Page 32 of This Is How It Started
Thanks, Adam.
He flags over the server, and we give her both our drink and food orders. If we’re lucky, Mom’s Cobb salad will only trail the cocktails by minutes. Best if she has something to coat her stomach before the booze sets in.
“Did anyone think to invite Hannah and Stephen?” she asks, her voice slightly accusatory.
“Mom, you set this dinner up. It’s your job to invite your other children.”
She scowls at me. “Well, since you all plot behind my back, I figured one of you would’ve said something to her.”
“We don’t plot behind your back,” I say.
“Then why is it that I’m the last one to know that you’re moving in with...her.” After all this time, Shana still won’t speak Brooke’s name. Justher.Or the kurveh.
“Rach is only telling people on a need-to-know basis,” Adam says, and I stifle a laugh.
Shana’s legendary sense of humor appears to be on hiatus tonight. We’ll see what happens after that mojito.
“Well, don’t be surprised when she sells the place out from under you.” My mother purses her lips in that know-it-all way that never fails to irk me.
While the thought of Brooke selling makes me shudder, I sort of half expected her to put the Queen Anne on the market shortly after my father died. It’s too much house for one person, and Brooke has never struck me as an aficionado of old things—except of course my father.
“Don’t worry, Rachel. There will always be room for you with me. I am your mother.”
“No, I am your father,” Adam says in his best James Earl Jones voice.
Our drinks come, and Mommie Dearest is off to the races.
Adam sneaks another glance my way, silently conveying that we should let her drink.It will go easier on you that way.
Our salads come—Adam got a burger—and for a while we eat in companionable silence with a side of hostility. Midway through her pile of lettuce, Mom starts in on the whole Brooke thing again.
“I simply don’t understand why you’re doing this to us.”
“I’m not doing anything to us. Can’t you see that I’m having a hard time? Can’t you see that a part of me died in the car with Josh? I’m trying to catch my breath here, Mom. I’m trying to make myself whole again. And the house on Vallejo will always be our house. The house where every nook and cranny doesn’t hold remnants of Josh. The house where I can just be.”
Except for the music in the background, our table goes silent. Mom puts down her mostly consumed drink and reaches for my hand. “I want you to get better, Rachel. If you have to stay with that woman to get there, I support you.”
I don’t bother to correct her. She knows the last person on earth I’d run to is Brooke. She knows damned well that I’m running to my childhood, to the way things used to be before my parents split up, when life was filled with possibilities. With love. With hope. With happiness. I don’t have to tell her because she knows.
With a slightly crooked smile on his face, Adam looks at the both of us, waves over our server again, and orders Mom another mojito.
* * * *
I’ve been here two weeks now and have only run into Brooke four times. Her schedule at the hospital is nuts. What’s even nuttier is she appears to have turned the guest cottage into a Vrbo or Airbnb. Twice, I’ve run into strangers on the property. The first time, I was just about to call the police until I got the 411 from Brooke via text.
The cottage has apparently been rented out for much of the holidays. With all the extra cash, you would think Brooke would devote more resources to caring for the grounds. The house, gardens, and even the brick walkways look more worse for wear than they did at Josh’s funeral. I keep reminding myself that it’s none of my business. I’m only a guest here.
The doorbell is ringing, and I’m not sure if I’m supposed to answer it. Brooke is either asleep or at work. I roll over and stare at my nightstand, where the same Kitty Cat Klock I had as a teenager still sits. It’s eleven in the morning. I should’ve been up hours ago at least pretending to work. I’ve given myself until the new year to start in earnest. But in the meantime, I’ve been rejiggering my business cards, organizing my contacts, and researching the market.
Unfortunately, none of those tasks has inspired me to get back out there again and beat the pavement. But without Josh’s healthy paycheck, I need an income. Our savings, the small inheritance from my dad, and Josh’s life insurance won’t last forever, especially in a city where even milk is more expensive than the rest of the free world. And I can’t sponge off Brooke forever.
The doorbell rings again. I get out of bed, throw on a robe, and pad down the staircase. Through the peephole there’s a portly man with thinning hair staring back at me. I open the door a crack.
“Can I help you?”
“I’m here about the pool house.” He seems to think I should know what he’s talking about.
“Uh, Brooke...my stepmother...isn’t home right now.” Frankly, I don’t know if she is. But if she was expecting someone, I’m sure she would’ve answered the door. “Did you have an appointment?”
