put together (at least they think so). In reality, they’re borderline garish. Loud and tactless. They aren’t heartless, which although is an easy assumption to make, is an incorrect one. It’s an important distinction. A lesson that took me a couple decades to learn.
I’ve had a fair amount of experience in this department, so you’ll have to trust me. These women (rarely, men) can’t help it. Lilac wants to be the favorite floral, but she’ll never be as delicate or well-behaved as her cousin, gardenia. Same thing, but with people. Stay with me.
Lilac Ladies are the ones who ask if you’re dating yet even though your husband just left you. They’re also the ones who warn you it’s harder to have children the older you get—time’s running out, Zoey—and in the next breath comment on how many kids so-and-so has now.
If you’re lucky, you only have to see Lilac Ladies at the obligatory family gatherings. Holidays, births, weddings, and funerals.
My luck? Four weeks ago, it raneth the fuck out. Plus, it turns out I was wrong about bad tidings coming in threes. Sometimes they come in sixes and nines. Sometimes they never stop.
“What are you doing?”
Glancing up, I scowl at my ginormous, eighteen-year-old brother. “What does it look like I’m doing?”
He smirks, all six-foot-three inches of him radiating superiority. “It looks like you’re cleaning a toilet.”
“Wow, Zander. With brains like that, it’s no wonder you’re headed to college.”
“Stuff it, loser. At least I have prospects.”
“Suck a di—”
“Zander! Leave your sister alone!”
Nothing quite like that tone from our mother—Zander scampers away without a peep. A muffled conversation follows, then the sound of the front door opening and closing. The hinges squeak and I add to my mental list of Shit To Do.
Soft footsteps approach. Unlike Zander, my mom actually respects my newly implemented no-shoes rule. I nearly broke my back last week cleaning and waxing the Inn’s original wood flooring.
“Why don’t you take a break, honey? Come grab some lunch with me in town.”
She has a point—it’s Saturday and I haven’t taken a day off in approximately three and a half weeks. But I’m really not interested in a break. Breaks are for people who have social lives and want to enjoy themselves. I don’t have or want a social life. All I want is to be left alone.
Nevertheless, I love my mom, so I drop the scrub brush into a nearby bucket and sit back on my heels to give her my full attention. At five-foot-nothing with birdlike bones, she takes up half the space my behemoth brother did—it’s a damn miracle he didn’t tear her apart when he came out.
“I’m okay, Mom. Thanks. I have a lot to get done today.”
