Page 7 of Lemon Crush

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 twoof 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 lifestylebeforeshe 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 ofshells. 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.

This place put my own mismatched living room furniture, accented by random piles of books, comfy blankets and general clutter, to shame. If I had a theme, it was absent-minded bargain hunter in shades of brown and…lighter brown. I should have let her decorate it.

Before I could talk myself out of it, I signed onto the rental site, filled out the description as well as my requirements, and uploaded the apartment for all to see.

“There. That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

I hadn’t needed to ask for anyone’s advice or permission. This was my property and I could do what I wanted.

Say it again. Once more with actual feeling.

I grabbed the clothes I’d been moving out of every camera shot and left the apartment. Walking around the pool and into the garage, I moved like a woman on a mission when all I wanted to do was lie down and possibly curl up in a ball for the rest of the day. And not only because of my lack of sleep last night, or the chronic fatigue I’d been unable to shake despite my recovery. Still, I wasn’t quite finished yet.

This might have been a “car garage” in another life, but when Mom and I moved in, it had become a multi-purpose space. One side was a storage locker for all the things she hadn’t been able to part with when she pared down for tiny apartment living after years of marital nesting. The other was half tool-and-garden shed and half workout room, all covered with a fine layer of hasn’t-been-touched-in-a-while.

You should be in here every day to use that treadmill.

That was the trouble with the first step forward—all theshouldsandhave-tosthat had been accumulating came out of thewoodwork all at once to overwhelm you. Ishouldbe walking on that treadmill every day. Ishouldbe eating healthier. Ishouldbe cleaning my house. Ishouldhave a better relationship with my sister. Ishouldbe working on that last book until it was finished. Ishouldbe out in the world, enjoying my life.

All of this should be easier by now.

I opened a labelled storage container and set the shirts and one jacket inside, pausing before I let the last one go. She’d only kept a handful of these from various productions over the years, and I could still see her wearing this one as she rushed around on set. When I was little and could still fit in it, I’d worn it all the time too.

I brought the fabric to my nose and inhaled deeply, wondering if I was imagining the scent of her favorite perfume. It must have faded by now, but I swore I could still smell it.

Mom had worked in the film industry. It sounded glamorous, but for most of the people who lived it, it was a business like any other. And she’d been a behind-the-scenes cog in that business until I was in my twenties.

She’d worn a lot of hats throughout her career: casting director, production assistant, second assistant director and accountant. She’d even written a script or two on spec. Most of her hats required traveling at the drop of one. It was one of her favorite perks of the job, but it made putting down roots an impossibility.

Think army brat with less discipline, fewer benefits and more random sightings of semi to fully famous people. For example, I’d met Meg Ryan once and seen Bruce Willis walking to his trailer. A couple of teamsters and I accidentally caught the original movie Buffy making out with the dad fromGrowing Painsin the back of a van. I also had in my possession what might be the only slightly negative story about Keanu Reeves to exist. He was young, it wasn’t that bad and I’d never tell because he’s simply too precious for this world.

None of that mattered now to anyone but me. As far aseveryone else was concerned, Samantha Retta was an unfinished resume on IMDB. One of the faceless masses who’d never gotten an award or accolade for her years of tireless work to fuel the entertainment machine.

And if anyone sent me an application that was good enough to accept, she would no longer have an apartment.

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