by Grace Greene
Mom frowned and sighed, though the sigh sounded more like a groan.
“I know you don’t get it, Mom. Please trust me on this.”
They made a show of locking the front door and walking to the car. Sandra carried the suitcase and put it into the trunk, then climbed into the passenger side, and they drove off.
Mom stopped at the end of the street, and as Sandra moved to leave the car, her mother said, “I know things haven’t worked out as you’d hoped, but don’t go silent, Sandra. That’s what you do when you have troubles. You think I’m being cold and harsh right now, but please keep me informed, and don’t forget about Barbara’s offer.”
Sandra exited the car, and her mother drove away to begin the next phase of her life.
The alley was neat and clean, and Sandra let herself in through the back gate and the kitchen door. One more night at the house. She had stashed a couple of blankets and a pillow in the closet with her suitcase and tote bag before the movers arrived and affixed a note to the door threatening anyone who opened it. “Do Not Pack,” it said. She arranged the blankets on the floor in the living room and listened to the silence, the echo of quiet, with the creak of the wooden floors and the occasional squeak of plumbing for accompaniment. The appliances had stayed, so there were also the little clicks and knocks and whirs from the refrigerator. She heated the last frozen meal in the microwave and ate it with a plastic fork. The final bag of trash would go out the door with her in the morning.
The burner phone rang. Her mom had planned to drive to North Carolina, as far as Rocky Mount, before stopping for the night. She told Sandra they’d stopped in Roanoke Rapids instead. Her voice was tight with stress. Dad was having issues with the distance.
Mom said, “Hold for a minute, please?”
Sandra heard Dad saying he didn’t remember the drive home taking this long before. Her mom responded with the cadence of someone having repeated the same statement several times, that they weren’t going to the old house tonight but were going on vacation to Florida. He’d always liked Florida, hadn’t he? He agreed, sounding pleased, that yes, indeed, he’d always liked Florida, and it was fun to go there on vacation.
Mom returned to their conversation. “You’re all set to clean, right? Broom clean is what they say, but I want it to look nice for the new owners.”
“Easy. No problem.”
“It always takes longer that it looks. Don’t put it off.”
Sandra groaned. “I won’t. I’ll take care of it. Worry about yourself and Dad.”
“He’s frowning again.”
In the background Sandra heard him say, “Meg, honey, I don’t recall the trip home taking this long before.” There was a pause and he added, “This isn’t my bed.”
“I have to go,” Mom said.
Sandra felt badly for her, but only a little. Her mother could’ve had her daughter’s help on that trip, and her gratitude, too, if she’d wanted it.
The house was already so clean that sweeping and dusting seemed needless. Sandra did it anyway and shined up the bathroom mirrors and fixtures, too. When she was done, she returned the broom and other items to the neighbor, getting there by way of the back door and alley. Mrs. Combs pushed aside the curtain over the backdoor window for a peek before opening the door.
“Well, hello, dear.”
Sandra handed her the bucket of cleaning items, the broom, and the mop. “Thanks so much.”
“You are welcome, of course. Enjoy Florida, dear.”
Easier to say thank you than to explain. “Yes, ma’am.”
“I’ll miss your mama and daddy. Hard to imagine better neighbors. Tell them I say so.”
Sandra nodded. “Good-bye.”
Mom didn’t call until almost suppertime. “Sandra. Did it go OK today?”
“Are you asking if I cleaned the house, returned the supplies to your neighbor, and locked the doors behind me?”
“I guess that means you did. Well, we’re staying near the Georgia line tonight. Hopefully we’ll drive the rest of the way to Tampa tomorrow.”
“How’s Dad?”
“Better. He seems to have settled in to the trip.” She added, “Have you considered house-sitting for Barbara?”
Sandra was in her car. When she left the house, she’d snuck out via the back door, and a cab had picked her up one street over. After picking up her car from Joe, she was now parked in front of a hotel. Everything she owned, including a box of food items she’d gleaned from her mom’s pantry, fit easily in the trunk. It was sobering to consider that.
