I sleep in until around nine-thirty on Sunday morning and wake feeling the most rested I’ve felt in a long time. A night of not listening for my mom to come in late. A night of not hearing odd noises. I didn’t have to stand guard against someone she might bring home. Of course, in the light of day, guilt hits me in the gut that she got home okay. I wonder if she brought home a guy. I’m a little anxious that she may have gotten sick overnight. And if she did, did she choke to death in her sleep?

It’s way too early to call, so I simply send a text message around a quarter to ten. She’ll get it when she wakes up. Hey, Mom. Just checking in. You okay?

I resolve that if I don’t hear from her after lunchtime, I’ll ask Mrs. Schwarzkopf to knock on our door.

I get up and realize that I’ve not gone food shopping for my mini-kitchen here in the hotel, so there’s nothing for me to eat, but that’s no matter. The hotel offers a free breakfast buffet. The thought makes me delirious. I get out of bed, clean up, dress, and head to the dining area.

After a more than satisfying breakfast, I practically race back to my room eager for the rest of the day. Apartment hunting.

The next hour or so is a bust with aimlessly walking through the city and popping into apartment buildings asking if they have anything for rent. I’m turned down time and again. I consider just staying at the hotel and enjoying the free breakfast and great location, but it’s not the best way to spend my money. Rent would run me more than $6,000 a month, which is more than I budgeted. I remember Rose telling me of her friend, Pam DeWitt, who’s a realtor, and decide to give her a call.

After a brief conversation, Ms. DeWitt says to come to her office, and we’ll see what she can find. Following her directions, I navigate my way toward the address she provided. I easily find the offices of Brooks & Greene Real Estate and Rentals. Inside, Ms. DeWitt is waiting for me, and she escorts me to her private office.

“Good ole, Rose,” she says with a smile. “We sure used to raise hell back in our day. How is she doing? I haven’t seen her in a few years.”

“She’s doing well,” I reply. Feeling comfortable that Ms. DeWitt and Rose do indeed know each other, I start to relax.

Ms. DeWitt and I settle in to talk about my housing needs. After a bit of chit-chat about where I’d like to be, my budget, and how much space I’ll need, we both feel my best option would be a furnished apartment since otherwise I would have to shop for furniture and would have to wait for delivery. Most often, these units are rented by business people who have long-term assignments in the city. The monthly expense is more than an unfurnished rental but isn’t as much as the hotel. Before long, we are in a cab, and she brings me to the first of three complexes that have furnished, one-bedroom rentals that are immediately available.

Two-and-a-half hours later, I’ve seen all three places and decide on one that Ms. DeWitt tells me is the ‘cream of the crop.’

We head back to her office to fill out paperwork, and as my eyes sail down the application, I’m suddenly filled with dread. What do I put down for employment? I don’t have a job nor do I have a regular income. How will I explain that? How will my application be accepted?

“You okay, hon?” Ms. DeWitt asks. “You’ve gone positively pale.”

Do I tell her? “So, the employment part. I don’t have a job here in Chicago. Yet.”

“How were you planning on paying the rent?” she asks skeptically. “Are your parents covering that?”

I almost laugh at the idea of my mother paying for my rent, but that would be rude.

“Well, I have an income,” I state confidently. “Just not from a job.”

“Like a trust fund?”

“Something like that,” I answer, trying to remain vague. I really don’t want my lottery winner status to follow me, but I realize this will be a problem no matter where I go to rent an apartment. I think back to Rose. She didn’t judge me any differently nor expect additional monies when she learned that I won. But she’s a lawyer. What do I know about this Pam DeWitt? Nothing. I want to trust her, but…

“Is it… legal?” she asks, peering over her glasses at me.

“Sorry?” I ask, completely bewildered by her question.

The expression on her face is one of apprehension mixed with fear. She explains her question. “You’re not dealing or… hooking?”

“Oh, God! No! It’s completely legal. I…” My cheeks burn bright that she thinks I’m somehow involved with the business of either drugs or sex, maybe even both. I bite my lower lip as I risk divulging the next bit of information. I feel as though I have to tell her. I can’t have her thinking that I’m doing anything illegal.

