Page 35 of Trailer Park Billionaire
Ben sighs dramatically. “Ah, what a proud moment. My little trash panda is finally embracing her true form.”
I freeze mid-dangle. “What did you just call me?”
“Oh, don’t be mad,” he coos and leans over the rim of the dumpster beside me. “You’re a raccoon mother now. This makes perfect sense.” He grabs the frame and helps me down.
I take the torn canvas—the one that has my grandpa blowing the birthday horn—from him, and consider setting some boundaries here. As much of a help he’s been, and as much as I have not disliked having him around today, there’s no reason for us to get this close. Getting close only leads to friendships. Friendships lead to emotions. Emotions lead to bad decisions. And bad decisions lead to prison.
“You are not calling me Trash Panda.”
“Just Panda then.”
I roll my eyes and head back toward the RV. He’s laughing as he follows, and for some reason, it makes the weight of today feel a little less heavy.
Before I can dwell on that too much, I remember one last thing. I retrieve a small painting from one of the boxes, tell Ben I’ll just be a second, and head back inside. At reception, I ask Paul for directions, then make my way up to the eighth floor. I knock on apartment 808 and wait.
The door swings open a few moments later and a woman, wrapped in a crimson robe, appears behind it, squinting at me.
“Hey,” I say. “I’m sorry I didn’t stop by earlier.”
“Helena?” Robyn asks, apparently somewhat blind without her glasses. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’m sure you’ve been going through it. And it’s not like you owe me anything, dear. I’m just glad you are here now.” She gives me a sympathetic smile and steps to the side. “Please, come in.”
I do as asked, and inadvertently take a look around her apartment. It’s the same layout as my grandpa’s, but instead of paintings, her walls are mostly covered in newspaper clippings, photos, post-its, maps—and red strings connecting everything.Weird.
“Take a seat.” She beckons me over to a little sofa, and starts filling two glasses with what looks like whiskey, then hands me one of them. “Grief goes down smoother with a strong drink,” she explains, settling into a cozy armchair.
Not wanting to be rude, I thank her, take a sip, and cough. It’s strong and smoky.
She chuckles. “Ah, like grandfather, like granddaughter. Ed didn’t like it either.”
I set the glass down on the table in front of me. “Speaking of the devil, that’s actually why I’m here. I just—” I hold up the small painting, hoping to God it’s her chest in it. “I think he would have wanted you to have this.”
Robyn gasps, a mix of delight and sorrow lighting up her face. Her hands first fly to her mouth, then out to accept the painting. “How did you know?” she asks, lifting one of her breasts slightly. “The left oneisa little bigger, indeed.” She chuckles to herself, though there’s a note of pain in it. “Or maybe it’s just a bit saggier.”
Slightly flustered, I watch as she carefully props the canvas against a candle on the table.
“Robyn,” I sigh, “I don’t want to stay too long, and you can tell me to leave if you don’t want to talk about it, but… would you mind telling me how it happened?”
The room goes still in an instant, and I immediately regret asking. After a long beat, she exhales—slow and uneven—then starts murmuring, “Well, he was painting.”
My stomach tightens even more than it already had, and I regret the question all over again.
“He was working on something one moment—” Robyn swallows, her eyes fixed on the floor. “And the next, I hear something small drop. His paintbrush. And a second later, I hear him fall next to it.” She wipes at her eye. “And then… nothing.”
Nothing.
Nothing but his pained expression.
The silence hangs heavy between us.
“I… I did what I could, but?—”
“No, no, Robyn. It’s not your fault,” I cut in gently to stop her from blaming herself. “There was nothing you could have done.”
She sighs shakily. “I’m still sorry. I held his hand. Told him not to go, but…”
I wipe away a tear. “You have nothing to be sorry for. I’m just glad you were with him at the end. That he wasn’t alone.”
And I really mean it. I really do.
