Page 13 of Unstable

WHILE THE BATHROOM DID still hold some memories, they weren’t so all-consuming that I wasn’t able to relax a bit. I mean, without curling irons and make-up scattered everywhere (which she’d had the good sense to pack away), how many meaningful remembrances does one have from a bathroom, right?

So, because I got the small reprieve from painful reminiscence and allowed myself to fall into a tranquil state of distraction, it’s only after I get out of the bath that it dawns on me…I didn’t bring a change of clothes up here. I really don’t want to put the dusty outfit I wore around the farm back on, but what choice do I have? My bag is downstairs, and I am not traipsing around in a towel with Gatlin in the house.

Maybe he left. I was in the tub a while…so I crack open the door to listen for any sounds indicating he’s still here, when I spot the surprise to my left. There, on the hall table just outside the bathroom, is a pile of fresh clothes from my bag.

I snag them up and disappear behind the door, dissecting in my head the enigma that is Gatlin Holt. Is he being nice to me because this farm, the destiny of which lays in my hands, is his home and he doesn’t want to lose it? Is he hoping for money? Or is he really just a nice guy? Who digs through my bag without permission.

Dressed and determined, I decide to ask him all this as soon as I get downstairs. But when I enter the kitchen, he’s nowhere to be found. There’s only the fixings for a sandwich and a pitcher of tea on the counter.

I go to the window and squint through the dusk, finding the cabin completely dark. The man moves in shadows; a curious, courteous phantom whose intent I plan to figure out as soon as possible.

But for right now, I make myself that sandwich, pour a glass of sweet tea, and tend to my grumbling stomach.

Then, with a full day, and now full belly behind me, I go and crash on the couch. I’m asleep before I can really give myself a good chastising for sleeping here again.

THE NEXT MORNING, I’M again awoken by the glare of the sun—I need to find some curtains or at least hang up a blanket—and cringe with my first movement. My whole body reminds me just how long it’s been since I’ve spent all day exploring the dips and potholes of a farm. Ridiculous; I’m far too young to actually “creak” when I move, and it’s right then and there that I decide to start back on my yoga.

Tomorrow.

I freshen up in the downstairs bathroom, eat a small breakfast, then grab my truck keys and the outfit for my mother. Just like the day before, Bourbon’s waiting on the porch to greet me, and that kind of commitment deserves a reward. I walk to my truck and open the passenger door, and sure enough, Bourbon wastes no time accepting the invitation and jumping inside.

As I head down the driveway toward the main road and away from the fields, he looks from the window to me several times. He’s on to me. I don’t have the heart to tell him that rather than taking him out to run with the herd, we’re headed to a funeral home…so I simply say, “You keep me company through this, and I’ll let you chase some later, deal?”

I just negotiated with a dog. And even scarier, I heard the agreement in his answering bark.

With that settled, another thought crosses my mind—where was Gatlin this morning? And more importantly, why do I care?

With all the therapy I’ve had, I know that codependency is an unhealthy thing. I’m guessing it’s a whole new level of “ill-advised” if it’s attached to a sneaky stranger that I’ve known for a handful of days. I’ve gotten very good at being alone, an expert at immediately squashing even the notion of letting my guard down, so this anomaly…the only explanation has to be the immensity of recent events.

And, in all fairness, he is staying on my land. So concerning myself with his whereabouts and goings on is legitimate, I conclude.

Thankfully, I’m out of any more time to pay it thought, having arrived at Nelson’s Funeral Home.

“Okay, Bourbon, you wait here. I’ll only be a minute. Don’t chew on anything.”

He barks again, then lays across the seat, getting comfortable.

If all else fails, which if history is anything to go by, it most definitely will…at least I have Bourbon.

Might look into getting myself a cold beer later too.

“Henley!” Donna’s in front of me before the bells on the door have a chance to stop ringing. And the melodic excitement in her voice, well…it has a way of sticking out in a funeral home. “How are you honey?”

“I brought the clothes,” I awkwardly blurt out, and even more gawkily shove them into her arms. “You do the obituary, just, maybe something short and simple? No need to, um,” I shift my weight while I butcher the polite, concise request I had planned to deliver, “list every family member’s name. You know, that survived and preceded by stuff they always do? No sense in all that.”

She nods and offers an understanding smile. “Very general, got it. Clyde will have a fit, but I’ll make sure he listens.”

Oh yes, Clyde Gemperle…the man’s been in charge of the “Ashfall Advisor,” the town paper for as long as I can remember. Anything short of a biography will be new for him, but he’s just gonna have to pull back on this one ‘cause I’m not reminding everyone…of everything.

“And the service?” she asks.

I hadn’t gotten that far. I’m still shocked I was able to manage the outfit and obituary decision/speech. “Um, whatever you think I guess.”

Again, we both know the “expected norm” of this small town, she’s just asking to be polite. As a long-time resident, people would actually consider it a personal insult if not given the chance to attend my mother’s funeral.

“Brother Thomas will deliver an honorable goodbye at the church, and I’ll take care of the memorial and graveside services. Respectful, but modest. Will that work?” She rubs my arm, and I give a quick jerk of my head in acquiescence. “All right, now that we’ve got all that figured out, why don’t you tell me what’s going on with you? Have you decided if you’re staying?”

“N…no,” my voice wobbles under the threat of useless tears and Donna wastes no time moving us to sit on a couch in the lobby. I shake my head—pull it together, Henley—and exhale slowly through my nose.

---