Hoping that Ms. DeWitt is as trustworthy as Rose, I take a leap of faith. “Can I tell you something? Strictly confidential?” I ask, petrified to tell someone I barely know. But I need this apartment.

“I won’t tell a soul,” she replies, crossing her heart with her finger and holding up three fingers. “Girl Scout’s honor.”

I take a deep breath and slowly let it out before I say, barely a whisper, “I won the Illinois State Lottery.”

Her face goes blank. Apparently, she wasn’t expecting that as an explanation. “Like the Mega-Million or something? How much?”

“It was a scratcher. Five thousand dollars a week for life. But, please don’t tell anyone. This winning has given me the chance I needed from a really craptastic life down in southern Illinois. I don’t want to go into it, but really… this has saved my life. And, I’m afraid of family members, long lost or otherwise, or friends, thinking that I should give them money just because I won. I’m planning on using the money to go to college, and…” I feel myself getting worked up and nervous.

Pam closes her hand on mine to stop my anxious rambling and assures me warmly, “Oh, honey. That’s wonderful! And, of course, I’ll keep this quiet,” she says with a kind smile. “We’ll list your income as a trust fund because that’s kind of what it is,” she says very matter-of-factly. “And I’ll vouch for you if it comes to that.”

With her help, I complete the application and say a little prayer.

Shortly after three, my phone buzzes with a text message. I take out my phone and see it’s from my mom. I also note I’d completely forgotten to check in around noon to see if she’d replied to my message and am horrified that I was so thoughtless. But, she’s checking in now, so I feel a little better. Hey, baby doll. I’m good. Good luck w/ur job. Does that start tomorrow? Thanks for your letter. I will do my best. I promise. Don’t worry about me. I’ve got this.

I hope with everything in my heart that she really will try to do her best and that she’s ‘got this.’ I feel like shit for lying to her, but I reply. Glad to hear you’re good. Yes. Tomorrow is the big day :-) Love you!

I hit send and head out to explore the city a little, my heart lightened that Mom is at least safe and hopefully on the up-and-up.

Monday I’m excited to go and see how Chicago does a Memorial Day parade. It must be incredible compared to what happens in Harton. But my hopes are dashed when the concierge—holy crap! I’m in a hotel with a concierge!—tells me that the parade was on Saturday. Oh well. I’d have to find new ways to distract myself from the pending application for the apartment. I dive into the first item on my ‘To See in Chicago List’—the library, which, incidentally, will be my new neighbor—the primary reason for me choosing that apartment. If my application is accepted, that is.

Arriving at the corners of State and Van Buren, I take in the library which is absolutely amazing and everything I hoped it would be. So far different from the Harton Library back home.

For starters, unlike Harton’s tiny and uninspiring building, the outside of the Harold Washington Library is enormous and made even more grand with its patterned red brickwork and copper roof, not to mention the gargoyles perched atop the structure. I can see that the top level is glass and imagine reading in the sun-filled space. Also, unlike the Harton Library, the Harold Washington Library is open on Memorial Day.

Inside, I’m greeted with impressive marble floors and a map of the building which reveals that there are nine levels. I note that the ninth floor is called the Winter Garden and decide to check that out first and work my way down. The space is peaceful and graceful with floor-to-ceiling windows and giant planters with small trees scattered around. Several people are quietly reading in chairs or working at the few tables scattered about. I’m tingling with wishing I had a book with me.

I spend the next hour and a half just wandering the massive building and other eight floors, delighting in being surrounded by all the books and art. Before I leave the library, I stop at the main circulation desk, firstly to get a library card, which I can’t get because I don’t have an ID nor a piece of mail with my Chicago address with me. Secondly, I ask if there are job openings or volunteer opportunities here and if there’s someone I can speak to about that. The woman tells me that openings are posted online, and I can navigate there via the library’s website, but that hiring is done by the city. She tells me a bit about volunteering, and what I’ll need to submit to apply to those positions which work two days a week from three-thirty to six-thirty in the evening. I thank her and tuck the slip of paper with the website address into my purse so I can explore those opportunities later.

