The Unquiet

by Jeannine Garsee

  I can’t keep quiet any longer. “Another place? We’re already here! Can’t we look at it at least?”

  Mom shakes her head. “Absolutely not. Come on, let’s go.”

  “You won’t find anything else in town,” Mr. Brenner calls as Mom heads back down the porch steps.

  Nate confides to me, “He’s not just saying that, either. You can’t even rent a garage round these parts.”

  Abandoning the Brenners, I bounce down after Mom. “Wait! Didn’t you hear what they said?”

  “I heard.” She brakes when I dance in front of her. “Well, we’ll just have to drive around, then, till we—”

  “Oh no. I am not spending another second in that car.” Let alone sleeping in it tonight if we can’t find a place to stay. Reading her mind, I say fiercely, “And we’re not crashing at Millie’s. I can’t even breathe around her.”

  “Rinn, listen,” Mom begins wearily.

  “You won’t even look at this house and you won’t say why. I mean, it’s not that grotesque, really. It’s just …” I peer up at the stone turret, the porthole window near the top staring down like a mirrored eye. “Old,” I finish lamely.

  Mom vacillates. Luke, seemingly indifferent, waits on the porch with folded arms. Does he want us to leave, too? Nate, now settled on the porch railing, looks as clueless as me.

  Finally, Mom sighs. “Fine. One look.”

  Nate winks. I don’t wink back. As cute as he is, no point in cozying up if Mom plans to drag me off to the wild blue yonder again.

  “It’s furnished,” Mom notes. “Millie never mentioned that.”

  Millie never mentioned a lot of things, I think. Never mentioned who used to live here—whatever that’s about. Never mentioned Luke. Boy, I’m glad I’m not Millie; I can tell Mom’s still seething under her courteous demeanor.

  The living room’s small and smells funky, but is warm and pretty under the dust. A beat-up steamer trunk instead of a coffee table sits between a fireplace and a flowered sofa. My sneakers pad on the worn rug as I follow Mom, and then … I stop short.

  A piano.

  Mom stops, too, and trails her fingers across the chipped, yellowed keys. “It’s the same one I took lessons on.”

  The keys tinkle softly. I draw a quick breath as it hits me: this is the first time since Nana died that Mom’s gone near a piano.

  Weirdness descends. I can’t put a name to it. Now I’m sorry I insisted we see the inside of this place. No, I don’t want to traipse around looking for somewhere else to live. But do I really want to stay in a dead woman’s house? Eat off her dishes? Sleep in her bed?

  Mom doesn’t want to. She’s made that pretty clear.

  Oddly, I’m kind of liking this house. But I want, I need, my mom to be happy. So I poke her. “Okay. Let’s go.”

  Nate arches his brows. Luke drums his fingers on the mantel. Mom draws away from the piano but ignores my prod. “No. Let’s see the rest.”

  Nothing downstairs, including the kitchen, has seen any remodeling since World War II. But, all in all, it’s basically livable. When we backtrack to the living room, Luke exits through the front door with an abrupt, “Take your time. I’ll wait outside.”

  Mom sighs when we catch a whiff of cigarette smoke. “Oh God. I want one.”

  I scrunch my face, but not because of the cigarette. “I smell cat. Oh, phew!”

  “Yeah, she had a bunch of them,” Nate throws back as he starts upstairs.

  I sneer. “Ya think?”

  Pinching my nose, I plod after Mom and Nate. Two bedrooms on the second floor, both sparsely furnished, one with a canopy bed. The bathroom reeks of leftover BENGAY. Even that beats cat pee.

  Nate notices Mom aim her radar at the clawfoot tub. “Yeah, it needs cleaning. But my dad wasn’t planning on renting it out this soon.”

  Mom smiles thinly. “Let’s see the attic.”

  Again last in line, I climb to the third floor fighting a rush of exhaustion. My meds do this to me around two o’clock every day, which is one of the reasons I hate taking this stuff.

