"I think that's it, though. Working at the firm was supposed to be a band-aid job."
"A band-aid job?"
"Yeah. You know, a bridge. It was something that was available, and that I had the qualifications to do. Starting as a secretary meant I didn't need a lot of training or education, and I could earn money while looking for whatever was going to give my life that sparkle. Then it turned out I was actually good at my job."
"Damn it," Grammie groans in solidarity.
"I know," I say. "Then they offered me a promotion. Who says no to that? And the little bit of time I planned on staying at the firm became a little bit longer, and then another promotion came along, and I pushed it back even longer. And now, four years later, I'm spinning around in my swivel desk chair, bored out of my wits, trying to figure out why a man called to discuss the specifics of purchasing life insurance policies for all nine of his Rottweiler puppies. The worst part is – it was only after I explained to him, in painstaking detail, that our company doesn't offer that type of insurance, that he mentioned his wife needed a policy, too."
"That's kind of glamorous."
I've managed to unbutton my blouse and wriggle out of it, and now I'm trying to replace my work clothes with a pair of black cotton shorts and a comfy tank.
"That's not glamorous. That's weird. Not even close to the same thing."
"So, what are you thinking about doing?"
"I don't know," I say, dropping down to sit on the edge of my bed.
I bounce and nearly slip off the luxury Italian comforter I thought fit my vision of a trendy urban lifestyle. Buying this bedding was supposed to be a way to will that lifestyle into reality. It is also one of the reasons I put myself on a budget.
"Well, you obviously can't keep going like this. You sound miserable."
I immediately feel guilty for saying anything at all. I know Grammie has been worried about me since the day I left the home where she and my grandfather raised me and set out to make a life for myself. Since then, I've done everything I can to reassure her that I made the right choice, and that I've been doing well. Not my best decision. Now I'm making her worry about me because my joyful façade has started to crack, and my unhappiness is seeping through.
"I wouldn't say I'm miserable." Because that would definitely upset you. "I'm just not finding as much… fulfillment in my life as I thought I would at this point."
"You should have listened to me when I told you not to go off chasing some man and changing your life for him."
"I didn't go off chasing some man," I argue as I cross to the refrigerator to pull out the half a salad I shoved in there last night. "I didn't meet Ellis until a year after I moved out here."
"Well, at least you didn't marry him. That would have been a disaster."
I sigh and squeeze far too much Thousand Island dressing into the middle of the somewhat wilted pile of spring mix, cucumbers, and tomatoes.
"As you've made sure I'm aware of every day since I told you I was engaged."
"You weren't engaged. You didn't even have a ring."
"He asked me to marry him. I said yes. I was engaged. And I did have a ring."
"You had a piece of copper wire he braided and shoved a piece of charcoal into. That doesn't count."
"He made that," I say. "It was meaningful and poetic. At least he dipped the charcoal in acrylic."
"Nothing screams bridal like a ring you could use to roast a hot dog."
"I really don’t want to talk about Ellis right now. It's over. It's behind me. I honestly don't think that has anything to do with how I'm feeling."
No one has ever made a scrapbook page about how much they enjoyed their spring vacation breaking up with their fiancé, but the end of my engagement was particularly messy. Fortunately, watching Ellis grip the edge of a bridge and sob that I had ripped out his soul and fed it to the crocodiles, so he was going to sacrifice the rest of himself to them, too, had been enough to nip my sadness right in the bud. I certainly hadn't mourned myself into this funk. It's something more than that.
"You can always come home, you know," she says. "Your room is still here."
"Well, I would hope it is. I didn't think you were going to slice it off the back of the house when I left."
"Well, it’s not in the back of the house. Not anymore."
I pause. I'm not sure what that means, but it sounds vaguely ominous.
"What?"
"Your room. It's not in the back of the house."
I visualize the house I grew up in. In my mind, I walk through the front door, pass the living room and the den, turn down the hallway, and end up in my bedroom – located in the back corner of the house.
"I mean, I know it's been a few years, but I remember where my room is."
I stand and make my way toward my apartment kitchen. Opening the freezer, I pull out the last remaining serving of lasagna I froze on one of my more domestic days, and set the oven to preheat.
"That's the city house."
Oh. I see what she’s trying to do here. Grammie has something she needs to tell me, and rather than just saying it outright, she wants me to discover it for myself – like some sad, forgotten plastic Easter egg you step on when running around the yard during your Fourth of July cookout.
"You're at the country house?"
That term is far less of a misnomer than 'city house', which Grammie insists on using to describe the little rancher in the suburbs where we lived the vast majority of my childhood. The other parts were spent out in the middle of nowhere at the looming country house owned for generations by my grandfather's family. Even though it’s only a forty-minute drive from the rancher, it always felt a world away. I imagine the house was once an impressive home, but even in my earliest memories of it, it was dark and cavernous. It was the only place where my grandparents would show off a bit of their money, but it was mostly full of strange collectibles and antiques Gramps inherited from the generations before him. The summers and occasional winter holiday breaks I spent there felt isolated. It wasn't until I was eleven that I started looking at it differently.