Deciding there’s not enough time to visit a museum today, I head to Willis Tower, aka The Sears Tower, so I can see the entire city. Once I get to the 103rd floor, I’m impressed with the incredible views, yet at the same time, sad to be here on my own. I’m surrounded by groups of friends and families laughing and smiling. They’re taking pictures of themselves and talking excitedly or simply standing together and taking in the grand view all around. I hear French, Spanish, what I think is German, and dozens of other languages I couldn’t even begin to identify. Wandering by all the windows, alone, I read several of the placards and spot many of the famous Chicago landmarks. I can even see what might be my new address! Well, at least the library. I’m not sure if the building I’ve spotted is the one with the apartment.

My phone rings and instantly my thoughts go to my mother. Is she still okay like the impression she gave yesterday? I pull out my phone to see a 312 area code on the screen and know it’s not my mom.

“Hello?”

“Talia? Pam DeWitt here.” My heart pounds in my chest. Did she sound like she had good news? Or bad?

“Hi, Ms. DeWitt. How are you?”

“I’m great, honey. Listen. Good news. The agency accepted your application, and you can move in as early as Wednesday.”

“Really?”

She laughs good-naturedly and assures me that everything is in order. She and I confirm to meet up on Wednesday morning at the building at ten o’clock to finalize the lease agreement and collect my keys.

We end the call, and I look out onto the views with a new sense of joy and hope. A small voice in my head wonders when my luck will run out, but I push that little creature into a box and enjoy the moment. I’m now a Chicagoan.

Tuesday, the weather is iffy, so instead of doing outdoor things and exploring the streets, I head to the museum first on my Museum List—the Art Institute of Chicago. I meander through the American Exhibit on the first floor before I climb a massive staircase and find myself in an exhibit with ancient armor and coats of arms and ultimately in front of Monets and Van Goughs I’d read about in my history class during the section about art. It was truly magical. I spend all day at the Art Institute and feel I’ve only scratched the surface. Tuesday night, I sweep through my hotel room gathering all my things, making sure nothing is left behind, and tuck in ready for my new apartment and the official start of my new life.

Wednesday, I meet Ms. DeWitt promptly at ten o’clock in the conference room of the first level of the building I will now call home. We finalize the paperwork for a three-month lease.

“Thank you for everything, Ms. DeWitt.”

“Oh honey, it’s what I do. I’m so glad you called the other day, and we were able to find you this place. Is there anything else I can help you with?” she asks.

“Well, this is just a three-month lease. I guess I’ll call you in a month or so for a regular apartment?”

“Sounds like a plan. Call me before then if you need anything.”

I assure her that I will and see her out the door. Turning from the front door, I look around my new apartment, and I’m overwhelmed. It’s a nice place. Who am I kidding? It’s an incredible place. The rent is more than ten times what the mortgage is on our trailer back in Harton, but it’s within the budget I put together. And the best part is that it’s furnished, so I don’t have to buy anything, although it’s not really homey or what my tastes are. In a few months, I’ll be getting a regular apartment, one I’ll get to furnish with my own furniture and my own style—whatever that may be—and I won’t be rushed to make those purchases. I like that I will get to take my time and choose things I absolutely love instead of ‘good until I can get something better.’ But for now, this apartment is perfect. It features windows that run practically from the floor to the ceiling, so it’s very bright.

The view from my unit is only so-so with a view of two buildings—one, it seems is a business building with various offices on every floor, and the other building seems to be an apartment building like mine. The best part of the apartment is that the building is practically next door to the Harold Washington Library!

Another feature of my new address is that the building has a doorman, or doormen, rather. Benjamin, who was on duty just now, is the weekday doorman. Eric, whom Pam and I met on Sunday, I’m told handles the weekend days, and the evenings are covered by Sergio and Conrad. There’s a white phone in the kitchen that connects straight to their desk in the lobby downstairs. They’d be calling me on that if I had a guest, or I could call down to them if I wanted them to get me a cab or something. It’s all so surreal!