“When does she need me?”
“You could go whenever you’re ready. She has plenty of room out at the old house.”
Sandra hadn’t seen her aunt since prior to her last wedding, and that had been by chance at her parents’ home. Despite being family, they had no real bond or relationship. Sandra had been a little closer to her uncle, but that was back when she was a child, and he’d died a couple of years ago.
She ran her finger lightly across the dashboard, leaving a track in the trace of dust the sun highlighted. Was her refusal due to pride or stupidity? Her mother didn’t want her in Florida. She wanted, instead, to send her daughter off to Cub Creek, the Shoemaker homeplace. Sandra was invited now because it suited the family’s convenience. Because the family circle was closing again, this time in Florida, with Sandra left out. Left behind. Put aside. Always on the outside. Clearly her mother preferred to be with her sister than her daughter.
Mom knew her best, right? Sandra rested her forehead against the cool glass of the window. Mom shouldn’t get her way, right away, every time. Thanks to the sale of the car, Sandra had enough cash to manage for a while. Though, being honest, even that was thanks to her mother.
“Let me know when she’ll be leaving. I’ll drive out there so she can join you and Dad down in Florida at your new place. I’ll be fine on my own.” Snarkiness was front and center in her tone, and she didn’t care.
“Be smart, Sandra. Go now. There’s no reason not to.” Her mother’s voice was suddenly muffled as she spoke to Dad, then she resumed her normal tone. “He’s going to have trouble sleeping tonight. He thinks all beds should be the one he’s accustomed to regardless of where he is at night. Anyway, will you call Barbara or should I let her know?”
“You’ll be calling her anyway, so you can let her know.”
Her sigh was audible. “I will. You have her phone number. I’ll give her yours. She has always had a good opinion of you, so please try to be courteous. Don’t take your annoyance with me out on her. Oh, and I almost forgot. She has a dog. You’ll need to take care of the dog, too. Should be simple.”
“A dog? What kind?” she asked, thinking of Leo. “You know I don’t like dogs any more than you do, and they don’t like me.”
“Honestly, Sandra, it’s just a dog.” She sounded exasperated, but she paused, and when she spoke again, her tone was smooth and reasonable. “It’s an older animal your aunt got at the pound. It won’t be any trouble. I’m sure you can manage.”
For the first two nights, she stayed at a nice hotel in Short Pump. Checking in without a credit card felt awkward, but with her driver’s license and cash payment in advance, there was no problem. It was a lovely room, but she’d stood there that first day, looking at the furnishings, and felt odd. Almost alien.
She knew what was wrong. This wasn’t a “we’re on a trip or vacation” hotel-room stay.
How long would she need to be here? She had appointments at two temp agencies in the morning. One was a follow-up appointment. If, by some happy chance, she got a job tomorrow, would it start immediately? Right now she had enough cash for a first month/security deposit and a second month, too, at a decent apartment. Would they rent to her if she didn’t have an official employer? She couldn’t show any past income.
Don’t borrow trouble, she told herself. Keep moving forward.
Sandra treated herself to a nice meal and then strolled around the shoppin
g mall, but she held tight to her cash. When she had a job, she’d lighten up on the spending freeze. Trent hadn’t trusted her to manage the budget, but that was on Trent, not her. She could do this.
The temp agency appointments in the morning didn’t result in immediate interviews elsewhere. She knew she shouldn’t be discouraged, but that second evening she sat in the hotel room and watched TV too late. The next morning, she slept through the free hotel breakfast. She lay in bed undecided about next steps. At ten a.m. she called the agencies again, but they had nothing to offer.
Two nights plus meals and a tank of gas. A fair chunk of her cash. She couldn’t do this for long.
She downscaled for the next two nights to an inexpensive but still decent motel. Safety was the important thing. She checked through her belongings in the trunk and opted to bring in her purse and tote bag with her. The tote bag was roomy enough for her toiletries, a change of clothing, and the newspaper she’d picked up.
