CHAPTER ONE
Tabitha Brewer listened for footsteps before pulling the small notebook out of the junk drawer. She leafed through the pages, seeing that each day had a slightly longer list, before she settled on yesterday’s page. She hadn’t had a chance to finish last night, and she thought doing it now might make her feel better. Something had to. She grabbed a pen that had no cap and wrote at the bottom of the page: basil, two dollars. She thought good basil might actually cost more, but that seemed like a fair compromise. What else, what else? Oh yeah, when her cousin took her out to lunch yesterday she put a whole roll of toilet paper into her bag. How much did a roll of toilet paper cost? Again, she wrote: two dollars. She heard someone coming toward the kitchen, feet padding on the fancy tile in the hall. She hurried to write the places she took the things from in the far-right column, so she could remember whom she owed, then added it up. Between the basil she found around the corner in a flower box, the toilet paper, and that one loaf of bread she took early yesterday morning that was just waiting in a huge brown-paper bag outside D’Angelo’s on Twentieth Street, she wrote seven dollars at the bottom of the page, underlined it twice, and put the notebook back in the drawer.
“An everything bagel please,” Fern said as she came in and took a seat in the kitchen. She was so polite that Tabitha wished she’d found a way to steal one for her.
“No everything bagels today, Fernie Bernie,” she said, noticing that Fern’s jeans were just slightly too short and had a hole starting in the knee where a teething puppy they had said hello to the other day had taken a bite. How much longer could she wear those?
“Then I’ll take an anything bagel,” Fern said.
“None of those either, sweetie,” Tabitha said, coming over to kiss the top of her head. It was slightly greasy, and she knew she wasn’t doing Fern any favors by having her shampoo every three days instead of every other. But what would she do when the shampoo ran out? They were already long out of conditioner. “How about some toast?”
“Okay,” Fern sighed and groaned at the same time.
“Where’s your brother?”
“Sleeping still,” Fern said. “I don’t think he wants to go to school today.”
“Wait here one second,” Tabitha said, sprinting out of the big kitchen, trying not to slip on the tile, and bumping right into Levi heading to the bathroom. She stopped short and took a deep breath, glad Fern was wrong. She didn’t want to be late for her interview.
“Morning, Monkey,” she said casually. “You okay?”
“Yup,” he said. Just before he shut the door her eyes caught the elaborate vanity light over the sink. It was big and bright and cost a fortune. She wondered how many everything bagels she could get with the money they spent on that light fixture. Hundreds and hundreds.
Tabitha went back to the kitchen where Fern waited patiently. She opened the colorful ceramic bread box and pulled out a king-size loaf of Stroehmann white bread that she got for $1.99 at Walgreens yesterday, using change from the bottom of her purse. They ate the D’Angelo’s loaf last night for dinner. She’d grilled it on the stove top, then topped it with chopped tomatoes and the stolen basil, the dregs of the fancy olive oil she and Stuart had bought at Zingerman’s in Ann Arbor over a year ago, and a few drops of the precious balsamic vinegar they got on that same trip. She had to make that last.
She put two slices of the bland white bread in the toaster and waited. Butter, shoot, there isn’t much. But then she remembered the pats of butter she took from the diner when she met her cousin. Did she write those down in the notebook? She couldn’t remember. That didn’t really count as stolen anyway. They were meant for the customers.
When Levi came in she had his toast waiting, so there was no discussion of what he couldn’t have, what she was unable to give him. He ate it without a word. She took the plates from the polished granite island and put them in the sink, wondering where she could get some soap to do the dishes. She had run out last night. That was a hard one, people didn’t just leave dish soap around. But maybe they did. She’d have to think of an excuse to stop by Rachel’s house later. Rachel had extras of everything under that big sink.
