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tabitha

 

“Mrs. Worthington, I’m sure your chinchilla will be perfectly fine during the open house,” I insisted, while I kept the phone pinned between my ear and shoulder and slapped together the saddest excuse for a peanut butter and jelly sandwich I’d ever seen.

“Do you think so?” the older woman asked worriedly and I could practically see her feathery white brows pinching together. “Maybe I should remove Sandy from the house. I wouldn’t want to stress him out, you know?”

“Of course not,” I grumbled, stuffing the sandwich into a baggie and then a paper lunch bag. Pulling the phone away from my ear, I threw my head back and bellowed, “Greyson! Let’s go!”

While I waited for the telltale sounds of his heavy footsteps against the treads, I tipped my forehead against the cool surface of the refrigerator and pressed the phone back to my ear. “Sorry about that, Mrs. Worthington. Just trying to get my nephew ready for school. Every day is a battle.”

“Oh, I understand, Tabitha,” she replied, stressing her sympathies in every inflection. “How is he?”

“It’s an adjustment,” I answered robotically, because that was the fastest response. It allowed for fewer questions and less conversation, and that was perfect. It wasn’t something I wanted to talk about.

“I can only imagine. That poor boy.”

That poor boy. A selfish niggling wormed its way into my brain with the sentiment. I did feel terrible for him. Losing his mother suddenly, within a year of losing both his grandparents, had, of course, been rough on him. Nobody understood that more than me. But just once, I would’ve appreciated a poor Tabitha. Poor Tabitha lost both of her ill and elderly parents within months of each other. Poor Tabitha had to bury her older sister just two months ago. Poor Tabitha couldn’t sell the one house she had taken on in the past year.

Poor Tabitha.  

I shook my head to push away my selfish mental whining. “I know,” I replied, sighing into the phone. “It’s been a tough time for both of us, but we’re getting there.”

But first, we had to get to school. “Greyson!”

With another apologetic groan, I brought the phone back to my ear. “So sorry. Anyway, I’ll stop by the house in just a little while and see what we need to do to get it ready for the weekend, okay? How does noon work for you?”

“Noon is perfect! I’ll see you then, Tabitha.”

With that, the line went dead and I pocketed the phone. Peeking toward the stairs, I shook my head and cursed my nephew under my breath. It was hard to believe that just two months ago, he and I had been so close. We were buddies, damn near inseparable, but now? It seemed like he was listening less, we were fighting more, and I was one day closer to signing him up for boarding school. And all of this made me feel like the worst person on the planet.

Our therapist had said this type of thing was to be expected. What she hadn’t told me, was how much it would hurt when he rolled his eyes or cried when I yelled at him.

He never used to cry. Not until Sam died.

“Greyson, please!” I called, resorting to pleading. It always came back to pleading. “You’re already late and in another half hour, I will be too. Let’s go!”

His footsteps thundered down the stairs and right into the kitchen, as though he had just waited for me to start begging. His blonde hair was unkempt, his backpack dragged behind him and a scowl was plastered to his face.

“Thank you,” I pushed out with my exasperated sigh and turned to grab the paper bag. “I made you—”

“Great,” Greyson mumbled, snatching the bag off the counter and throwing it unceremoniously into his backpack. “Let’s go so you can stop your bitching.”

Our therapist told me I shouldn’t let him talk to me like that, even if it did come from a place of sadness and anger. “Greyson, what did I tell you about cursing at me?” I scolded, following her instructions in a stern, even voice.

“Like I give a shit,” he replied, a bold challenge displayed in his tone. “Let’s go.”

God, give me strength. I pressed my eyes shut and pinched the bridge of my nose as he barreled out of the kitchen to the front door, swinging it open and leaving the house. I was trying to be patient and understanding, but every day brought me closer to a place of being fed up.

Maybe today would be that day.

 

***

 

“You have such an eye for this,” Mrs. Worthington complimented as I carefully positioned the vase of silk tulips on a living room end table.

With a kind smile plastered to my face, I laid a book next to the vase and stood back to marvel at my masterpiece. It was the little things that helped sell a house. Some people believe it’s the bigger picture—a redesigned landscape, a knocked-down wall, a refurnished living room—but sometimes all it takes is the turn of a couch and a vase of fake flowers.

“This looks good,” I assessed, nodding confidently. “I think we’ll sell this weekend. My guess is, three offers.”

God, I hope so.

“Oh, that would be fantastic,” Mrs. Worthington clutched at her chest, a watery smile on her face. “I really do hate to give the place up, you know.”

