by Katie Tallo
Gus gets up. Wobbly legged. She opens the fridge. Big mistake. A head of iceberg lettuce has turned to mush and is oozing a puddle of soupy brown water across one shelf. A moldy jar of applesauce and a supersize bottle of prune juice are stranded in the puddle. Old lady food. Gus covers her mouth to stop herself from puking. Then she spots the bottles of Vanilla Ensure lining the fridge door. She grabs one, breaks the seal, and takes a sip. Tastes like vanilla milkshake. Gus downs two full bottles then collapses back into the chair.
She rests her forehead on her folded arms and drapes herself over the kitchen table. Shuts her eyes as a deep-boned heaviness envelops her, gently holding her down. Levi whines a little as Gus falls asleep, unable to fight gravity or fatigue any longer.
And then just like that, as if no time has passed at all, Gus lifts her head. She gazes out the back door. A purple dusk has descended on the yard. She’s napped almost the entire day away. She can’t yet lift her leaden arms or fully open her eyelids. She’s still drifting somewhere between asleep and awake. Dreams and reality.
Here and there.
Wishing herself gone, Gus carries herself away, to there. To another purple sky.
Beneath its glow, she’s eating corn on the cob with her mother on a front porch. She can hear a bicycle clip-clapping as it passes. Playing cards stuck in the spokes. Her mother laughs at the kernels stuck between her teeth. Gus wants to stay in the comfort and warmth of that moment, but it’s too painful to linger there long. The evening draft cools her skin and pulls her back to her great-grandmother’s kitchen table. She grips the chair beneath her. Trying to stop herself from floating away again. From disappearing completely.
The setting sun suddenly peeks out from below a line of low clouds, streaking the sky with slivers of orange and gold that cascade through the maples at the back of Rose’s yard. The rays make their way through the kitchen window and sprinkle the table with dappled light that dances across her fingers. She touches the screen of her phone. It remains black. Battery’s dead.
Darkness falls fast. Without turning on any lights, Augusta wanders down to the foyer. Grabs her phone charger from her duffel bag, plugs in her phone, and leaves it on the table in the foyer to charge. Still dead tired, Gus heads into the living room and stretches out on the sofa. She stares at the china cabinet filled with porcelain figurines shaped like horses and hummingbirds. Levi tiptoes into the room and gently hoists himself onto one end of the sofa and nestles in. She tucks her legs away from him into an uncomfortable fetal position. Looks down at him. He’s completely at ease lying next to her. Much more than she is with him. Maybe it would be kinder to take him to the pound. Let some really great family with kids adopt him. Kids that would love a dog. The fantasy dissolves into sadness, then quickly shifts to anger. She didn’t ask for any of this. Not when she was eight and not now. Tomorrow he’s gone. Gus wonders how long the Humane Society will let him live if he doesn’t get adopted right away. His problem, not hers.
Augusta closes her eyes and listens to the steady breathing of the old dog. Tries to swallow her guilt. She’s got other problems. Another sound radiates from the front foyer.
Buzz buzz buzz.
Her phone quiets. Then the vibrating starts up again.
He’s calling again.
Hitting redial over and over.
Lars is pissed.
5
Honey and Virtue
AUGUSTA IS WOKEN FROM A DEEP SLEEP BY A KNOCK AT THE front door.
Lars.
Shit. That was fast. How did he find me?
She slips off the sofa. Heart racing. Eyes darting to Rose’s china cabinet. She moves quickly toward it. Grabs a porcelain figurine. The sharpest one she can find. Purple unicorn. Levi lolls on his back. Legs spread-eagle. Great guard dog.
Augusta tiptoes across the foyer and peers through the peephole. The floorboards wince. Not Lars. Some guy in a wrinkled gray suit. Carrying a briefcase. Wiping his sweaty forehead on his sleeve. Bible salesman written all over him. She opens the door. His eyes flit to the unicorn. He clears his throat and smiles.
“You must be Rose’s great-granddaughter.”
Augusta nods. Definitely a Bible salesman. She places the figurine on the hall tree in the entryway. Hanging from the hooks of the tree are an umbrella and Rose’s blue hat with a feather that sweeps across the rim. Old lady hat.