  An antidepressant.

  A mood stabilizer.

  A mild antipsychotic.

  Klonopin, to prevent panic attacks.

  Oh, and birth control pills so I don’t present Mom with any deformed grandchildren. Not that I’ve had much sex lately. Or any.

  I drag myself up by the wooden banister and stop in surprise. One huuuge room with newly painted white walls, one with built-in bookshelves, and a hardwood floor. A row of dark beams cross the peaked ceiling. The room tapers off to a rounded recess, that funny old turret I noticed outside.

  “Cool!” I spring toward it. With its stone walls and cozy porthole, it’s the perfect place to curl up with a book or play my guitar. As for the rest of the room, there’s no furniture, no bathroom, not even a closet, but—“I love it! I can’t even smell the cat pee up here.”

  “It’s all fresh drywall,” Nate says proudly. “The walls were in pretty bad shape.”

  “This is the best, best room!” I whirl back to Mom. “What? What’re you thinking?”

  “I’m not sure.” Mom nibbles her lip. “It needs so much cleaning …”

  “I’ll help,” Nate offers. “My dad and me, we can get it done in no time.”

  I smile sweetly. “May we have some privacy?” I don’t have to ask twice. As soon as he’s gone, I face Mom. “Mom, I saw how you looked at that piano.”

  “You can get a piano anywhere, honey.”

  “But it’s like Nana’s piano.” Her name clings to my throat.

  “No, it’s not. It’s only similar.”

  I think of Nana’s, that old upright monstrosity with carved panels, scuffed pedals, and a scrolled music stand ingrained with gold. That piano swallowed up half of Nana’s living room. She kept houseplants on the top, and her favorite photos. When I die, Rinn, she said, this piano will go to you.

  Nana died too soon. Nobody inherited the piano.

  “Mm, I don’t know,” Mom muses. “Do you like it?”

  “Only if I get this room.”

  “This is an attic, not a bedroom.”

  “Mom, I looove this room. I can paint the walls myself, and there’s space for my posters, and all I really need is a bed and someplace to stick my clothes, and …” I stop at her funny expression. “What?”

  “Rinn. Did I just hear you say you ‘love’ this room?”

  “Yes! And if we can get that cat stink out, I’ll love the whole frickin’ house.” I bite my tongue to hold back the rest: And since YOU’RE the one who dragged me away from my life, the least you can do is let me have it! “Why don’t you want to stay here? Is it that Luke guy?” I delight when her face flames up. “Was he your boyfriend? Did he dump you? Omigod, he did! That creep!”

  Mom holds her palm out flat. “Rinn, please. Let me think about this for a minute.”

  This is why I love my mom to pieces: if it were solely up to her—which technically it is—no way would she move into some decrepit old house where her now-dead, cat-crazy piano teacher once lived. What a contrast to our stucco ranch home in La Jolla, with its L-shaped pool surrounded by palm trees. An ultracontemporary house only minutes from civilization, meaning Nordstrom’s, two bookstores, Starbucks, and the beach.

  But when I said I loved that attic room, something changed in Mom’s face, like she couldn’t believe how psyched up I was. Like, Who is this happy person, and what did she do with my sullen, smartass daughter?

  So, a half hour later, Mom and Luke, barely speaking, pore over legal documents while Nate and I hang around outside. I claim the porch rocker. Nate’s long legs straddle the railing. “Looks like we’re gonna be neighbors,” he remarks.

  “Don’t worry. I won’t make you carry my books to school.”

  “Thanks,” he says seriously. “So, you’re from California, huh? Do you surf?”

  “A bit.” I hug my knees, wishing I were back on the beach, in a bikini, squishing sand throug
h my toes. It’s freaking cold here and it’s only October. “Did you know the lady who lived here?”

  “Sure. Everyone did.”

  “How did she die? Old age?”

  “… Uh, yeah. Old age.”

