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tabitha
“Mrs. Worthington, I’m sure your chinchillawill be perfectly fine during the open house,” I insisted, while I kept thephone pinned between my ear and shoulder and slapped together the saddestexcuse for a peanut butter and jelly sandwich I’d ever seen.
“Doyou think so?” the older woman asked worriedly and I could practically see herfeathery white brows pinching together. “Maybe I should remove Sandy from thehouse. I wouldn’t want to stress him out, you know?”
“Ofcourse not,” I grumbled, stuffing the sandwich into a baggie and then a paperlunch bag. Pulling the phone away from my ear, I threw my head back andbellowed, “Greyson! Let’s go!”
WhileI waited for the telltale sounds of his heavy footsteps against the treads, Itipped my forehead against the cool surface of the refrigerator and pressed thephone back to my ear. “Sorry about that, Mrs. Worthington. Just trying to getmy nephew ready for school. Every day is a battle.”
“Oh,I understand, Tabitha,” she replied, stressing her sympathies in everyinflection. “How is he?”
“It’san adjustment,” I answered robotically, because that was the fastest response.It allowed for fewer questions and less conversation, and that was perfect. Itwasn’t something I wanted to talk about.
“Ican only imagine. That poor boy.”
Thatpoor boy. A selfish niggling wormed its way into my brain with the sentiment.I did feel terrible for him. Losing his mother suddenly, within a year oflosing both his grandparents, had, of course, been rough on him. Nobodyunderstood that more than me. But just once, I would’ve appreciated apoorTabitha.Poor Tabithalost both of her ill and elderly parentswithin months of each other.Poor Tabithahad to bury her older sister justtwo months ago.Poor Tabithacouldn’t sell the one house she had takenon in the past year.
PoorTabitha.
Ishook my head to push away my selfish mental whining. “I know,” I replied,sighing into the phone. “It’s been a tough time for both of us, but we’regetting there.”
Butfirst, we had to get to school. “Greyson!”
Withanother apologetic groan, I brought the phone back to my ear. “So sorry.Anyway, I’ll stop by the house in just a little while and see what we need todo to get it ready for the weekend, okay? How does noon work for you?”
“Noonis perfect! I’ll see you then, Tabitha.”
Withthat, the line went dead and I pocketed the phone. Peeking toward the stairs, Ishook my head and cursed my nephew under my breath. It was hard to believe thatjust two months ago, he and I had been so close. We were buddies, damn nearinseparable, but now? It seemed like he was listening less, we were fightingmore, and I was one day closer to signing him up for boarding school. And allof this made me feel like the worst person on the planet.
Ourtherapist had said this type of thing was to be expected. What she hadn’t toldme, was how much it would hurt when he rolled his eyes or cried when I yelledat him.
Henever used to cry. Not until Sam died.
“Greyson,please!” I called, resorting to pleading. It always came back topleading. “You’re already late and in another half hour, I will be too. Let’sgo!”
Hisfootsteps thundered down the stairs and right into the kitchen, as though he hadjust waited for me to start begging. His blonde hair was unkempt, his backpackdragged behind him and a scowl was plastered to his face.
“Thankyou,” I pushed out with my exasperated sigh and turned to grab the paper bag.“I made you—”
“Great,”Greyson mumbled, snatching the bag off the counter and throwing itunceremoniously into his backpack. “Let’s go so you can stop your bitching.”
Ourtherapist told me I shouldn’t let him talk to me like that, even if it did comefrom a place of sadness and anger. “Greyson, what did I tell you about cursingat me?” I scolded, following her instructions in a stern, even voice.
“LikeI give a shit,” he replied, a bold challenge displayed in his tone. “Let’s go.”
God,give me strength. I pressed my eyes shut and pinched the bridgeof my nose as he barreled out of the kitchen to the front door, swinging itopen and leaving the house. I was trying to be patient and understanding, butevery day brought me closer to a place of being fed up.
Maybetoday would be that day.
***
“Youhave such an eye for this,” Mrs. Worthington complimented as I carefullypositioned the vase of silk tulips on a living room end table.
Witha kind smile plastered to my face, I laid a book next to the vase and stoodback to marvel at my masterpiece. It was the little things that helped sell ahouse. Some people believe it’s the bigger picture—a redesigned landscape, aknocked-down wall, a refurnished living room—but sometimes all it takes is theturn of a couch and a vase of fake flowers.
“Thislooks good,” I assessed, nodding confidently. “I think we’ll sell this weekend.My guess is, three offers.”