“Rose isn’t here.”
“Yes, I know. I’m Mr. Honey. Rose’s lawyer? Executor of her estate?”
Gus suddenly remembers calling him the day before. He said he’d be in the neighborhood tomorrow and would pop by first thing. And it’s now tomorrow.
Levi staggers from the living room, slightly punch-drunk. Stretching his hind legs out behind him, one at a time, like a ballet dancer. He nudges Augusta’s calf and yawns.
“My deepest condolences for your loss. There are just a few documents that need signing and then I’ll leave you be.”
Gus almost laughs when he says this. Leave you be. She’s all too familiar with being left. But just being and not being told how to be or where to be. That’s uncharted waters for Gus. She lets Mr. Honey in through the front foyer of Rose’s house, all the while wondering what on earth she’ll do when he leaves her be.
SLIPPING INTO A HOT BUBBLE BATH LATER THAT NIGHT, GUS tries hard to let herself be. Too hard. She gives up and simply floats, warm in her watery porcelain vessel. Eyes, ears, and nose just above the surface like the portholes of a sinking ship. Gus lets the day’s event replay across her closed eyelids like a bad sitcom, starting with the image of Mr. Honey flaring his nostrils as he enters the kitchen.
The tenacious brussels sprout aroma looms large. She opens the back door to let fresh air in through the screen door behind it. Levi circles. Mr. Honey checks her ID then pulls some documents from his briefcase. Levi whines. Augusta clues in. She reaches for the latch on the screen door, but the dog can’t wait. He lunges through the screen, breaking the seal. First patch of brown grass he hits, his hind leg’s up and he’s peeing.
Gus signs on the Xs of forms while Mr. Honey avoids eye contact. He doesn’t want any unseemly tears or embarrassing hand-holding. When they’re all done with the paperwork, he hands her a set of keys like she’s just won a new car on The Price Is Right.
“This one’s for the Buick. This one’s for the exterior garage door. There’s two for the front door, one dead bolt, one main lock. And this one’s for the back door.”
He assures her that Miss Santos turned over all her keys.
“Don’t worry, she won’t be causing any more trouble.”
He leaves the Proof of Death Certificate on the kitchen table. Says Gus will need it for when she goes to the bank. Says he’s taken the liberty of arranging an appointment for her with someone named Trish Virtue at Scotiabank. Rose’s bank. For later that day.
He shrinks when Gus asks, “How did Rose die?”
“Your great-grandmother passed peacefully in her sleep with her loving dog by her side.”
He sounds like an obituary.
“When?”
“Two weeks ago. It’s all on the certificate. She was cremated and interred at Beechwood Cemetery as per her wishes. She had a prepaid plot and headstone. She didn’t want a service. And we weren’t sure how to contact you. Miss Santos only yesterday managed to find your number so, at the time, it seemed prudent not to wait. No fuss, no muss, you see. And that’s that.”
“And the trouble with Miss Santos?”
“Oh that. She made some sort of scene at the bank when she tried to access Rose’s bank account. She even called my office and was quite rude to my secretary. She was ranting about a promise made to her by Rose. I told her I knew nothing of promises, only last wishes.”
Mr. Honey seems proud that he got the better of Miss Santos. Like he beat her at a game of chess. Gus is glad when he packs up to leave.
Floating in the lukewarm bubbles now, Gus can still see the strange little man walking briskly away from R
ose’s house. The back of his neck glistened with sweat. She thinks about broken promises and the mark they can leave on your heart. She knows the feeling well. Gus imagines the shame Miss Santos must have felt as she scrambled after the broken pieces of that promise made to her by Rose. A promise that wasn’t just broken. It was, in fact, a lie.
The images fast-forward and Gus sees herself sitting in the red leather chair across from Miss Virtue in a small, glass-walled office in Scotiabank. After brief hellos, how are yous, and so sorrys, Miss Virtue yo-yos from her office to a printer room down the hall. There and back, there and back, her heels clicking on the polished floors. Her manicured nails tapping on the computer keyboard. A small run visible in her nylons just above the right ankle. A slight twitch at the corner of her mouth as she slowly turns the computer monitor to show Gus the amount left in Rose’s estate account after legal fees and bank charges and outstanding debts and property taxes are paid.