This place wasn’t great, but the door locked. There was a bed and a table, both bolted down, and a chair that wasn’t. The mattress sagged, but the linens and furnishings looked clean. All in all, not bad. She spread the newspaper open on the table to read through the job listings. She’d be back on track in no time. She could have a job as soon as tomorrow.
In the morning, Sandra made the calls. Some said the jobs had already been filled, and others instructed her to submit her application via computer. When she said she didn’t have one, they sounded surprised and doubtful.
“I’m in the middle of moving back to the area. Would it be possible to come to your office and apply?”
“Sure. Or go to a library and use a computer there.”
Sandra applied in person. One job was at a wholesale store, and the other was as a receptionist. Now she could only wait.
After the second night in the bolted-furniture hotel, a roach surprised her in the bathroom. He scurried away, but after that fright, as her heart rate was returning to normal, she was glad she hadn’t seen him scuttling around during the night.
She couldn’t possibly stay here another night. As she left, hurrying, she fumbled her keys, and they fell into a chair. She moved the cushion to retrieve them and saw tiny insects digging into the upholstered crevices. They were fast and soon gone from sight. Bedbugs?
Quickly, she snatched up her tote bag and purse and hugged them to her, then abruptly held them away from her. She needed to inspect them. She wanted to complain at the desk but went straight to the car first. She emptied her bag’s contents, one item at a time, examining each before putting it into the car. In the end she tossed the tote bag into a trash can because the seams were impossible to adequately check. She examined her clothing for wildlife and found none, but she couldn’t shake the feeling of creepy-crawlies on her skin.
Giving up and not bothering to complain—not even wanting to go back into the building—Sandra drove to a park and spent the day there, reading the newspaper and a magazine she’d purchased. She had peanut butter, crackers, and a bottle of water from her food box. She watched people jog around the lake or fish or throw Frisbees. Occasionally, she gave in and checked the odd itch or scratched, because she couldn’t help it.
That hotel had made her feel safe enough but ultimately had cost her peace of mind.
If she spent her money on motels, especially nicer ones, it would be gone too soon. She weighed the risk versus the expense. Did she believe in herself or not? Those jobs could call soon, or the temp agencies might come up with an opportunity. She wanted to be in a position to take advantage of them, not stressed and exhausted.
As the afternoon passed, she had to decide. Sandra persuaded herself that belief in her plan would make it work. She treated herself to a nice dinner at a nice restaurant and an ever nicer hotel and dropped an easy two hundred plus. She slept badly.
The next day, she returned to the park and her picnic table. She ate peanut butter and counted her funds and felt a little sick. The money was going fast, and she could do better. She had to plan. Plan and stick to it.
When would her aunt call? Maybe staying in the country for a while wouldn’t be so bad. She could worry about getting a job later. In fact, she could get that rest her mother kept talking about and also manage the job search and have interviews lined up by the time her aunt returned from Florida. That idea gave her new hope.
Meanwhile, what would she do tonight?
She had her car. The weather was mild. Really, it would be like camping, right? The car would be like her camper.
She checked out mall parking lots, commuter lots, and rest areas close to the city, choosing a commuter parking area within a mall parking lot. She spent the evening in the mall and grabbed supper. She returned to her car before the mall closed and watched. The cars pulled in and out. People walked across the lot in groups and in singles. No one paid any attention to her or her car. If challenged by mall security, she was ready with an excuse and a smile and prepared to drive off. She still had money. She didn’t have to stay here. This was more like an experiment. An adventure. And no one ended up bothering her at all. Unfortunately, it wasn’t good for getting a good night’s rest.
The next day, exhausted, she drove to the park. Sitting at her picnic table, she screwed the top back on the peanut butter jar and closed the roll of crackers, fastening it with a twist tie. What seemed on the surface like a simple life was surprisingly demanding. Her thinking seemed foggy, no doubt from stress and lack of sleep. Her sense of rationality was slipping. Lack of sleep or not, that was ridiculous. She tried to nail it down. Other people survived hardship. They drew on their resources, whatever they were, and on their inner strength. This was a temporary situation. She still had cash, and she’d have a normal life soon.
