Page 20 of The Writer

The man is blocking the street, leaning against his tow truck, scrolling on his phone.

“You Miss Walsh?” he asks when he sees me approach.

“That’s me,” I say, pulling out my checkbook. “Thanks for coming on such short notice.”

He nods. “It’ll be two hundred,” he says.

My arms fall to my sides. “The receptionist said one fifty on the phone.”

“That’s for a midday drop-off,” he says. “It’s before noon.”

“Of course,” I say. I can’t give him attitude because the tire has already been fixed, and I never would have been able to do it myself. I write him the check, and hand it over, trying not to think about the extra fifty that will be leaving my bank account.

As I’m climbing the stairs to my apartment, my phone starts ringing again. My mother.

“Two phone calls in two weeks,” I say. “What did I do to get so lucky?”

“Can’t I check in on my daughter?”

“Sure,” I say, “although not much has changed since the last time we talked.”

“We never really got to finish our conversation,” she says. “It’s that time of year, you know.”

Of course, I know. Every winter for the past ten years, she hasn’t let me forget. Mom had big plans for me, and I wasted them when I decided to drop out.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” I tell her. “I’ve moved on.”

“Have you though?” she says. “Becca, really. What are you doing with your life? Waiting tables. Trying to become a writer.”

“Yes, the second part is what I’m doing with my life,” I say. “The first part just pays the bills.”

I think of the extra fifty bucks I just spent on my car. That’s at least two or three more tables I’ll have to kiss up to. It’s not an ideal living, but it’s my only option at this point. Everything else I’ve tried I’ve either hated or has been ruined for me by the black hearts.

“I’m your mother,” she says. “It’s my job to have the hard conversations with you. Thirty has come and gone, and I think it’s time you do something with your life. You could try working with another school system.”

“No, Mom.”

My mind goes back to my assistant position at the school. I remember being crouched down in the toilet stall, crying into my hands like I was a hormonal teenager. I wasn’t meant to work there, and returning will only increase the likelihood of me losing my mind.

“Maybe you could go back to school then,” she says. “How many credits would it take you to finish your degree? A year’s worth of classes at most.”

“And then what will I do?” I ask her. “A creative writing degree won’t guarantee me a book deal. I can keep doing what I’m doing now and get there faster.”

“What if you never get there? It’s a hard business, Becca. If you don’t become a writer, will you just be a waitress the rest of your life? At some point you’re going to have to pick a path and commit to it.”

She makes it sound like I’m self-sabotaging, when that’s not the case. I’d like to find a career that makes me happy. I was happy about the idea of studying massage therapy, until the black hearts came along and ruined that opportunity for me. And now they’re back. Two hearts in a week, I think with a shudder.

“While I have you on the phone,” I say to my mother, “has anything strange been happening at the house?”

“Strange? What do you mean?”

“It’s been so long since I visited,” I say, and yet I can still remember seeing that heart carved into the tree trunk in my backyard, the black paint staining the bark. Maybe there have been other signs recently I’ve missed, other messages I haven’t found.

“Yes,” my mother says, her stern tone bringing me back to the present. “It has been a long time.”

“I’ve been getting these random notes. I was only wondering if anything showed up at the house.”

“What kind of notes?” she asks, her voice filled with skepticism.

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