  I zero in on his hesitation. “What? Was she murdered?”

  “Murdered? Are you nuts?”

  Don’t ask me that. “Then what really happened? Or are you trying to scare us off?”

  “Why would I do that?”

  I jerk my chin toward the house. “Because of that stuff between your dad and my mom? Maybe your dad put you up to it, to get rid of us.” Not that Nate’s been alone with him since Mom and I showed up.

  “I don’t know anything about that, besides which I couldn’t care less.”

  “So how was she murdered?” I badger, enjoying his fluster.

  Nate jiggles his feet. “Anybody ever tell you what a pain in the ass you are?”

  Before I can defend myself, I stop the rocker with my heels, riveted by the tinkling of piano keys: Minuet in G, flowing from Mom’s fingers. I peek through the window and spy Mom, sitting in perfect position at the keyboard. She nods her head in time to the music as Nate’s father gathers up the papers—a done deal, I’m sure.

  This is the first time Mom’s played the piano in three months and fourteen days.

  This is a sign. We belong in this house.

  After Luke invents some excuse to drive “to the city”—which gives me hope there’s humanity nearby—Nate helps us unload the SUV, lugging box after box as if they weigh nothing at all. We snipe back and forth in jest, though a voice inside me—no, not a “voice,” a “thought”—warns me not to get too comfortable with this guy. Nate’s cute, and fun, but he likes to bait me too much.

  Like when he picks up my vintage guitar, a gift from Frank, ignoring my insistence that nobody touches it but me. “Ooh, possessive, are we?”

  I snatch for it, but Nate’s a good foot taller than me. “It’s a Gibson Les Paul!”

  “Get out. Do you play?”

  “Duh.”

  He hands it back with a smile. “So play something, surfer girl.”

  “Sorry, farmer boy. I don’t play on command.”

  I can’t afford to let down my guard like this. Plus, what with all the miscellaneous stuff thrown around, I’m worried he’ll notice something—maybe a self-help book or a prescription bottle—and put two and two together, and come up with a big fat Oh hell, she IS nuts!

  People cannot find out about me. The idea that nobody knows me in River Hills was the only reason I didn’t complain that much about leaving La Jolla. Mom, on the other hand, says I shouldn’t try keep my “illness” a secret. Meaning it might be wiser to give people a heads-up so they’ll think twice before siccing the cops on me when they find me, oh, I don’t know … walking naked on rooftops?

  I tumble onto the sofa, leaving Nate and Mom to finish unloading. “Can we order a pizza?” I ask drowsily when the door slams one last time. “I’m starved.”

  “You can order one,” Nate says. “Good luck getting it delivered.”

  Mom adds, “Millie’s bringing over some sandwiches. Tomorrow we’ll stock up on groceries. You’re welcome to stay for dinner,” she tells Nate. “You were a big help today.” When Nate declines and heads for home, Mom pushes my legs aside so she can sit with me. “I didn’t know Luke had a wife, let alone a son.”

  “All those times you talked to Millie? You never asked about him?”

  Mom hesitates. “Not really. And to tell you the truth, if I’d known Luke would be our landlord, and that this was the house Millie meant, I might have, ah, come up with a Plan B.”

  “Okay, so Luke’s a prick because he dumped you—”

  “Rinn, your mouth.”

  “—but why not this house? I mean, once you get past the cat pee and that bathtub, it’s kind of cool, right?”

  “What I meant was”—she avoids my heavy-lidded stare—“maybe we’d be better off with an apartment.”

  I narrow my eyes. Was old Mrs. Gibbons murdered? Is that why Mom’s so ambivalent? I wish I could ask her, but I’m afraid to mention the word “murder” or even “death.” What if she thinks about Nana and loses it again?

  Brightening, Mom slaps my thigh. “Why don’t you go take a nap? I’ll wake you when Millie gets here with the sandwiches.”