I set about moving in putting my book collection on the bookshelf with the ‘stock’ items that are there for decoration—a silk plant, a framed photograph of the city, and a couple of sculptured-looking things as well as a cable box and a Blu-ray/DVD player. A part of me wants to click on the TV and check out all the cable channels, the other part of me is afraid that I’ll get so sucked into what is on the screen, that I’ll neglect the life around me like old Mrs. Sager who lives in our trailer park. She watches her TV all day and does little else other than eat. Her place is more unkempt than ours, which is saying something.

I leave the TV alone and meander into the kitchen—my kitchen—which is twice the size of the kitchen in the trailer my mom and I lived in. I squeal over the dishwasher, which is a luxury I’ve never had before. I open the cupboards and see all the glasses and dishes, and in the lower cabinets, I discover pots, pans, and baking dishes of every size. In the drawers, I find beautiful silverware that all matches, cooking utensils, and other cooking gadgets. Just off the kitchen is a washer and dryer unit—no more heading to the laundromat with a bag full of quarters for me!

With that last thought in mind, I grab my suitcases and head into the bedroom to unpack my clothes. What I have barely fills half of the dresser and even less in the closet which is furnished with high-end wooden hangers. And lastly, I set all my toiletries in the bathroom with the jacuzzi tub! As our trailer has only a shower stall, I grew up taking showers all the time. I can’t wait to take a bubble bath.

I make a shopping list to stock my kitchen—making sure to put bubble bath on the list—and head out in search of a supermarket as well as check out everything in a healthy radius of my address. Before I leave, I ask Benjamin, the doorman, for some advice, and he gives me some simple instructions for the CVS, a pharmacy/convenience store, and the South Loop Market.

As I explore my new neighborhood, I start making a mental list of restaurants and coffee shops I want to check out. I stop in a couple of cute clothing stores for a little shopping, picking out a few new shirts and am giddy that I don’t have to restrict my shopping to items on the clearance rack—although I do take a look just out of habit and find one shirt there that I decide I have to have. I’m about five or six blocks from my building when I finally get to the market Benjamin mentioned.

Returning to my new home, and after unpacking all of my purchases, I tally my spending so I don’t go over budget and make myself dinner in my kitchen. No frozen or boxed items for me. Nope, I make myself a chicken stir-fry with fresh chicken and produce, but I do use a bottled stir-fry sauce.

After cleaning things up, I grab my book and head to bed.

Before I start reading, I decide to message my mom, just to check in with her. Hey Mom. Just checking in. Things here are going better than I could have hoped. Hope you are good too. G’nite.

I set my phone aside figuring I won’t hear back from her until tomorrow. Then I start to worry if she’s out… if she’s getting wasted again… if she’s hooking up with another guy… if that guy is going to treat her like the one several weeks ago and leave her with bruises and cuts on her face. My imagination is coming up with all sorts of scenarios, which are interrupted by my phone chiming back with a reply. Great news baby doll. Things here r good 2. Just heading 2 bed. xo

I read her message a few times and decide that her message is more positive than negative. I mean, if she were out and drinking, she wouldn’t have been able to type a coherent message, but more likely, she wouldn’t have messaged back at all. And a few days ago, she said she was going to make everything work. Maybe she really is… making it work. Maybe my leaving was just what she needed.

I put my phone aside and open my book, but the past few days catch up to me, and I’m asleep before I can dive into the chapter of Laurie’s college graduation.

I wake on Thursday and stretch in the massive bed. I feel like today is the first day of the rest of my life. It’s only been a few days, but I’m loving my independence and that I have no one to answer to. No one to take care of. I like that I can wake up when I want and go to bed when I want. I’m thoroughly savoring going out to eat, even though I’ve only gone out a few times. Using a credit card is making me nervous, but I’m being very careful to keep my spending at a modest level. The only thing I’m not enjoying is seeing all the couples and families on the streets and in the museums. I find myself missing my life back in Harton—just a little. But I push those moody thoughts from my mind and plan my attack for further exploring my new town. I had planned on going to more museums, but the weather is so nice, I can’t see spending the day inside.

