Total pages in book: 162
Estimated words: 153946 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 770(@200wpm)___ 616(@250wpm)___ 513(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 153946 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 770(@200wpm)___ 616(@250wpm)___ 513(@300wpm)
My sister and her husband had both tried to nudge me in this direction once or twice. Particularly last year, when I’d been spending enough on doctor visits to worry them.
I hadn’t been ready then. I wasn’t sure I was ready now. If Morgan and Gene knew I was finally taking this step, they’d no doubt be making me lists on all the prerequisites and precautions I needed to deal with before I took the plunge, which could take weeks to accomplish. Enough time for me to lose my nerve and change my mind again.
Luckily, right now they were somewhere over the Atlantic, probably enjoying espresso and biscotti between first-class naps, unable to slow me down with their common sense and logical thinking. If I was really doing this, I needed to start today. Right now. Ready or not.
Walking into Mom’s apartment without knocking felt strange. It was still so much her space. She’d definitely had a brand, and that brand said, “I love the beach, and who needs a coffee table that’s functional?”
That was the first thing you saw when you walked through the front door—a glass-topped rattan coffee table that looked like a giant ball of pretty twine. We’d teased her about it when she made the purchase, but now I couldn’t imagine the apartment without it.
I took a fortifying breath and went straight to her closet, where a handful of her favorite tank tops, blouses and two film crew jackets still hung amid a sea of empty hangers. A friend of the family had turned the silk robe she’d loved into a huggable stuffed animal as a gift for me, and the rest I couldn’t fit in if I ate nothing but celery for a year. I’d kept them anyway. I couldn’t deal with the thought of giving them away yet.
Morgan and I had spent a few weekends in here after her celebration of life, separating what we’d send to her closest friends, what we’d donate and what we’d split between the two of us.
My sister had been a rock for me then. Patiently holding my hand and quietly dealing with all the things I couldn’t. I’d taken Mom’s books and photo albums, while Morgan had taken her jewelry and the small tote of personal journals I hadn’t wanted to go through. We’d cleaned out her dresser, the bathroom and kitchen pantry. Everything else, we’d left exactly as it was. Her plates were in the kitchen cabinets. Her sheets were washed and the bed was made. Her ever-present iPod was charging on its portable speaker, as if she’d temporarily left the room and would be back any minute, asking me if my book was finally finished so we could go do something fun together. Just the two of us.
My throat tightened, but I laid the clothes out on the bed and started scrubbing the apartment.
“I’m still not finished,” I confessed to the silent walls.
My work-in-progress was, in too many ways, like this apartment and my life. Suspended in time. Lacking purpose and full of unresolved issues.
I’d known things were bad for a while, but I hadn’t realized how serious my situation had become until I dropped Morgan off this morning.
“You are not fine.”
I’ve heard it’s normal for people to fall into a slump now and then. To require some alone time to regroup before rejoining the living after a spiritual sucker punch or three. Like a once-in-a-lifetime pandemic, followed by your mother dying and, for a chaser, getting sick long after everyone else had started moving on with their lives, ensuring you’d be more isolated than ever.
But I’d been physically better for six months now, and no one but my sister and my friend Chick, who lived all the way in California, seemed to notice I was still hermitting. Pretty sure that was the technical term.
“She wouldn’t want that.”
She really wouldn’t. Mom wasn’t a fan of my isolated writer’s lifestyle before she left, and she’d hate how bad things had gotten since, which was why I’d decided to do something about it today. Better late than never, right?
I cleaned the baseboards and the molding, dusted and polished, but it didn’t take as long as I thought it would to make the space look brand new. Based on my five minutes of phone research, furnished apartments required multiple glamor shots to sell properly, so I snapped pics that caught the light beachy wood look of the laminate floors. The simple black-and-white kitchen. The soaking tub in the bathroom, and the flowery and feminine bedroom set, the dresser and side tables littered with baskets of shells. Then I aimed at the sand-colored dining table, the faded teal chairs that framed it, and the driftwood candleholder in the center that pulled it all together. Even the rattan coffee table and the art on the walls made the living room shot look professional.