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“Emotionally, it does notmake sense. Not to me.”
She avoids my eyes. “It’s hard being in that house without her.”
“I agree, but wouldn’t it be harder to never be able to go back to that house again? What about her murals?” No one will get them. They’re us. They’re for us.
“Well, they’d be painted over, baby.”
I whip my head toward her, heart racing.“What?”
She watches me for a second, pity in her eyes.Pity.“It’s okay.”
“No, it’s not.”
“It’s expensive to have a big house. We could make some money, spend less each month. Afford your tuition.” She sighs again, then checks her watch, because she’s the type that wears those outdated things. It’s not even a pedometer or anything, it just tells time—and it makes you work for it, too, without any digital display. “I have to get in there to meet the, uh, I don’t know, the person.”
“The Realtor?” I cross my arms over my chest, fully intending to wait this out in the car. Maybe she’ll change her mind if she has to go alone. I would.
“No, she works at the front office.” She opens her door and slides out. “Are you coming?”
I don’t want to. I don’t want to participate in this, see a new potential home, have the traitorous feeling of excitement at another room to decorate. But I can’t let her do this on her own, either. Not after she admitted it was hard living in her mother’s house without her there. I can’t imagine growing up in that house and not having both of them, not having my mom. I guess I can see her point. The ghost of all the good times would haunt me every day, reminding me just how lonely I am.
“Do they accept dogs?” I ask without getting out of the car.
She walks around and pulls my door open. “Of course they do.”
“All dogs?” I ask, slowly getting out. “I don’t want to live at a place that excludes because of breeds.”
“Bagel will have tons of non-Pomeranian friends here. There’s even a dog park area in the courtyard.” She pulls me to her side and squeezes. “Thank you.”
“I’m not doing this for you. I’m doing this for Bagel. He needs friends or he’s going to grow up into a dog that eats its owners.”
“We can’t have that.”
We walk into the building and meet Bev, the office manager, who shows us into the most disgusting place I’ve ever seen, and I’ve seen every episode ofKitchen Nightmares. You’d think if they’re trying to rent out this apartment, they might consider, I don’t know, cleaning it? Spraying some Febreze? Cracking a window and throwing out all the shit left from previous owners?
Bev flicks on the light switch, which only illuminates how terrible the place is even more than the dying sunlight creeping through the broken blinds did.
“Here we are.” She tries to subtly nudge aside an abandoned shoe, but I can’t look away from it. “The family left in a hurry, so we’re trying to get some new occupants as soon as possible to recoup the rent.”
My mom steps inside, but I’d rather stay out here. I’m not even being stubborn anymore. I’m pretty sure if I enter, I will drop dead from at least twenty diseases. There is literal trash spread across the dirty gray carpet, pieces of paint chipped off the walls, a few flies buzzing over dirty baking sheets on top ofthe stove, and a pungent wall of odor. I don’t care how cheap this apartment is; no amount of savings is worth this. No one should have to live like this.
With a voice that can’t hide she’s refusing to breathe through her nose, my mom asks, “And the utilities are included in the eight twenty a month?”
“Just the trash,” Bev says, pointing over her shoulder in the general direction where I saw an overflowing dumpster.
“Do you mind if we look around?” my mom asks, pulling me to her side with force. I stumble over the shoe Bev tried to hide.
“Feel free. I’ll be outside. If you have any questions, just shout.”
“Do you think shouting for help did any good for the family that was one hundred percent murdered here?” I ask quietly, even though Bev shut the door behind her.
My mom breaks free and spins slowly in the small living room. “Total mess aside, what are your thoughts?”
“That it stinks.”
“Stink aside.” She stills, raising an eyebrow. “You meant the actual smell, right?”
“How is this nearly a thousand bucks a month?” I step toward the small—everything is small here—kitchen and recoil from the tapioca linoleum floor when I see a trail of ants making their way to the refrigerator that I’m definitely not opening. “Are they serious?”