Sandra held the phone in her hand and checked the slip of paper to make sure it was still in her pocket. She could call her aunt. Or give it another day or two?
She could drive out to Aunt Barbara’s house. But what would Barbara report to her sister? That poor Sandra was a wreck and couldn’t manage on her own for a few days? Trent would be proved right. Sandra didn’t make good choices. She didn’t have survivor instincts.
Maybe her aunt had made other arrangements or decided not to go to Florida after all. But if so, Mom would’ve called. In fact, Mom had called several times. The first was to ask how Sandra was doing. Sandra hadn’t answered her calls since. Her mother would’ve known immediately by the sound of her voice that things were going very wrong.
Didn’t Sandra have friends? A couch to crash on? She’d been so isolated the last few years. Trapped with Trent, so to speak. The friends she’d stayed in touch with after high school and college had fallen away during the divorce and the remarriage. Her best friend, also her maid of honor in the first wedding, Tammy, would’ve understood, but she had died several years ago in a car accident.
Never mind. There were logical, rational reasons for how she’d ended up in this spot—reasons that had nothing to do with personal failure. And there was a logical, rational path for getting back to where she belonged. A real life.
So if it came down to sleeping in the car and washing up in restrooms for two or three nights, given the time of year, it wouldn’t be bad weather-wise. She’d done OK last night. Tonight she’d sleep better. But that confidence lasted only until dark.
At night everything changed, and despite her resolve, the fear rolled in and overwhelmed her. Someone might break into the car, either targeting her or breaking into the car to steal, and find her there, alone and defenseless. Each noise, no matter how small and innocent, screamed of threats.
Barbara still hadn’t called. Sandra smoothed the crumpled scrap of paper with her aunt’s phone number, then dialed. It went to her aunt’s voice mail.
Sandra cleared her throat. “Hi, Aunt Barbara. Long time since we’ve spoken. Mom said you needed someone to watch the house.” She paused, took a breath, and then finished the message. “So I wanted to make sure you had
my number.” She recited it twice. “Call me. Thanks.”
Her veneer of calm began to crack. She was past fooling herself, and it frightened her that over such a short time, no more than a few days, she could feel disassociated with the rest of the world and regular people.
Breathing almost hurt her lungs, especially in the tightness around the edges. She reached up and scratched her itchy scalp. Not infested. It was only anxiety. Still, she checked under her fingernails for anything squirmy.
She needed to know whether she was still invited to stay at Cub Creek. If not, then she needed to conserve her cash to get an inexpensive apartment. Either way, she couldn’t keep living this way.
That night, she returned to a commuter lot. As she’d done the prior nights, she climbed onto the back floorboard and pulled a blanket over herself. But every gust of wind, every crunch of gravel nearby, frightened her. Before dawn, drained and stressed, she drove to a quiet early-morning diner and washed up in their restroom. She purchased breakfast and lingered over a coffee refill. Feeling more rational, she returned to the car. Somewhere in all that activity, she’d lost the money envelope.
Frantically, Sandra retraced her steps. She went to every place she’d been during the past twenty-four hours. She relived those hours a thousand times, some in actual physical retracing. She searched the car repeatedly, but to no avail.
She had money in her purse, but the majority of her cash was gone. Sitting at the picnic table at the park, she cried, grateful there was no one to see her misery. She was almost ready to see Trent. She held the phone in a tight grip. Was he nearby? Watching her? Was he still in the Richmond area hunting her? He could get here quickly, if he wanted to.
Tempted and horrified, she threw the phone. It flew over the picnic table, hit the ground beyond, and skidded toward the lake. Panicked, she flung herself after it, scrabbling at the ground to retrieve it before it could fall through the thick grasses at the water’s edge.
Sandra huddled there clutching her phone. Clearly she hadn’t hit rock bottom yet. Pathetic, yes, but not ready for Trent. Never ready for Trent. She almost panicked again when she imagined what rock bottom could be. If it could be worse than this . . .