That amount now dances across Augusta’s eyelids like a flashing neon ticker in Times Square announcing the entirety of her inheritance to the world.
Twenty-two dollars and sixty-eight cents.
Thanks for nothing, Great-Grammie Rose.
Piling on the bad news, Miss Virtue saves the best for last. A few years ago, Rose refinanced the house so she could continue to live in it. Something called a reverse mortgage. Bottom line, the bank wants that loan repaid and Augusta neither qualifies for a new mortgage nor has the money to pay it off. It’s due in ninety days or the house belongs to the bank. Miss Virtue hands Augusta the business card of her friend, a real estate agent. The banker knows it before Gus does. The house must be sold.
Augusta sinks underwater. A soft booming throbs at her temples.
Boom. She could go back to Lars.
Boom. She could run away and start a new life in Mexico.
Boom. She could lock the doors and never go outside again.
Gus comes up for air and knows what she has to do.
Tomorrow, she’ll call Miss Virtue’s real estate agent friend and put the house up for sale.
Levi rests his chin on the edge of the tub. Gus lifts her wet hand and gently rubs the velvety soft tip of one of his ears.
“You love it here too, don’t you, dog?”
Gus closes her eyes and tries to be. Just for a moment. She almost does it. Almost believes that her last living relative actually left her a rambling old house that is hers to keep forever. A beautiful home with a pretty picture window and a deep front porch. The kind of house she and her mother used to dream of living in one day. Together.
6
Mansfield
AUGUSTA RACES AHEAD OF SHANNON. TAKING TWO STAIRS at a time. They’re good solid family stairs with an oak handrail that doesn’t blister her palm. Stairs a kid could run down on Christmas morning to see what presents are under the tree. She makes it to the top and dashes into the first bedroom. It’s pink. Pink walls. Pink carpet. White comforter with little pink hearts. Tea set arranged on a tray on top of a pretty white storage trunk. China dolls on a shelf. Teddy bear on the bed. Lace curtains in the window. It’s perfect. Shannon is hot on her heels. Augusta spins around and flops back on the bed, then bounces to her feet like a jack-in-the-box.
I call dibs, Mama.
Shannon pretend pouts. Then she folds her arms and scans the room. Her entire face begins to smile starting with the wrinkles fanning out around her eyes and spreading to the creases around her lips.
This room is so perfectly you, Honey Pie. Except for that silly trunk. Your blue treasure chest is much more special than that old thing.
So this room’s mine?
Shannon’s face gets serious and she rubs her chin as if contemplating the question deeply, then she winks and takes off down the hall. Gus chases her mother with a high-pitched squeal of delight. She races into the next bedroom. Shannon is already calling dibs. Gus stops at the entrance. Mouth open wide. It’s an enormous yellow room with a king-size bed at its center. The bed is adorned with a collection of polka-dot and striped pillows. Pretty white sheers frame a set of french doors that stand open to a small balcony overlooking the back garden. Augusta folds her arms and stomps.
No fair.
Shannon smiles. She dances over to her daughter and wraps her arms around Gus. She lifts her up and they spin.
We can share, Sugar Bunch. Trade rooms every other night. Deal?
Augusta tries not to smile as Shannon puts her down. Gus puts her index finger to her chin as if struggling to make a big decision. Then she shakes her head.
No deal. You can have this one, Mama. I want the pink room.
Shannon flops on the bed. The springs groan. Gus flops beside her. They each grab a polka-dot pillow and begin play fighting, messing up the perfectly arranged bedding.
The real estate agent is standing in the doorway. Hands on hips. Brow furrowed. Shannon jumps off the bed, grabs Augusta’s hand, and they race past the woman. Shannon tosses her a bone.
I think we’ll put in an offer tonight.
They dash upstairs to the third-floor loft. The agent follows them like a mall security guard. She stays mute. Pretty sure they’re messing with her but not willing to blow a potential sale. Shannon rambles on.
