Sam dropped the handful of potato chips he was about to toss in his mouth. “Sure,” he said.
I collapsed into the armchair adjacent to him. I couldn’t leave it at that. I opened the door. I might as well walk through it. “When do you see that happening?”
“I dunno, I haven’t given it much thought,” he said. “We’ve only been together four months.”
“Would you want to move into my house?” I asked.
Sam stared at the television screen. “Now’s not the time to talk about it,” he said.
“Just tell me. How do you feel about living in my house?”
He glanced at me. “I’d rather not. Sell that heap. We’ll buy a nice place with the money.”
I sucked in my breath. He seemed to be in cahoots with Laurel. I was attached to that house, as silly as it was. It was where my father took his last breath, with me clutching his hand, tears streaming down my cheeks. Our dog was buried in the backyard. How could I even think of selling it? It was the only place I ever called home.
I withdrew into the kitchen. I should have been happy. Sam saw a future with me. He wanted to move in together. Good news, no? Then why did I feel so uneasy?
The next morning Laurel came over to the house to pick up her mail. “Is the roof over the porch leaking?” she said by way of greeting.
The rain was coming down in sheets. I was curled up with a cup of tea and a book with the heat cranked. Normally I’d be spending the day with Sam, but I had my period and felt rancid. I found Laurel’s unexpected arrival irritating. I flipped the page of the book I’d been reading as if she hadn’t spoken.
“Earth to Melody. Come in Melody,” she intoned, turning her hands into a megaphone.
I glared at her. “I don’t know if the porch roof is leaking. I don’t go out there when it’s raining.”
“Well, it is. Leaking,” she clarified.
I lifted my teacup and took a sip. “So?”
“Well, you gotta call someone to fix it, or the floorboards will rot,” she said.
I took another sip of tea, considering. There were a million things wrong with her statement. Weren’t the floorboards treated so they wouldn’t rot if they got wet? And we both owned the house. In fact, she owned a much larger share. We were both responsible for the maintenance. Why did I have to call someone to fix it? Why couldn’t she?
“I’ll ask Sam to take a look next time he comes over,” I said. “He’s handy like that.”
Laurel rolled her eyes. Pointing out the leak was a new line of attack in her ongoing battle to convince me to sell the house. A wave of anger washed over me. Why couldn’t she accept my decision not to sell?
“Speaking of Sam, what’s going to happen when it comes time to move in together? I doubt he’ll want to live in this dump.”
I narrowed my eyes. Did Sam discuss this with her? The timing seemed too perfect to be a coincidence.
“We spoke about it briefly,” I said.
“And?” Laurel prodded.
“We both agreed that it’s inappropriate to discuss taking such a big step right now, but it’s probably in our future.”
“You should start working on getting this place into shape for sale now,” Laurel said. “Maybe rent a dumpster and start going through the attic. Get rid of all the garbage that’s accumulated over the years, start painting the rooms.”
She stopped speaking as I stared down at my book, refusing to give any indication I was listening. If I responded, we’d end up in a fight, and I didn’t want that. John and Sam were bound to get roped into any argument we had. It had always been difficult to let Agnes have the last word, but with Laurel it was different. Not answering her was having the last word.
I wished I could say what I was thinking. Laurel was welcome to go through the rooms at any time and throw out the junk. Agnes had become something of a hoarder in the last years of her life. She bought things she didn’t need. Folding tables. Garden gnomes for the yard. Vacuums. She had a vacuum obsession. My mother never owned a vacuum that worked longer than six months. It is normal for vacuums to get clogged sometimes, but not for Agnes. Vacuums that became clogged were discarded.
Then she’d try without success to coerce me into returning the vacuum to wherever she’d bought it. My response was always the same. “You’re perfectly capable of returning it yourself, you just don’t want to.” This never failed to elicit a tirade about how I was a worthless, no good ingrate of a daughter, and she didn’t know what she’d done to be cursed with such an ungrateful bitch.
