The thought of selling the vault of my best childhood memories hurts, especially now that Grandma is no longer here to share them with. Mom thinks if I spend time here, fixing the cottage up, I’ll find some healing along the way.
I’m sorry, Grandma.
It takes some effort, but I manage to wrangle my suitcase and bags up onto the porch. Finding the key Mom gave me, buried at the bottom of my giant handbag, though, proves to be quite the challenge. By the time I locate the key and shove it into the lock, I’ve broken a sweat and am desperate for a shower. For as much as I fly, I never get used to the filmy, oily, germ-infested feeling on my skin after being trapped in a metal tube full of coughing people. Just thinking about it makes my skin crawl.
I suck in a deep breath and attempt to steady myself before stepping inside. Reminders of our epic, laughter-filled summers will be everywhere and it’s going to be painful.
“You can do this,” I say to myself, firm and no-nonsense, the same way I speak confidently to a client. “You’re an Everhart and Everharts are strong women.”
The wind chimes clatter against each other as a warm breeze tickles over my sweaty flesh. I get another whiff of strawberries and it’s grounding.
I can do this.
The door creaks on its hinges as I open it. A puff of dust swirls around me, sending me into a coughing fit. My eyes burn and it takes a beat for the dust to clear from my abrupt entry.
As my eyes adjust to the dim light, I realize this is not what I remember.
Am I at the right house?
I blink over and over, trying to focus on anything that might clue me in on what’s going on here. It’s then I see a picture of my mom when she was pregnant with me. There, sitting on the mantel above the fireplace, covered in inch-thick dust is the proof I need.
What happened?
I drop my luggage and bags so I can fish my phone out of my pocket. It’s been buzzing nonstop with work stuff. I’ve conveniently ignored everything, resentment of my job stubbornly making itself known. Even now, seeing multiple worried texts from my boyfriend and boss, Denver, I skip over them to dial my mother.
“Hi, love,” Mom says, voice breathy as she answers. “I’m at my spin class. Is this an emergency or a check-in?”
My throat tightens and chin wobbles. “Everything’s so filthy. Covered in dust.” Boxes are stacked everywhere. Piles of paper clutter any and all surfaces. It smells faintly of mildew too. “Why didn’t you warn me?”
The upbeat dance music in the background makes it hard to hear her response. Something about how she “didn’t go inside,” and “you know how your grandma is,” and “I’m sure a little sweeping and it’ll be good as new.”
And then she’s off the phone, promising to call after her workout.
I stand in the middle of a war zone, confused, and frankly, traumatized.
All those texts and calls and postcards of Grandma asking me to come visit… They didn’t exactly go ignored, but there was always an excuse. It’s not that I didn’t ever see Grandma, but sheflew out to visit us on holidays, never the other way around. Not once did she ever mention struggling.
And, yet she was.
This house is proof that she could no longer handle caring for the cottage, and likely, herself.
A sob crawls up my throat and I release it, my entire body shuddering. Grief swallows me up like the tide. I gasp for air, trying to make it all make sense.
While Mom was in spin class and shopping and being with her boyfriend, Ron, Grandma was in this.
While I was off galivanting all over the world, helping Denver build his marketing firm, Grandma was in this.
We’re her family, and when she needed us most, we were absent.
I’m frozen in horror. Guilt eats me from the inside out. I want to turn on my heel and run far, far away from this childhood dream turned nightmare. At least when I’m on the east coast or traveling for work, I can put Grandma and Budgie Bay in the back of my mind. It’s easy to stay distracted.
There’s nothing to do now but face the music. Admit that we failed a good woman and have to live with that the rest of our lives.
You’re an Everhart and Everharts are strong women.
I certainly don’t feel very strong right now.
“One thing at a time,” I say aloud, voice raspy and trembling, as I sidestep my bags piled on the dirty floor beside me. “When I finish, it’ll be as good as new.”
