Page 2 of Crashing Tides

When I throw up, it’s a pink and reeking puddle right next to the headstone.

Chapter

Two

Aweek later, Aunt Gretchen arrives at the door armed with a bag of dog food, three frozen casseroles, and a heap of groceries. “You can’t live on protein powder and—” she gestures around the messy kitchen “—whatever else this is.”

It’s empty bottles of wine and cereal boxes, mostly, with the occasional can of diet soda from Mom’s stash in the garage. All of it is piled neatly on the counter, ready to go out to recycling.

I just haven’t dealt with it yet.

In my defense, most of the mess in the house belonged to Mom. When I arrived, it was more cluttered than I’d ever seen it. Papers crammed into every nook and cranny, the pantry stocked until the door wouldn’t shut, the refrigerator about to burst. She’d somehow acquired more cutlery and plates than she could possibly use. The linen closets and bathroom were similarly overstuffed. I found eight boxes of condoms crammed into my bedside table, all expired. (I want to laugh, but I can’t. She was always so worried, and now she’s gone and I can’t tell her that I don’t get laid enough for this absolute arsenal.)

It’s almost like she’d been waiting for me to come home. Stocking up so that I didn’t have to go shopping when I finally arrived.

Whenever I think about it, I feel a pang. I should have left Jeremy before I found out about Marc.

Aunt Gretchen stomps past a barking Bruce, who seems to have forgotten that she comes by at least once a week and gives him treats. Skinny as she is, she barely fits between the shoe racks in the entryway, which are exploding with high heels and flip-flops and barely used tennis shoes. I’m not sure when Mom bought all of these, or why.

Once a casserole is in the oven, Gretchen sits down at the table and uncaps a bottle of iced tea with a loud pop! “So. It’s time we talk about the house.”

I groan internally. Of course she wants to talk about the house.

Gretchen is Mom’s half-sister. She’s seven years older, but she looks at least a decade more in her oversized floral blouse and tan pants. Permed hair puffs out from the sides of her head, just barely covering dangling gold earrings reminiscent of a pirate’s.

Mom had scars on the tops of her ears. Sometimes I wonder if Gretchen has them, too.

But it would be impolite to ask. Gretchen has been my rock through all of this, driving forty-five minutes each way to make sure I’m still alive. She’s brought me endless groceries, and sat with me after the funeral when I couldn’t stop shaking. I’d probably be dead without her.

“What do you want to do with the house, Dominic?”

I brush a piece of hair from my face and frown down at the scuffed, white tabletop. The truth is, I don’t know. Now that I’m here, I can’t imagine leaving. The problem is that I can’t imagine staying, either. It’s like my entire brain has shorted out. I can’t think of any options. I can’t envision a future where I’m here or anywhere else.

I knew this was coming. Sooner or later, I’d have to decide if I wanted to sell or try to pay the mortgage.

My job is the next state over. I’m almost out of extended family leave.

But I can’t picture myself in the office anymore, answering phones and running meetings, acting like I want to be there, like I have any energy left to sell products that won’t do anything to make anyone’s life better.

Mom went to a lot of trouble to leave me the house. The mortgage is lower than my rent, but without anyone to split it with, I’ll be paying a lot more each month. And there is no way I can find a roommate when the house is… like this.

“Keep it?” My voice is unsteady. “At least, for now.”

She nods slowly. “Alright. Can you afford the mortgage?”

I shrug, trace my finger over a crack in the laminate. “Maybe for a few months.”

“Greg and I can help you,” she says.

“You don’t have to⁠—”

“We already agreed. God knows you’ve been through enough.”

“Thanks,” I say, and hug her.

Later, when we’re digging through the papers inside a storage tote Mom shoved into the bathroom beside the litter box, Gretchen says, “She was a smart woman, your mother. I’m sure she had a reason to keep all of this.”

“I think it was the tumor,” I interject, stuffing yet another CVS receipt into a trash bag. “She got... really weird a couple months before her diagnosis.”