“Come on, come on, come on,” she said to the kids as she watched them slowly put on their shoes. Tabitha realized Fern’s socks were mismatched but she didn’t move to get matching ones. She tried to tamp down the anxiety she felt. She had to be across town by nine fifteen. Once she dropped the kids off at school, which was in the opposite direction, she’d have just under an hour to walk thirty-two blocks. That should be no problem, she told herself.
They were all quiet in the elevator, which, of course, was still as pristine and well kept as always—as it was the first day they rode in it, going to the seventh floor to see the apartment that she thought would mean they could finally relax, finally feel like they belonged together and were settled into their life.
The door pinged open and Fern ran for Mort, the morning doorman. He heard her coming and turned just in time to lift her by the waist and twirl her around. She smiled and giggled and leaned in for a hug. He was careful not to hug too closely, Tabitha could see, but Fern didn’t notice. Really, Tabitha wouldn’t mind. She trusted him. And obviously Fern was already starved for an adult male in her life. Levi, on the other hand, barely grumbled, “Good morning.” Did that mean he was doing okay? That he wasn’t craving something he didn’t have?
They stepped out onto the sidewalk and looked across the street to Rittenhouse Square. The air was cool and smelled like fall as it always did in Philadelphia at this time of year, of crushed ginkgo nuts and woodsmoke swirling up one-hundred-and-fifty-year-old chimneys.
“I want to go this way!” Fern said, moving to cross the street and walk through the Square, which was only slightly out of their way.
“No way,” Levi said, turning toward Spruce Street. “I don’t want to be late.”
Again Fern sighed and groaned at the same time, and Tabitha wondered if constantly not getting what she wanted would take a toll on her. She hoped not. They walked down to Spruce and headed west toward school. They saw lots of kids walking to Sutherfield, the neighborhood public school, with uniforms and collared shirts with the school name printed on them. Tabitha tried not to think about it, about the choices she and Stuart made. But that wasn’t even the problem. As far as she could tell, school was paid for. At least Stuart did that. Sending the kids to a public school now wouldn’t mean a refund of that private-school tuition. Nobody would hand her $50,000.
“What’s up for you guys today?” she asked. They were going to the Larchwood School whether she liked it or not, whether she, herself, could afford it or not, so why give it any thought?
“Today is Sarina’s birthday so we’re having cupcakes,” Fern said proudly. Sarina was her best friend. Shoot. That would probably mean a party at some point, and a present. Shoot.
“That sounds nice,” Tabitha said. “What about you, Levi?”
“Nothing,” he mumbled.
The difference between a fourth-grader and a seventh-grader seemed much bigger than three years. Tabitha wished she had someone to talk to about that, someone who cared about her kids as much as she did. But there was really only one other person in this whole world who fit into that category, and he was unreachable. Based on recent events, though, she wasn’t even sure he fell into that category anymore, and that terrified her. At the gate Fern ran right to Sarina, who was wearing a birthday crown and huge, colorful sunglasses that spelled out HAPPY BIRTHDAY, then turned with a quick wave and was gone in the ocean of kids in the yard. Levi slunk off, no wave, no good-bye. Tabitha didn’t linger. She turned and walked east on Lombard. At least it wasn’t hot out. At least she didn’t have to worry about being sweaty when she got there.
When Tabitha was two blocks from the building where her interview would be, she pulled her phone out of her pocket: 9:17. Yikes. She picked up the pace, not caring anymore about how she’d look, just wanting to not be too late. Who hired someone who was late for the interview? She should have taken a cab halfway. She still had a little credit on her card—though she was trying to save that for emergencies.
