“I’ll leave when Ryan gets here,” she says as if I’m on suicide watch. I frown, but then maybe I am that pathetic, or have been that pathetic. But now I’m restless.
Standing up from the kitchen table where we’ve been having coffee and donuts—no wonder I’m restless—I walk a circle around the kitchen, feeling . . . at home. Feeling my mom and my brother, memories of us here floating through like puffy clouds. And if I strain hard enough I can remember my dad too, sitting having coffee and a cigarette, grinning and happy. It’s all here.
“What are you doing? Thinking of remodeling?”
“No. Why?”
She shrugs. “Just the way you were looking around, like you were seeing something that’s not there—I mean like maybe new cabinets and countertop.”
“I guess.”
“Does that mean you’re going to stay?”
Spinning around, I look at her. “What do you mean?”
“I mean . . . the house . . . it’s mortgaged. Under your mom’s name. Dad said—”
“Shit. I wasn’t thinking. You’re right.” I want to cry. Because I want to stay here.
“Don’t worry. We’ll figure it out. I’m sure there’s a way you can keep the house.”
“Sure. If I had money—”
“Don’t go start talking about money.” Maggs drags me back to the chair. “Look, I didn’t want to say anything, but Dad and Mike were talking and . . . well, the police agree that you have a case. Wrongful death.”
If she’d struck me with a pan, I wouldn’t have been more dazed. “What? Not another lawsuit. I never want to have anything to do with another lawsuit. Besides, the guy wo hit her feels bad enough about it.”
“How do you know?”
“I saw him that night, Maggs.” I shake my head to dislodge the image of a man horrified. “It wasn’t his fault.” My mother practically committed suicide. Not a thought I care to share with anyone, but it’s there and it has verity.
“You’re probably right. But we’ll find a way. You’re definitely staying in this house as long as you want.”
Forever? Maybe that’s too long.
Before I see him, before he walks in the back door, I hear him, Ryan’s hard, fast steps up the back stairs. Jumping from my chair, I go to the door and fling it open. There’s no way to stop myself from falling into his arms.
Maggie says, “Well I can see I’m not needed here anymore.”
“Good to see you too, Chels,” he says. “You smell like donuts and coffee.” He sniffs my hair and it feels weird and good, so I let him. Mags leaves after she gives me a reassuring hug—maybe meant to reassure her more than me.
“You want some coffee and donuts?”
“No.” he takes my hand. “We need to talk, you and me.”
That sends my heart plummeting to my gut, sends up the fear response so I have to fight myself not to run the other way. But he leads me to the living room and sits with me on the couch and my bravery is holding up, but just barely. I try to channel my brother Jason, as if his spirit is somewhere close by, his strength and courage in the ether and up for grabs.
“If this is about the house—”
“What about the house?” Alarm sharpens his voice. I’m hoping it’s about the house, but I know better. This is anustalk. I shrug.
“Do you need to leave?” He softens his voice. We sit shoulder to shoulder, so he angles his body toward me, putting an arm around my shoulders. “Because if you—”
“No, I want to stay. I don’t know if I can.”
“Yes, you can. Don’t worry about that. We’ll take care of it.” He seems so relieved that I almost hate to burst his bubble to point out that I don’t want to be a charity case. How can we ever have a real relationship, a partnership where we both feel equal, if he’s got all the money, all the control?
“Ryan, you can’t—”