Several weeks would pass. The carpets would grow dirty. Agnes would ask Laurel to return the vacuum. Laurel would promise she would, like the goody two shoes kid everyone wants to punch, and Agnes would crow, “Laurel will return the vacuum! She’s a good daughter. I don’t need you to do it, you bitch!”
Except Laurel never returned them either. She always had an excuse why she couldn’t do it. Eventually Agnes would buy a new one, starting the cycle anew. The old vacuum would join the army of discarded appliances in the garage.
“We could probably sell the vacuums on E-Bay,” I said. Laurel’s big idea was to throw everything out. Maybe that’s why she had no money. She was wasteful.
She shrugged. “Aren’t they all broken?”
I snorted. “They’re clogged! Nothing that couldn’t be fixed with a wire hanger.”
Laurel frowned. “How come you never tried to fix them then?”
I had no easy answer for that. After all, it would have taken fifteen minutes at the most. And it would have stopped the endless obsession and the angry tirades. In theory. In reality, it wouldn’t have. Not at all. First, I’d be accused of being smug about fixing the vacuum. Then once Agnes used it, she’d complain it wasn’t picking anything up, her complaint about every vacuum in the world. Then she’d claim I never fixed it and we’d pick right up where we left off. It was the dance of our relationship. Call this one the vacuum dance.
I shrugged. “She wouldn’t believe that I fixed it. You know how she was. Once she got an idea in her head, there was no convincing her otherwise.”
“I guess.” Laurel gazed into my face, unblinking, as if searching for an answer to a question.
“What?” I asked, putting my book down. I was getting annoyed. I try to avoid people when I get my period, but some just don’t get the hint.
“You know Sam is never going to live here, right?”
“Whatever.” I picked my book up again. I was hoping I could change his mind when the time came. He liked working with his hands. Maybe his feelings toward the house would change if he had full reign over the renovations.
“I think we should start getting this house ready for sale. Do a little at a time, so it’s not an overwhelming project when we decide to list it. Why aren’t you listening?”
Because she didn’t mean we. She meant me. I should rent a dumpster with my money and get rid of Agnes’s junk. I should paint the rooms. I should hire a repairman to fix the porch roof and pay for it, too. Laurel had no intention of doing anything besides taking the money from the sale of the house and blowing it. I knew her too well to fall for her bullshit. She was a master manipulator. She’d been that way since we were kids.
“I don’t feel well, and you’re making me feel worse.”
Laurel snarled, “You’re impossible,” then gathered up her mail and stormed out the door. I could hear her stomping across the floorboards of the rotting porch.
I almost smiled. Just like when we were kids. Stomping her feet was always how she communicated her displeasure.
Agnes and I had one thing in common. We were both stubborn. I wasn’t selling this house. No matter what. Laurel needed to get that through her head.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
It was the day after Halloween, and I was home alone again. Sam asked me to come over, but I begged off, claiming I had a headache, loads of laundry, and grocery shopping to do. That wasn’t a lie, nor was it the entire truth. I was more than a
little upset with how Halloween had gone.
I accepted the ban on couple costumes, because Sam said, “It’s nothing personal towards you. Lucy and I dressed as a couple every Halloween and following her death I vowed never to do it again, in her honor.” I regarded this excuse as “the Lucy card,” and it was getting old, although I never expressed my resentment.
“You stood over her grave and vowed never to wear a couple costume again,” I said.
“No,” Sam said, narrowing his eyes. “I stood over her grave and vowed never to have another girlfriend again. Don’t push your fucking luck, Mel.”
I crossed my arms, wanting to tell him he was being ridiculous. And that I didn’t believe him. Because I didn’t. I think the truth was he thought couple costumes were silly and worried he’d feel foolish. It irked me that he was using his dead girlfriend to manipulate me. It was his trump card. It was the exact behavior I detested in Laurel, who used the kid card to wheedle money out of our mother.
“There have been plenty of women before you who couldn’t handle Lucy’s memory,” Sam warned. “Was kind of hoping you’d be different.”