I did know. She’d only mentioned the fact three-thousand times since I took her on as a client at the beginning of the year. “I know you do.” I smiled sympathetically, nodding as I laid the throw pillows just-so on the couch. “If you can avoid sitting on the couch until after Saturday, that would be perfect.”

“Of course, dear.” She bobbed her head in agreement before continuing, “Mr. Worthington and I always wanted to have a family in this house. It’s meant for that. But,” she sighed sadly, “it just wasn’t in the cards for us, I guess.”

I couldn’t say it was a sentiment I could ever sympathize with. Children were never something I wanted for myself; I was always a better aunt. But, I could warp my own failed life dreams to relate to hers, and I nodded my understanding.

“I bought my house right before Brad left,” I replied, reminding myself of the personal heartache. “Double-sinks kinda suck when you’re on your own.”

What a crappy year it’s been.

“Brad is such a jerk name,” Mrs. Worthington sneered with a disapproving shake of her head.

“I wish someone had told me that before I let him propose,” I laughed, before clapping my hands together. “Okay! So, Saturday, I’ll bring by some coffee and doughnuts. I’ll have Greyson with me, if that’s okay. He has drum lessons immediately after, so I figured—”

Waving both of her wrinkled hands, Mrs. Worthington dismissed my apologetic tone. “Stop, honey. I never mind when your nephew is around, you know that. He’s a good boy.”

It’s true; Greyson was a great kid, for everybody else. He used to be for me too, but now …

“Thank you,” I replied gratefully. “Well, I think that’s everything for today. Do you need me to run you through anything? Or I could just call you tomorrow with some reminders?”

With a shake of her head, the older woman flashed me with a warm smile. “Nope, I think we’re good. Thank you so much for everything, Tabitha. I know what you’re going through, and it honestly means the world to me that you’re still willing to sell the place.”

As I grabbed my bag from the easy chair, I slid it onto my shoulder and smiled. “Believe me, the distraction is more than welcomed.”

 

***

 

“Hey Grey,” I greeted Greyson as he slumped into the passenger seat. “How was school?”

“Oh, just great,” he grumbled angrily, slamming the door shut and resting his elbow against the window ledge.

“Well, that doesn’t sound so wonderful,” I countered, driving away from the curb. “Can you please put on your seatbelt?”

He muttered something unintelligible, but he listened, and strapped himself in with an irritated huff. Without another word, he turned up the volume on my current playlist to listen to a Foo Fighters song we were both fans of. I decided to be brave as I smiled at him.

“Hey, remember when we went to see the Foos together?” I asked, reaching over to tap my knuckles against his thigh.

“Yeah,” he brusquely replied, fixing his gaze out the window.

“Those were some good shows,” I reminisced, all at once wanting to cry and also hating the world for dulling those happy memories with bad ones.

Greyson didn’t reply. He continued to stare out the window, scratching his fingers against the ledge and pinching, releasing, pinching his lips. I knew those ticks; he wanted to cry. I hated myself for hoping he wouldn’t. Just for one day, I hoped we could get through without any tears or shouting. I could handle banter. I could handle his attitude. But I didn’t want the grief.

We drove down the streets of Hog Hill, New York toward my farmhouse-style abode in the suburbs, I tapped my fingers against the steering wheel as the next track began to play. A song by Seether called “Broken.” Sam loved this song. She and I had seen them together once, years ago, before Greyson was born. Before I forced myself to grow up. During her days of batting her lashes to get backstage to sleep with members of the band.

I reached over and skipped the song.

 

***

 

After dinner, I headed to Greyson’s room to corral his dirty clothes from off the floor. I wasn’t surprised to find him at his laptop, playing the latest in his arsenal of video games, and I announced my arrival with a knock on the doorframe.

“Hey, Grey.”

Glancing over his shoulder and taking a momentary pause from his dragon slaying, he grunted. “Oh, hi.”

“I’m just gonna, uh,” I gestured toward the blanket of clothes over the floor, “clean these up and throw some laundry in the wash, okay?”

“Uh-huh,” he grumbled, turning back to his game.

“It’s fine, Grey; I don’t need help or anything,” I muttered begrudgingly, bending over to scoop clothes into my arms. I dumped them into the laundry basket at the door.

“I’m in the middle of a tournament, Aunt Tabs,” he groused, thrusting a hand toward the computer screen and I raised my hands in surrender.

“I didn’t say anything,” I defended, grabbing another few shirts and dirty socks in my arms before spotting a discarded sheet of paper under his bed. “Is this homework?”

“Huh, what?” Greyson asked, turning to look at the paper in question just in time for me to grab it. “Wait, give that to—”

Before he could snatch it away from me, I was already reading. “Adoption form for … little orphan Greyson?” I thrust the paper toward him. “What the hell? Who gave you this?”