She got to the lobby and ran in, out of breath. Then she couldn’t remember whom she was there to see; she’d set up so many random interviews lately. She fumbled with her phone, called up the email. Home Comforts. Right. Someone named Kirk Hutchins. She told the person at the front desk, who waved her through. No time for hair fixing or lipstick refreshing. Did it count as refreshing if she hadn’t put lipstick on in over a week? She pushed “4” and waited. It was a slow, jumpy elevator, but she was glad to have a few seconds to herself. The doors opened slowly, like they were giving her a chance to change her mind. “Flee while you still can,” she imagined them saying to her. But she didn’t listen. She stepped out and looked left, then right, and there she saw a huge sign that read HOME COMFORTS with big rocking chairs settled in what looked like a garden bed. She realized she wasn’t even sure what service this company provided. Maybe it didn’t matter. The ad was for a receptionist, she could do that. She could certainly greet people and answer phones. And whatever they did, she was pretty sure she wouldn’t run into people she knew. That was how she picked her interviews—places people in her life wouldn’t ever go. She would have gone farther—to the suburbs or the Northeast—but that would have required a commute, which would have required money. Also, she wouldn’t want to be too far from the kids in case they needed her, not now that she was the only parent in town.
She pulled open one of the double glass doors and stopped. It was chaos. It sounded like three phones were ringing at once; every seat was taken in the waiting room, mostly, she noticed, by very old people. One man was standing and banging his cane. Another pounded the side of his walker. There didn’t seem to be anyone in charge. She wanted to go back into the hall and take some time to research what this place was. A doctor’s office? No, she wouldn’t have picked that, too many germs. What was it?
She read the sign over the desk. WE MAKE IT POSSIBLE FOR YOU TO STAY WHERE YOU BELONG—YOUR HOME. Right, that made sense. They provided in-home care for people who needed it, mostly old people, she guessed. How bad could that be? Obviously they were in desperate need of a receptionist. Maybe she’d actually get the job. So far she had gotten three rejections—a men’s clothing store on South Street that catered to tourists, an offbeat movie theater, and a vegan bakery, though that last one had her worried she would run into people she knew. Better that she hadn’t gotten it. Maybe this would be the one.
A man with bright blond hair walked quickly out of a back room right toward Tabitha.
“Are you here about the job?” he asked.
“Yes, I’m . . .”
“Thank goodness,” he said, interrupting her, and waving a file around just out of her reach. “Everyone has called out today. I don’t know who’s going to do the interviews, nobody’s even answering the phone.”
The phone stopped ringing and it was quiet for the first time since Tabitha walked in.
“Do you have time for the interview?” Tabitha asked. “If not, I can come back tomorrow.”
“No, no time for the interviews,” he said. She wondered why he hadn’t introduced himself. She assumed he was Kirk Hutchins. “But I think this is the most pressing.” He thrust the file toward her, then looked around the room. “Yep, these people look okay for now. But that woman is home alone and waiting. Her son’s called three times already—my cell! I tell them not to call my cell unless it’s an emergency. So I guess he thinks it’s an emergency. He’s out of town.”
Tabitha glanced toward the waiting faces, which were all turned in their direction. They were quiet now, too. What was going on here?
“I’m Tabitha Brewer by the way,” she said, reaching out her hand for a shake.
He looked at her sternly.
“I know that,” he said, half-heartedly shaking her hand. “The address is here, not far, take the bus if you have to, you can expense it, you know how that works. And call me when you get there. You have my cell, right?”
“No, actually, I don’t because . . .”
“Let me write it on the file,” he said. He leaned over and scribbled the numbers. Tabitha squinted to make sure she could read them. “Okay? Now go, quick, before the son calls again.”
Tabitha looked behind the man to see if there might be someone else she could talk to, someone who might be more coherent. But there was no sign of anyone. She thought about calling out, Hello? Anybody back there? but she didn’t, it wasn’t worth it, this place was crazy.
“Listen, I . . .” she tried to say.
