Page 9 of The Fate Factor

What Kate doesn’t know, though, is that sometimes, when I get the rent deposit that lets me hold onto it for another month, I wonder if the ensuing nausea is my punishment for keeping the thing I have no business keeping. Holding on to two homes is the epitome of impractical. It’s the one indulgence I’ve ever granted myself. My one irresponsible decision.

But even though I won’t get rid of it, I haven’t been able to bring myself to actually go back there. Not if Nana’s not there. I’ve been holding on to it tightly with one hand and pushing it away with the other.

Now, I look out the window of this condo that I bought for the off-street parking, out to the oak trees that line the curb. The tips of their leaves are starting to yellow, a stiff breeze tauntingthem. Tragically, I picture snow piling up outside while I sit in my pajamas, staring at a blank page onInDesign. It covers the windows until no one even knows I’m in here, desperately trying to squeeze inspiration from nothingness. As uncomfortable as going to Nana’s alone makes me, even I can admit this alternate plan is not stellar.

I shove my thumbnail between my teeth, chewing. “A sabbatical.”

Kate sits up straighter. “Or call it a retreat. Isn’t that what artists do? Vi gave you to the end of the year to figure your shit out, so you do it here. If you want to feel something, you’re going to have to open the gates a little, babe. No matter what comes next, you have to move to get there, right? So start with a baby step, something you already love. Come smell the salt water, watch the sunset, eat rich food, have amazing sex. That’s how you get a little life back into your art. Into you.”

I chuckle. “Who exactly am I having sex with on my solo vacation, Katherine?”

“Who knows? Whocares?”

A laugh squeaks out of me, andthere, I think. Right there. That was a little, bitty blip of an emotion. Maybe it’s a sign or maybe I’m due for some random nerve to fire accidentally, but I latch on to it with both hands. “Okay,” I tell her. “It’s worth a try.”

two

Noel

Nana’shouse,itturnsout, looks a lot different with August already in the rearview. I stand on the porch, the breeze from the deserted beach across the street toying with the ends of my hair, and take it in. The two-story Craftsman cottage sits on a dead end, in a tidy row of identical buildings separated by tufts of dune grass. When I was a kid, I would spot the red flower pots lining the porch steps from the car window as we approached, and relief and excitement would buzz in my veins like I’d been plugged into an outlet.

Now I picture the frayed end of a chewed-through cord as I shimmy Nana’s little brass key into the lock. Shoving the door open with my suitcase, I set Pixie’s carrier just inside and turn to load each arm with a bag before crossing the threshold. Thepale wood floors groan and creak with my steps, and I can’t tell if they’re crying for the way they were abandoned or cheering the return of a familiar face in the sea of strangers who have been traipsing around with their swimsuits and weekend bags.

The first surprise is that it looks the same somehow, even with the heart of it missing. The cottage is a big open square with shiplap walls, slip-covered furniture, copper fixtures—shabby chic before it was cool. The living room is separated from the kitchen by a breakfast bar with peel and stick tile. A worn, white couch still anchors the space in front of the fireplace where I’d draw at night.

But the small things are noticeably gone. The basket of yarn beneath the end table, the out-of-season holiday napkins she’d buy in bulk at Christmas Tree Shop. Her jungle-like houseplant collection. This could be any old rental house in Maine now.

Which is probably for the best. It’s bound to be easier this way. I didn’t come here to bunk with ghosts.

Pixie yowls through her little air holes, and I crouch down to release her. She darts out of her carrier, disappearing into the sunflower-yellow kitchen where her food bowls used to sit, and flops down into a dust speckled sunbeam. I wonder if she realizes she’s home, if her cat brain remembers it at all. She’s grown so much since she was last here.

It hits me that she’s the only one. Nana only got older and sicker once she left this place.

And I’ve stayed exactly the same.

After a quick trip into town for groceries, I make myself dinner and wash and dry my single plate. The habits of this house suggest curling up in front of the fireplace with my sketchbook, but I shake away the idea, terrified I’ll find that familiarblankness still staring back at me. If it’s not going to work, if I’ve come here for nothing, I’d rather find out after a good night’s sleep.

Instead, I send Mom a text before bed. California is three hours behind Maine, so it’s possible I’ll catch her at a roadside diner or a gas station with cell service.

Noel: I’m staying at Nana’s for a while. Call or text so I know you’re alive.

I delete the last word because it sounds kind of bitchy and replace it with “doing okay.”

That same silly hope flickers when I hit Send. The one that comes each time I reach out, lasting until the excuse of our time difference ticks away and it’s clear another day will pass without a response. I’ve always been cautious about expecting too much from my mother, about asking for disappointment instead of just waiting for it to come on its own. So I didn’t expect her to have some weird maternal instinct that there’s something wrong with me and want to answer my calls. But I did let myself hope.

It’s barely nine, but an embarrassing yawn springs from the depths of my chest. I dropped my stuff in the mudroom when I got here, seeing as I have nothing but time to unpack, and I head there now to grab the bag that holds my pajamas and toiletries. I locate it in the pile, sling it over my shoulder, and freeze, suddenly unsure which way to turn.

The bedroom door to my right—Nana’s door—is closed, and I feel like a monster when I’m relieved by it.

The loft space where I always stay has odd-shaped windows and slanted ceilings that, even at five-three, I bump my head on. It’s wide open to the living room via a slatted half wall. I’m an adult and alone here now. I should probably take the master bedroom with real walls and a closet.

My eyes flick to the door again. Nana isn’t even the last person to sleep in there. Guests have been using it all summer. To them,though, it’s just another quilt-covered bed. A picture window that faces the water across the street, reminding them why this was the perfect spot for their vacation. It probably still smells like Oil of Olay hand cream and incense, but they wouldn’t know why.

I will, though, and I can’t do it. I drag my bag up the staircase to the loft, and throw myself at the lumpy double bed at the top like it’s my long lost lover. The metal frame takes up most of the painted wood floor, and squeaks obnoxiously every time I move, but it will do. It always has.

Pixie’s claws tap on the hardwood stairs. She does a little butt shake and pounces up onto the bed, flopping down beside me, purr box rattling. As I stroke her head, I think about Nana’s spells and rituals, and wonder with the tiniest suspension of disbelief whether she would have had one that would fix whatever is wrong with me these days. A cosmic paintbrush that could put some color back in.

I’m here, which is a start, but if I’m truly hoping this three hour drive north will help me find whatever I need to uncork my inspiration, I’m going to need a little more guidance on what comes next.

---