“I am different!” I cried, exasperated. “I can handle Lucy’s memory. She’s dead, for crying out loud!”
“Thanks for the reminder,” Sam said. “I’d forgotten”
“Will you at least go to the party with me? It’s important.” I needed to show my snooty coworkers that I wasn’t lying, I had a hot boyfriend. I felt like I was back in middle school.
Sure,” Sam said. “I love Halloween.”
Famous last words.
We went from agreeing not to do costumes to not going to my coworker’s party. I received a text from Sam Halloween evening, as I was getting ready.
Feel like I’m coming down with something, hun.
I’d spent the afternoon anticipating the look on Nancy’s snooty face when I introduced Sam to her. Sam was the perfect party accessory. Handsome, charming, witty, he was the whole package. I lucked out. The women who couldn’t handle Lucy’s memory were idiots. Lucy was dead. She wasn’t competition, for crying out loud. There was no competing with a ghost.
I shut my eyes after reading that text. I realized I’d known all along we weren’t going to the party. This was no different from every other disappointment I’d endured with the men I dated. They never wanted to attend any events with me. From my school reunion to a friend’s wedding, the men in my life refused to be my plus one. It wasn’t about the event. It was about their lack of commitment.
And now Sam was doing the same thing. I felt numb. I’d been down this road too many times not to know where it led. This was the beginning of the end. And it was my fault. I was pushing for too much too soon.
The phone rang. It was Sam. I picked up. “Did you get my text?” he asked. He didn’t sound sick.
“Yes,” I sniffled.
“Are you crying?”
I took a shuddery breath. “I’m sitting here wondering why none of the men in my life want to attend my events. It’s been an ongoing theme. What am I doing wrong?” My words felt pathetic to my own ears.
“Nothing!” Sam said. “Melody, honey, I have diarrhea, okay? I drank too much when John and I were watching the game last night, and I’m hungover. I feel like shit. I’m running to the bathroom every ten minutes. I’m sorry about skipping the party, but it can’t be helped. Trust me, your coworkers won’t be impressed by your hot boyfriend blowing up the bathroom all night. But the last thing in the world I want to do is make you cry.”
“Can’t you just drink a glass of water and take some Imodium?” I asked. “Hangovers are caused by dehydration.”
“Thank you, nurse Melody,” Sam said. “I know that already. But everything I drink is coming out my back end. I’m sorry, honey. I really am.”
I sat down on the end of my bed. I had been looking forward to this party for weeks. Now I’d be spending the night alone, like I did every Halloween. Other years I’d made it festive by reading a scary book while snacking from the bowl of candy purchased for the trick or treaters.
I buried my head in my hands. I didn’t even bother buying candy this year, because I figured I wouldn’t be home to hand it out. My house would get egged on top of everything else.
“Melody?” Sam asked.
I took a deep breath. I was being childish. He was sick. It happened. It even happened to me sometimes. Shit happened. Literally. “It’s okay. I’m just being silly.”
“I’ll go to your company’s Christmas party, I promise,” Sam vowed. “Even if I have to duck into the toilets to vomit every ten minutes. Then you can show me off to everyone.”
I smiled. Sam loved me. He did.
But I still needed time to process everything. I had to take a step back to re-evaluate our relationship. Was Sam the right man for me? I didn’t have to stay with him just because he was willing to stay with me.
“We’re still okay, Mel, right?” Sam asked when he called the next morning, after I declined his invitation to come over. Usually he whistled, and I came. But I didn’t like hanging around while he watched the game and yelled at the television. It was a waste of time when I had stuff to do at the house.
But I liked that the shoe was on the other foot and he was worried about me. It was a nice change. “Yes,” I told him. “I just have a lot to do, that’s all.”
“Christmas decorations?” Laurel asked, startling me. I never heard her come in. She was standing in the hallway peering up at me, as I was hauling boxes down the ladder from the attic. I nearly dropped the ceramic Nativity scene I was cradling on her head. Agnes would have had a cow if I broke it. She made it herself at a ceramics class she took before I was born.