“Please, go, she’s waiting,” he said, pushing the folder into her stomach. She sighed, grabbed it, and walked out, back to the elevator. Should she call the office and reschedule? No, because no one would ever answer her call. She wasn’t sure how she had gotten through in the first place. This was not an office she would want to work in, anyway. She would have to keep looking. She walked slowly out of the building and toward the cheap-looking coffee shop she passed on her way in. There were big windows and a counter in a double-U shape with spinning aqua stools. Tabitha could see the coffee in glass pitchers on a hot plate. That had to be cheaper than Starbucks down the street. And she hadn’t had any coffee this morning. She hadn’t quite decided what to do about that yet. Withdrawal would be hard, but she’d save a ton of money once she was off coffee. But what about the Advil she’d need in the process? She counted last night and there were ten left—that was five headache’s worth, fewer if it was a bad headache that required three at once.
“How much for a cup?” she asked when she walked in. It was late, she’d missed the morning rush, so it was quiet. She almost said, How much for a cuppa? Maybe if she sounded like a tourist they would take pity on her. The server turned to look.
“Buck fifty,” she said after a pause.
“Seventy-five cents for one cup, no refills?’ Tabitha tried. She had been telling herself lately that you don’t get what you don’t ask for.
“Sure,” the woman said, surprising Tabitha and going for the pitcher. She placed a cup in front of Tabitha and poured. Tabitha could see it was weak—it would probably taste like tea. But it smelled good.
“Thanks,” she said.
“No problem,” the server said. “And I’m happy to give you a refill. The place is empty.”
“Thanks,” Tabitha said again, hoping she had more than the three quarters she knew were in her bag so she could leave a tip, too. She took a sip, let it absorb into her body. Good. Withdrawal was not an option.
There was a newspaper on the counter, and as she reached for it she realized she’d been clutching the manila folder she meant to leave on the desk of the Home Comforts office. She put it down in front of her, opened it up. From the top of the first page the name NORA BARTON jumped out at her. Really, it startled her. Nora was her mother’s name. It was a name she had rarely come upon except in relation to her mother. She kept reading. The woman was seventy-nine years old, a widow, lived in an apartment building on JFK Boulevard, not too far from there, actually closer to home for Tabitha. Her list of problems was divided by mental and physical. Mental: memory loss, confusion (frequently believed she was a nineteen-year-old girl), occasional agitation. Under physical it just said headaches. Tabitha looked through the other pages. That was it? Headaches? She probably didn’t need any help today. But then in the comment section she read: Nora needs company. When left alone she sits on the floor, thinking she is still a teenager, and becomes so stiff she sometimes needs paramedics to get her up. She vacillates between being happy and thinking she is at a picnic, and being distraught because she thinks the love of her life just broke up with her and left her in the park alone. Christina (night nurse) said she once found her sobbing, dehydrated, stiff and hungry after being alone for just a few hours. SHE CANNOT BE LEFT ALONE. If we can’t provide service, we must call another agency.
Tabitha picked up her phone and dialed the number scrawled on the folder. He must think she was going so he wouldn’t call another agency. She waited while the phone rang, her precious coffee getting cold. It rang and rang. It didn’t even go to voicemail. She hung up, looked through the folder again. She thought about going back up to the office to try to find Kirk, but something stopped her. Did this woman’s name have to be Nora? She gulped the coffee and looked up to see the server waiting to pour another cup.
“Any chance I can get it to go?” Tabitha asked sheepishly.
The server sighed, then nodded.
“Sure,” she said, “that will be seventy-five cents.”
Tabitha fished around in her purse. She knew she had the coins in a pocket, and she found them easily, but there must be something else in there. She felt tissues, one tiny stick of gum. Her hand rested on a cufflink—pure gold. She had put it in there for a moment like this. And she realized there were more where that came from at home, in Stuart’s still-very-full closet. She put the coins on the counter along with the cufflink. She knew she could keep it and try to sell it, and she planned to do that with some of the other stuff, but right now she did not want to only take, she wanted to try to give, too. So she left it. The server would probably just throw it away, think she was some crazy lady who was a bad tipper. But maybe she wouldn’t. Maybe she’d get five or ten dollars for it, or even more from one of those gold-melting places. All Tabitha could do was leave it and hope.