I shake my head. I don't want to think about that. Not now. Not ever. I haven't been to the country house since I was eighteen, and I'm not interested in dwelling on it now.
"I moved out here for good about three months ago," Grammie explains. "I decided I wanted to be back where your Gramps and I first started. It makes me feel closer to him."
"And you never thought to mention it to me?" I ask.
My heart aches a little thinking about my grandfather and how much my grandmother has missed him in the years since he passed, but I'm also a touch miffed she decided to up and leave the house I had always known without saying a word.
"I was going to, but I didn't think it would matter much to you," Grammie says.
"Why would you think that? I might have come by to visit or sent you a Christmas card or something."
"You don't send Christmas cards, even though I taught you to. And you never come home to visit. You always make me come out there to you, and you know I'm in my twilight years now. That's starting to be a hard journey for me."
"It's two hours away, and you are not in your twilight years. Not even close. It's not like you're falling all over the place."
* * *
One week later…
The call finally connects. Thank god.
"She fucking fell, Esme."
I haul my empty suitcase up onto my bed and start stuffing it with the stacks of clothes I have lined up along my bed.
"What? What happened?"
Esme sounds exhausted on the other end. Since it's barely four in the morning, she has good reason.
"My grandmother. She fell. She was walking down the stairs or up the stairs or something having to do with stairs, and she fell."
"Oh, no. That's awful. Is she alright?"
I have to give it to my best friend. It's still dark out, and I woke her up in her last hour of sleep before getting up
and ready for work, and yet she can still find it in her heart to worry about my grandmother.
"I'm not sure. Her ankle is broken. Apparently, she’s hurt badly enough that she needs me to come all the way out to the fucking country to take care of her for a while."
"You don't sound terribly sympathetic about the whole situation."
And she's also awake enough to guilt me about being snippy. Esme sure knows how to balance herself.
I shove another handful of socks into the suitcase, wondering if I've completely lost control of the packing procedure and even have everything I need. Pausing, I let out a sigh.
"I know," I say. "I feel bad. I really do. I'm really worried about her. She's just never seemed old to me, you know? She's always been so strong and independent. Even when Gramps was alive, and she was completely wrapped up in him, she was always up to something. Did I ever tell you about when she went to Mexico?"
"No," Esme says. She's starting to sound a little more awake, and I can hear her muffled footsteps. She apparently gave up the thought of getting any more rest and has gotten up. "When did she go to Mexico?"
“It was a long time ago,” I say. “I was about sixteen. She and Gramps had gone to the country house for the summer, but I had gotten my first job and wanted to stay at the city house. It was the first time in a few summers I didn't want to go to the house, but that summer," I pause thinking about the sparkling eyes I knew would be absent from the house that summer, and how much that made me not want to go, "I just didn't feel like I needed to. My aunt was still alive at the time and lived next door, so they said I could stay at home as long as I went to her house at least once a day to check in, and spent the weekends I was off at the country house. The first morning I was supposed to go, though, Gramps called me to tell me I didn't have to come because Grammie was in Mexico. Not that she was going to Mexico. That she was in Mexico, and he was on his way to get her."
"She just up and went to Mexico without telling anybody?"
Esme's voice is garbled, and I realize she's brushing her teeth.
"Apparently, she woke up the morning before, got a craving for a taco, and just decided to go find a street food vendor. He hadn't heard from her all day and was rightfully getting a bit worried when he finally got a call from her. She was at her hotel, and just couldn't understand why he was so upset. She left him a note."
"What did the note say?"
"Went to get a taco."
Esme laughs.
"Well, she gave him all the information."
"That's what she thought. I guess she figured they been married so long he would just automatically know that meant 'I got on the first flight I could find to Mexico, and I'm waiting for you here'. He packed a bag and was on his way to the airport when he called me. I didn't hear from them again for a couple of weeks. When I got to the house on my next weekend off, they had a stack of pictures to show me. Mostly Grammie trying to sprint up the steps of some of the ruins."
"Sprint?"
"Yeah. She likes to do things the hard way, just to prove people wrong. Everybody else just walks up through it. They take their time. They rest. They acknowledge they are far too old and have never had this type of physical activity in their life, and are woefully unprepared for the steepness of the stairs in front of them. You know, normal. Well, Grammie decided that just wasn't an option. She wanted a more authentic experience."
"Why am I afraid to find out what that means?"
"Probably because you've heard enough stories about my grandmother. This time she was pretending an ancient tribe was coming after her to turn her into a human sacrifice, and she was trying to escape from them. She started running about thirty feet from the base of the steps and sprinted as far as she could up them."
"Wow, that's both culturally insensitive and historically inaccurate. I'm actually impressed."
"So were most of the people trying to get up steps around her."
"Where was Gramps at this point? Had he gotten there yet?"
"Oh, he was there. He was standing at the bottom of the steps holding his hands out waiting to catch her."
"And how long did the sprinting last?"