“You scared the shit out of me!” I exclaimed.
Laurel laughed. “Sorry.”
She reached up and took the box from me, setting it down in the hallway. I clambered down the rest of the ladder, wiping sweat from my brow. “I had time today, so I figured I’d take the decorations down and store them in Ma’s room until after Thanksgiving. Then I’ll take them out.”
I narrowed my eyes as I studied my sister. She felt my eyes on her and turned. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
“No reason,” I said. “I was just thinking about Thanksgiving and wondering how we’re going to celebrate this year. It’s in two weeks.”
“I know,” Laurel said. “It sneaks up on us after Halloween.” She brightened. “I’ve been thinking about it too. Let’s go out to eat for Thanksgiving this year. To like, a restaurant. George has Caleb and Nathan, so it’ll be just the four of us.”
“That’s a good idea,” I said, because it was. But it made me sad. Agnes wasn’t the greatest cook. Her meatloaf never failed to upset my stomach, but she shone on the holidays. I was going to miss her bacon smothered turkey and artery clogging stuffing filled with chunks of pork sausage.
“We’ll have a holiday party at Christmas, when the boys are visiting,” Laurel continued. I nodded, although I felt annoyed that our holiday schedule would revolve around the boys. I didn’t like Caleb and Nathan. They were spoiled brats who behaved far younger than their actual age, at least when their mother was present. The way they followed Laurel around, trying to hold her hand and patting her hair, crying “Mommy,” was goddamn creepy coming from two grown men. I was glad my father wasn’t alive to observe that. He’d have plenty to say about it.
“Sounds good,” I said.
“Did Laurel tell you the plan for Thanksgiving?” Sam asked a few days later. I was standing in front of the stove in his kitchen, carefully stirring a pot of spaghetti sauce. He would get annoyed if it splattered and made a mess.
“She mentioned it,” I said. “I didn’t realize you guys talked about it.”
When had Lauren been with Sam without me?
“Yeah,” Sam said. “The other night, when I watched the game at John’s.”
Ah. That was okay then. I knew that he sometimes watched the game with John.
Which game, I didn’t know. But they often got together to watch it.
I shrugged. “Sounds like a good plan to me. Did you guys discuss what restaurant? We might have to make reservations.”
Sam made a face. “The twenty-four hour diners will all
-+ be open. I don’t want to do anything fancy. I want to go somewhere wearing sweatpants and come home and make love to you.” He shot me a wicked grin. “That’s really giving thanks.”
I was tingling all over. The look in his eyes when they met mine washed away every shred of doubt regarding his true feelings. I was getting myself tied up in knots over him flaking out on Halloween, while he was planning our first holiday together.
Sam slipped his arms around my waist and pressed his length against me, setting me on fire. “The spaghetti…” I whispered.
“Fuck the spaghetti,” he growled, reaching over my head to move the pot of sauce off the heat sauce.
Ten minutes later I was on my hands and knees, shrieking in pleasure as he slammed his swollen penis into my aching pussy, riding me like an animal. His hand slipped around to tickle my clit. I arched my back, sensations roaring through me, obliterating all rational thought. “I love you! I love you!” I called.
Sam didn’t reply.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
My first Thanksgiving without my mother, and I was spending it with my man. This was it, irrefutable proof that we were a couple, that he was my boyfriend, and I wasn’t just kidding myself. Sam and I had a real connection. We had a future.
But first we had to get through the holiday.
“Do you think they’ll even be in any kind of shape to go out to dinner tonight?” Laurel whispered, as we spied on John and Sam screaming at the television set as they pounded beers.
“Maybe if we carry them,” I said, sighing. Did it matter? No. All that mattered is we were together.
Well, Sam and John were together at least, sitting on the couch, drinking beer and cheering on… I didn’t even know which team. Laurel and I were sitting on stools in the kitchenette staring at our phones.
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