I remember seeing red double-decker buses bumbling about and thought it would be a fun way to get more familiar with the city. So, I buy a ticket and take a tour, and because I can, I jump off from time to time to explore the area, then just jump back on and continue the tour with a new guide. I pass by the Art Institute and Willis Tower which I’d already explored. But from the tour, I add several more spots I want to explore in addition to my list of museums and attractions like Navy Pier. I learn about Catherine O’Leary’s cow that kicked over a lantern and burned the city back in 1871, many Al Capone locations, and a ghost named Resurrection Mary.

After my tour, I head into a few stores just to browse and decide on buying a few towels, something prettier and fluffier than the set the apartment came with.

“Hello, Miss Jameson,” Benjamin, the doorman, says.

“Hi, Benjamin. Good to see you.”

I like Benjamin. He’s nice. He’s maybe fifty or so. His brown eyes are warm and kind. I wonder if he has kids and maybe grandkids. I’m sure he’d be a nice father and grandfather.

Just then, a bubbly girl about my age comes bounding through the door that Benjamin opens.

“Thanks, Benny!” she says cheerily and heads directly toward me where I’m still waiting for the elevator.

“Hi,” she says to me. Her phone chimes, and she pulls it out of her bag to look at the screen. “Pshhh,” she lets out, shaking her head at what she sees.

“Um, yeah. Hi,” I reply nervously. She has such a confident air about her that I’m actually feeling intimidated. Her hair is a beautiful honey color and wavy, falling gently over her tanned shoulders. Her skin is flawless and practically glows. Her clothes are trendy—skewing to the bohemian side… soft and flowy, flat sandals, beaded jewelry, and her purse has fringe. Briefly, I wonder if I could pull off a style like hers.

She’s wildly typing into her device and then snaps a photo of herself making a goofy face and goes back to tapping the screen with her thumbs so quickly, I’m dizzy. Done with whatever she was doing, she quickly stuffs the device into her purse just as the elevator car arrives.

We both step in, and I quietly press the ‘17’ button. “What floor?” I ask hesitantly, feeling every bit a servant to her big personality.

“Oh!” she says noting the illuminated button. “I’m on seventeen, too! Who are you visiting?” she asks as the doors close.

“Um, I’m in apartment B. I just moved in,” I explain.

“You did? I mean, that’s great! That’s the corporate lease. Nice. I’m Lainey Bartolucci. I’m right next door in unit A.” She extends a hand, and I take it, politely shaking it.

“Talia Jameson.”

“Nice to meet you, Talia, and welcome to the building. So, the rental? How long?”

“Uh, I don’t know. I signed for three months with an option to renew.”

“New in town?”

“I am. From southern Illinois,” I admit and kick myself for revealing that kind of information.

“Oh yeah? Cool,” she says as the elevator comes to a stop, and we get out.

Quietly we walk to our doors, and I notice that her unit faces the lake side of the building. I just have my key in the lock when Lainey pipes up. “Wanna come over and hang out for a while? Maybe we’ll order some delivery? I mean, if you’re new, you probably don’t know many people. Or, sorry, that was rude. Do you know anyone in town? I mean, if you’re here for work, you probably know your co-workers, but…”

I shake my head and fight a smile at her bubbly and rambling way, and say, “I don’t actually know anyone. Well, my realtor, but other than her, no one. Thanks for the invitation. That would be nice.”

“Great. I’ll leave the door unlocked. Just come on in when you’re ready.” She flashes her picture-perfect smile, and I’m stunned that this stranger is so warm and open.

“Um, yeah. Sounds great.”

“Well, I have to get the ice cream put away,” she says, lifting the reusable shopping bag in her hand. “See you soon!” And with that, she disappears into her apartment.