  “I can nap right here. I am not sleeping on somebody else’s mangy old mattress.”

  “Fine. I’ll buy you a new one tomorrow.”

  I hug her then. “Aw, thanks, Mommy!”

  “And Monday we’ll get you registered for school. Are you nervous? I am.”

  I bet. She’s been a stay-at-home mom since I was eight, when she married Frank and let him adopt me. Frank’s a retired music producer. He knows all the old rock stars, and he’s the one who taught me how to play the guitar. Now she’s stuck being a high school secretary. Poor Mom.

  Poor me, too. Because if I get sick again, I’ll go through that same old crap. People avoiding me. People talking about me. People either making fun of me to my face or too scared of me to walk down the same hall.

  “If I hate it,” I whisper, “can I quit?”

  “No.” Mom squeezes me tightly, then smooths back my hair. “You can’t quit. Not this time.”

  I can barely stay awake long enough to take my pills. I crawl back on the sofa while Mom putters with boxes. Just as I drift into that funny zone where you’re not quite awake but not exactly asleep, Millie shows up with sandwiches and soda, which is called “pop” around here. Mom thanks Millie with a definite edge to her voice.

  Snatches of their argument, taken to the front porch, penetrate my fog of exhaustion.

  Stuff about Millie not being “up front” about this house or about Luke Brenner.

  Millie ranting about how people “change” and that she and Mom are perfect examples.

  Mom insisting that she should have been told before driving cross-country to find out, too late, for herself.

  Millie then spouts some cliché about water under the bridge. Mom protests, so Millie tells her flat out, “Oh, Mo. Grow up.”

  How funny to hear someone say that to your mom.

  3 MONTHS + 14 DAYS

  Sunday, October 19

  No telephone service means a trip to Millie’s in the morning. I wolf down orange juice and toast while Mom uses the Boxcar’s phone to make calls, including one to Frank to warn him about the significant charges on his Visa. Not that Frank cares; in fact, he offered to fly us to Ohio and ship the SUV separately, but Mom thought the trip would give us some special mother-daughter time, or whatever.

  I wish she’d stop feeling so guilty. Really, none of this is her fault.

  I wait for Frank to ask to speak to me. When Mom hangs up without inviting me to the phone, the toast in my stomach forms a nasty rock.

  Back at the house, we see Nate—jacketless, apparently immune to the chill—raking leaves off his lawn. When he bends over to scrape them into a Hefty bag, his shirt rides up. I stare at his bare golden back, the waistband of his shorts … o-mi-god!

  “Nate!” Mom calls, startling me.

  Dropping the bag, Nate approaches. I glance off to one side, wishing he weren’t so dastardly adorable. Wondering if he’ll be in any of my classes. If he has a girlfriend. If he really thinks I’m a pain in the ass, or was that his country-bumpkin way of coming on to me?

  “If you’re not too busy, can we borrow you for a while? Rinn needs a bed, and we could use your muscles.”

  Ohh, did she have to say “Rinn” and “bed” in the same sentence to some hot guy I’ll be seeing in school every day?

  “If it’s not too much trouble,” she adds sweetly.

  Please, please, say no! I do not want to take a one-hour road trip to the nearest furniture store with Nate Brenner and his divinely handsome self. But Mom tosses her dark blond hair and heads for the SUV without bothering to wait for a yes or a no.

  “Bossy,�
�� Nate notes. “She’ll fit right in at school.”

  I slip into what I hope sounds like a redneck twang. “So why don’tcha tell her yah got chores to do?”

  “Why, that’d be right unneighborly,” he drawls back.

  I hop into the front seat, Nate into the back. Nate smells like dried leaves and sweat, but nice. I send thank-you vibes to Mom for scrubbing the tub last night so I could bathe and wash my hair this morning. As I sniff my collar to see if I picked up any cat smells, Mom points to the notepad she keeps in the console. “Let’s make a grocery list. There’s a pen in my purse.”