"About seven or eight steps. Then she tripped, fell on her face, and slid back down right into Gramps' arms."
Esme snorts. "Oh, no. Was she alright?"
"She was perfectly fine. She scraped up her knees a little, but that's only because she had insisted on wearing her tourist shorts."
"Wait – if Gramps was there to catch her when she fell, who was taking all the pictures?"
"A terrified-into-paralysis tour guide who was no longer employed after that day."
"Perfect."
"But, see? That’s the kind of woman she is. She's not weak or feeble. She's always been too strong and eccentric for her own good, honestly. I can't think of her as some old woman rattling around in her empty old house by herself, and who's getting hurt just trying to do basic things like walk."
"To be fair, I've hurt myself going down the stairs."
I sag onto the bed.
"It's not the same thing."
"I know it's not."
Esme sounds sympathetic, and I feel the heavy emotions of the situation starting to settle in.
"I left her alone," I say. "I left her behind. I was all she had after Gramps died, and I up and vanished. I thought she was going to be fine. She always had stories about the ladies she spends time with and her most recent pet projects whenever she came to visit. I thought she had a more interesting life than I do. But she fell and now she’s hurt."
"You can't blame yourself for that," Esme says. "From everything I've heard about this woman, there's no reason you should have worried about her. It's not like she needs somebody there to take care of her.”
"Yes, she does. That's why she called me. Grammie said she can't do anything by herself and that I’m the only one who can help her recover. I should have been there for her."
"Fiona, you can't do that to yourself. You're an adult. Adults leave the nest. They get their own apartments, start their careers, and do things by themselves. I'm sure she's going to be okay. She'll probably only need you there for a little while because she's hobbling around in a giant cast, and it's too awkward for her to do anything."
"She asked me to stay as long as I can," I groan.
"What did Mr. Hansen say about it?"
"Oh, fucking-shit-fuck."
"I'm going to take that as your way of saying you haven't told him yet?"
"I completely forgot."
I rub my eye with the heel of my hand, internally spewing an even more creative stream of profanity. How could I have forgotten to tell my boss I'm not coming in tomorrow and I need at least three weeks off?
"Do you want me to tell him when I get in?" Esme asks.
"No. Thanks, but I should do it. He owes me vacation time anyway. And the man still treats me like I'm his secretary, so there's got to be some sort of equity built up there. I'll give you a call later. Sorry to wake you up."
"It's fine. You know I'm always here. Besides, you gave me enough extra time in my morning routine to shape my eyebrows. They thank you."
"Well, good. Tell them I said you're welcome. They're welcome? I'll call you later. Bye."
I end the call and take a breath to prep myself for calling Mr. Hansen. I am not looking forward to this conversation. The far-side-of-middle-aged man and the twelve dark blond hairs he keeps swept across his gleaming pink scalp, like they convince anybody, is a bit of a crapshoot. Sometimes he's a fantastic boss, showering me with praise and joking with everybody around the office. And sometimes he calls me Tina and asks why I haven't finished projects assigned to four other people. He always expects to show up in the morning to a box of donuts in the breakroom and me already at my desk.
And I do it.
Damn it all to hell, I do it.
Maybe I'm starting to see why I've spent more of the last two weeks spinning in my desk chair than actually working.
I give myself some time to prepare for what I know will be an unpleasant conversation by getting ready for the day. Leaving my suitcase only partially packed, I go take a shower and dress. I apply some basic makeup – foundation, mascara, and a nude lip – and sweep my long light red hair up into a bun in deference to the tremendous heat I know will be waiting for me outside. Finally, I can't put off calling Mr. Hansen any longer.
The sun is peeking through the blinds when I finally zip up my toiletry bag and pick up my phone from the nightstand. I dial Mr. Hansen and start to drag my biggest suitcase toward the living room so it'll be easier to load into the car when we’re done talking. After ringing for a dishearteningly long time, the phone finally clicks, and I hear a garbled sound. It takes me a few seconds before I realized it was Mr. Hansen answering.
"Mr. Hansen?" I ask.
"Fiona?" he mumbles. "What time is it?"
I put my phone away from my ear to glance at the screen.
"Almost 7:00.”
"What in the world are you doing calling me at such an ungodly hour?" he groans.
Even though I know he can't see me, I can't resist shooting a look of indignation at the phone.
"Usually at this time, I would be on my way to the bakery to pick up your donuts, so they are waiting in the break room for you," I point out.
There's a sprinkle more sass in my voice than I probably should have used, but in the two seconds we've been talking, Mr. Hanson has already aggravated me. This man owns the company I work for. He directly benefits from the four years of dedication, and donuts, I have brought the company. Even in the slump I've been in recently, I've put more into my career and found more success than most of the people who have been with him more than a decade. And finding out that he’s stretched out in bed, hours after the people whose work he takes credit for have gotten up to start the day, seriously pisses me off.
"Oh," he says, grunting and groaning like he's trying to struggle his way into a sitting position. "What's wrong, then? You didn't need to call me personally if you were going to be late this morning. You should have just called Stacey."
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