Page 5 of Room for Us
Mom smiles, proud of herself for brainwashing me as a child with cheesy mental health slogans. “Are you coming to dinner tonight? I’m making lasagna and I think Zander’s girlfriend is joining us before they head out to the movies.”
Way to sell it, Mom.
“Not sure, actually. I have a plumber stopping by this afternoon to deal with the upstairs bathroom, and a contractor coming to check the roof between three and five.” I wave to the bucket of cleaning supplies. “Lots to do between then and now.”
She finally accepts the status quo, bouncing on her tiptoes to kiss my cheek. “I haven’t said it enough—the inn looks amazing, like a whole new place. The paint, the refurbishing you’ve done… I can’t believe how much you’ve accomplished in a few short weeks. Barb would be so proud.”
“Thanks, Mom. I owe it all to Pinterest.”
“What’s Pinterest?”
I bite back a sigh. “Never mind.”
“Okay. Well, love you, honey. Hope you can make it to dinner.”
“Love you too, Mom.”
When she’s gone, I release a sigh so deep my toes tingle. Then I wash my hands and head for the kitchen. I need a cup of iced tea. Or a shot of whiskey.
Definitely whiskey.
I’m reaching for the cabinet above the fridge where my aunt kept her personal stash when her brusque voice invades the quiet.
“What the hell are you doing pouring money into this shithole? And if you save one more floating shelf to your shabby-chic Pinterest board I’m gonna—”
“Leave me alone, Aunt B,” I interject, grabbing the half-empty bottle of Jack Daniel’s. “I’ve been scrubbing old toilets all day. Do you know how expensive a good toilet is? Of course you don’t—you’ve had the same ones in here for twenty years.”
“Hmmph. I left you this place so you’d sell it, take a vacation or buy some damn jewelry. This mission you’re on—all the new sheets and fancy plans—isn’t gonna save this place. No one wants to stay in this drafty old house when they can rent one of those fancy condos or AirBed places closer to the mountain!”
“AirBnb,” I mutter, uncapping the whiskey and taking a swig right from the bottle. “Tell me where you hid the sashays.”
A breeze ruffles my hair.
She’s gone.
3
It’s true, my brain has a weird definition of appropriate coping mechanisms. I haven’t cried since the day my world went boom, so I guess some sort of pressure valve is required. But why my subconscious thinks a ghost is a good choice beats the shit out of me.
Could be worse, I suppose. Only I’m not sure what’s worse than hallucinating my dead aunt’s side of an ongoing conversation.
If my mom knew, she’d freak. She’s already worried out of her head. What mom wouldn’t be when her twenty-seven-year-old, happily married daughter shows up on her doorstep with a suitcase, no husband, no apartment, no job, and a checking account on life support? All within twenty-four hours of the death of a beloved family member.
Surprise, Mom, let’s plan a funeral!
But if my mom is anything, she’s adaptable. Level-headed. Calm in the face of crisis. She’s a shrink, after all, and she specializes in trauma victims. On a scale of one to running-naked-down-Main-Street, I was clearly only a two or three. So she took my news in stride and we did what we had to do.
It was a beautiful memorial service. The church was standing room only, packed with most of Sun River’s year-round population. Barb Kemper and her obnoxiously bright red curls were a staple in the community for decades.
There were a lot of tears, a lot of flowers, and, as is the case in small towns, a lot of gossip about me. Namely the gray roots in my lifeless brown hair—hey, it’s genetic—my raccoon eyes, and most notably, the absence of a three-carat diamond ring on my finger. Incidentally, I do regret not keeping the ring. I could have pawned it with my other jewelry.
The everyone-knows-everyone’s-business vibe of where I grew up was a big part of why I fled after high school. But now? I can’t muster a feeling about it one way or the other. Am I offended that I’m kitchen table gossip? Nah. If anything, I’m amused.
Besides, if Aunt B were here, she’d be in the thick of it, whispering to her cohort of blue-haired buddies and giving them all the juiciest tidbits of my disastrous life. Ever the Queen of the Lilac Ladies, regardless of our familial bond.
The memorial also marked the first time Aunt B spoke to me. Her timing, as always, left much to be desired. The pastor, young and nervous, was stumbling through the eulogy when my aunt whispered in my ear, “Too bad about Pastor Phillip’s hernia, huh? Whatshisface up there is embarrassing himself.”
“Shhh!” I hissed.
