Page 17 of Late Bloomer
But Grandma Lou, with her voice soft as morning dew and her smile bright as a sunflower, eventually coaxed me inside, wrapping a warm blanket around my shoulders. She’d explained she was actually my great-aunt, and I quietly explained that, seeing as I don’t know my dad, Grandma Lou was the only relative I had left. Grandma Lou had shown me to the guest bedroom on the second floor, and it was the first time I’d ever been offered a space entirely my own.
It had taken four months for me to accept that my mom wasn’t coming back for me, and five months to find out how much damage Trish had caused.
“I was sorry to hear about Lou,” Trish says, voice full of supposed remorse.
“That’s funny. I don’t remember seeing you at the funeral.”
“Well, sweetheart, I didn’t receive an invite. Lost in the mail, I’m sure.”
“Kind of hard to send an invitation to someone constantly on the lam,” I snap. I hate how calm, how unbothered, my mom sounds. The woman abandoned me. She could at least sound a little sorry.
“Now, I don’t think it’s very fair for you to talk to me like that. Especially after how long it’s been since I even heard from you, baby,” Trish says, her voice soft like a wilted southern belle. It makes my stomach churn.
“You want to talk about fair? Was it veryfairof you to sell myhomeright out from under me?”
“How was I s’posed to know you were living there?” Trish whines. “Not like you ever call me.”
While I hadn’t heard from Trish the entire first year I was abandoned here, she did start trying every six months or so to manipulate me into fixing our broken relationship, every time leaving me feeling more robbed than before. I finally stopped picking up phone calls from strangers when I turned twenty-one.
“Maybe you shouldn’t be selling property you haven’t set foot on in almost a decade,” I counter. “How did you even manage this great con, by the way?”
“Oh hush. It’s not a con. The house was given to me when Lou died.”
My throat goes painfully dry, and I’m unable to swallow past it. Did some attorney have the will all this time? Did Grandma Lou actually hand my safe haven to the one person with the power to destroy it?
“W-what? How?”
“Well, darlin’, you know I don’t know all the technicalities when it comes to legal jargon and whatnot…”
This is patently false. Trish Boden knows the law well, and how to bend it even better.
“But it’s something called intestate succession. If no will is found, property and the like are given to the next of kin. It’s all very official, I’ll have you know.”
My world tips, its axis spinning out of control like it’s been yanked by an overeagerWheel of Fortuneparticipant.
“And you just…soldit? Just like that? Knowing how much Grandma Lou loved this place?”Knowing how muchIloved this place, I want to add. But that isn’t really fair. Mymom doesn’t know. Trish only concerns herself with her own interests.
“I was in a bind, Pep, and it’s not like I have the know-how to run the dang place.”
“Yeah, well, I do.” I hate the way my voice cracks. “You have to give this Opal girl her money back. Undo this.” I mean for it to sound like a demand, but it comes out far closer to a desperate beg.
Trish has the decency to sigh. “Wish I could, darlin’, but I can’t. I’ve already made plans for the money. And even if that weren’t the case, I still wouldn’t change it. This was a good business move.”
“Business move? Or some first step in yet another one of your scams?” There’s no way this is aboveboard no matter what Trish says.
“I’m on the straight and narrow now, I’ll have you know.”
“Yeah? Does the straight and narrow include paying me back the money you owe me?”
“Good Lord, Pepper, are you ever going to let that go?”
“No.” The betrayal was too personal. Too acute. I’ll go to my grave with that grudge.
“I can’t talk to you when you’re like this,” Trish says, voice watery and hurt. It’s like a siren song, luring me in to feel guilty for being honest. For speaking my feelings. Trish has always deployed it with the skill of a sniper. “I won’t let you use me as your punching bag. You’re so ungrateful for everything I’ve given you.”
My hand curls into a fist, the soft, vulnerable plant crushedto a pulp in my palm. Which part am I supposed to be grateful for? The instability of never having a consistent home address? The constant fleeing in the night for a fresh start? The parade of my mom’s boyfriends I would either hate or get just close enough to care for only to never see them again? What a plethora of blessings Trish Boden has rained down upon me.
“Thank you so much for selling both my place of employment and my lodgings to a total stranger with some sort of shoe obsession. I’m eternally grateful.” Anger is easier than acknowledging the acute hurt that lives just under my skin.