“Relax,” he grumbled, tearing it from my hand and throwing it into the wastepaper basket. “It’s just a joke.”

Tears poked and prodded at the back of my eyes as I shook my head. “Oh, really? It’s a joke? You find it funny?”

Flashes of light and the sounds of swords clanging came from his computer, but the game was now forgotten as he swiveled around in his chair. Crossing his arms over his chest and scowling pitifully, he replied, “Will you just relax? My friends did it—”

“Oh, okay, your friends,” I snickered. “So, you think it’s okay for your friends to tease you about your mother dying? Is that it? Because if you do, please, just let me know and I’ll make sure to crack those jokes all the time—”

“No!” he shouted, thrusting his fists against the arms of the chair. “No. Okay?!”

Pursing my lips, I cocked my head. “No, what?”

“I don’t think it’s fucking funny, okay?” The tears brimmed his eyes, his hands unclenched and pushed into his hair.

I had pushed him again and I wasn’t proud of it. Stepping toward him, I asked gently, “Grey, do they do this a lot? They bully you?” Sniffling and wiping a hand under his nose, he nodded. “Why don’t you tell me about this stuff, kid? I can’t help you if you don’t tell me.”

“And what the fuck am I going to tell you?” he snapped, screwing his face with anger and upset. “What are you going to do to fix this shit? Huh?”

I wiped a hand over my forehead. “I could talk to your teachers, or the parents’ of these kids, or I—”

“You can’t do a fucking thing,” he gritted through clenched teeth as he thrust himself to his feet. “You don’t know what this is like for me. You don’t know what it’s—”

Shaking my head incredulously, I dropped my arms to my sides. “Oh, I don’t?”

“No! You don’t!” His fists pumped—clenching, unclenching—as his face reddened and his pulse quickened.

With a bitter snicker, I reached my breaking point. “Greyson. I lost both of my parents and my sister in less than a year. And on top of that, my fiancé dumped me, I’ve been trying to sell a fucking house for the past seven months, and my nephew won’t even try to help me make this shit work. So, okay, maybe I have no idea what it’s like to go to school and have my shit-headed little friends make fun of me for losing my mom and growing up without a dad, but I’m an orphan too, Greyson!”

A rush of tears zigzagged over my cheeks, to drip from my chin and plop onto the carpet. With a frustrated groan, I turned on my heel and hurried from his room, forgetting entirely about the laundry basket by the door. My room was down the hall from his and I got there quickly, throwing the door open and slamming it behind me. Before I knew what I was doing, I balled my fists and screamed.

The noise was unintelligible and sounded foreign to my ears. I hated myself immediately for losing my cool so thoroughly and completely, but oh my God, I didn’t know what else to do. He was being bullied in the cruelest of ways and he wasn’t talking to me. His way of communicating was by fighting. And what the hell was I supposed to do about that?

I pulled in a deep, controlled breath and forced myself to calm down to a more rational realm of thinking. Greyson was just a kid, and I was supposed to be the adult here. I was in control, I called the shots, and with another breath, I tried to think of what Sam might’ve done.

My sister never won any Mom of the Year awards. Her methods were often immature and irrational, but she did love her son and almost everything she did, she did for him.

A pile of boxes from her place were still stacked in the corner of my room, waiting to be gone through. I hadn’t been given the chance, since having to quickly move her things from the apartment she and Greyson had lived in. It had all been stuffed into boxes, without a thought about organization, and in the corner of my room they had remained. I don’t know why I thought the answer to my problem might’ve been in there, but it was the closest thing to having my sister with me and guiding me. So, I went for it.

The first box was stuffed with clothes. The marriage of her cheap perfume and cigarettes clung to the fabrics of shirts, jeans, and waitress uniforms, and tears met my smile. God, for years, I had begged her to quit smoking. I never thought I’d one day miss the smell so much, and I brought one shirt to my nose and sucked in the scent. I wished I could permanently implant it into my memory, knowing all too well that it would never stay.

Carefully placing the box onto the floor, I opened the second. Immediately I remembered her closet full of storage. Some Christmas decorations, a safety lockbox, and a small stack of envelopes rubber-banded together were all that was left of the pile of junk she had kept in there. I already knew the lockbox contained a couple of emergency credit cards and a few important documents, but the envelopes snagged my curiosity.

The rubber band snapped; age had made it brittle. Three envelopes laid in my hand, all with the return address of someone named Morrison only a few hours away in New York.

Opening the first, I was surprised to find a handwritten letter. Barely legible, in sloppy cursive.

I took a deep breath and moved to my bed to read.