Open concept, hardwood floors. Perfect for my office. Love it. Kitchen needs some work but who needs to cook when there’s takeout pizza.
Shannon’s beyond excited. Gus loves it when she gets like this. It’s been the best day ever. They’ve found their dream house this time.
We’ll speak to our financial adviser and get back to you.
Shannon takes the agent’s card. Gus loves that her mother says we.
The big three-story brick house on Mansfield Drive is amazing. They skip the rest of their Sunday open house excursion and head straight to the nearest Mac’s Milk to buy a scratch-and-win lottery ticket. All their dreams will come true on Mansfield. Augusta will have a pretty pink bedroom. They’ll put their wet boots side by side on their new welcome mat in the front foyer and they’ll paint the kitchen walls robin’s-egg blue. They’ll order pizza every night and they’ll be happier than they’ve ever been in their whole lives.
They scratch and don’t win the jackpot. Not even a free ticket. Shannon’s eyes get glassy as she stares at the worthless ticket. She flips it once, her face flushing as if genuinely surprised. Caught off guard that they aren’t lucky enough to have the lottery gods shine down upon them.
Shannon rips up the ticket. Says it was stupid to think they belonged in a house like that. They have everything they need. Perfectly good house even if the roof leaks a little and there’s hardly any backyard. They’d be lost in that big house just the two of them. Shannon says they aren’t going to waste any more Sundays on open houses.
Then she goes into her office and stays there.
Gus spends the rest of Sunday riding her banana seat bike around the neighborhood. At night, she plays in her room inside the small tent in the corner where she keeps her stuffed animal collection. She sits in a circle with her bear Claudius, her frog Louis, her lion Praline, and her purple giraffe Girly. She reads aloud to them. Quietly. Holding a flashlight so she can see the words. The Paper Bag Princess is their favorite. When she can’t keep her eyes open any longer, she kisses the tops of their heads, then curls up and sleeps.
In the morning, Augusta makes herself banana pancakes for breakfast. She packs four syrup-soaked pancakes in a plastic container for her lunch, then goes off to school.
When Gus comes home the kitchen is clean. The front curtains are open. Shannon’s making cookies. Whistling to herself.
How was school today, Sugar Bunch?
This is their normal. It’s the way things are. Shannon is like every other mom. They all forget to tuck in their kids once in a while. It’s part of being a grown-up. Even when her best friend, Amy, tells her that her mom never forgets to pack her lunch, Augusta knows she’s lying.
It’s normal to eat chocolate chip cookies for di
nner once in a while. It’s normal to feel horribly alone when the house is so quiet except for the rain pattering on the roof. It’s normal to have to check that all the doors are locked before putting yourself to bed.
Amy says no. Says it’s not normal.
Gus doesn’t believe her. She can’t be the only one who’s ever crept into her mother’s bedroom only to be told to get back to bed in a voice so sharp it stings her eyes and makes her heart ache. Amy’s heart must ache sometimes. Amy says it doesn’t.
Gus thinks she’s a heartless liar.
She envies her.
It would be easier to have no heart.
7
Haley-Anne
GUS WAKES FROM A STICKY SLEEP TO A BRIGHT AND SUNNY Saturday morning. She’s anything but sunny. In fact, a blue melancholy seems to have crept into her bed overnight. She rises and stumbles downstairs to escape it. And before her morning coffee can make its way into her bloodstream, the real estate agent pops by for a look-see. Haley-Anne crunches her nose at the smells radiating from the musty armpits of Rose’s house. High heels clicking across the hardwood like two tiny hammers tapping away at the soft tissue of Augusta’s fragile dream-soaked brain.
“The place definitely needs some serious spit and polish, top to bottom, inside and out. And then it’ll be all about the staging for MBV.”
Haley-Anne blinks. Gus stares at her like she’s speaking Swahili.
“Maximum buyer visualization? MBV. I came up with that. A potential buyer needs to be able to see themselves cooking dinner for the fam, planting petunias in the garden, entertaining the in-laws, even if her mother-in-law is a judgmental old B. It’s the life that we’re selling, not the house.”
Gus gets that.
