Page 93 of Whirlwind
“Emotions are hard,” Willa says.
That’s the damn truth. Today has completely wrung me out. It’s probably a good thing I have friends here to help me keep my shit straight.
The following day, we get to work cleaning out the house. Luckily, my grandma was tidy and didn’t like clutter. We move from room to room, sorting piles for donation, trash, and a small stack of things I want to keep.
There’s a meager teaspoon collection that I know was her mother’s, a coffee mug that I made her in a pottery class I took in the tenth grade, and a small box of her family pictures. There are more from her childhood than there are from mine, reinforcing my thoughts on her adult life. She didn’t lead a happy one.
It makes me sad for her. For women like her, who get trapped in unfulfilling or abusive relationships. It makes me sadder for the children trapped in those situations. It’s the cycle of thought I repeatedly end up with. Like always, I remind myself that I got out of the situation. I found a way to live on my terms, by my rules. I’m no longer anyone’s victim. And as much as I wish I could have changed my grandmother’s situation, she made her own choices.
My phone chimes with a text, bringing me out of my depressing thoughts. It’s a message from my father, telling me that the funeral home will have her ashes ready to inter inside the same mausoleum as my grandfather, two days from now. These were arrangements she made prior to her death. To me, it feels wrong for her to be resting eternally with her abuser, but that’s not mycall. He also says that the attorney who prepared her will has paperwork for me to sign and will be coming by the house.
The house that I don’t know what to do with. Damian offered to find a property management company to upkeep it, if I decide not to sell it. I’m not sure what benefit there is to keeping it, though. I have no interest in being a landlord, nor do I have any reason to come back here in the future. Selling it is logical, but that doesn’t feel quite right, either. It conjures an icky swirl in my stomach, like I’m profiting from her death.
“You don’t need to make a decision, now,” Damian says when I express that. “Whenever you decide, whatever it is you decide, we’ll be here to help take care of it.”
This is my family—Willa, Damian, Zander, the Coles, the Wylders. They are the type of family everyone deserves. The type that shows up, not only when you need it most, but always. Maybe I should have been more of that for my grandmother, but she should have been more of that for me, too.
Now, it’s too late for either of us to make those amends.
If anything, it gives me more perspective on my situation with Tyson. I don’t know if I’ll ever be secure as anything more than a friend to him. There are still discussions that have to be had. What I do know is that I won’t shy away from those conversations. I’ll give the opportunity for amends to be made—even if, after it’s all said and done, Tyson isn’t my man, after all.
Because another thing I’m sure of, is that I won’t compromise by being second choice. I won’t settle for what I can get, instead of what I deserve, only to die lonely anyway. I won’t live a life of what-ifs, like my grandmother did.
I do hope we’ll always be something to each other, though. He’s given me so much in such little time. It wouldn’t be right to share so much with someone, only to end up never speaking.
“We should order pizza, tonight,” I suggest, as we finish up in my grandmother’s bedroom. The only thing staying is the nightstand, lamp, and bed that Willa and Damian are sleeping on. The rest is being donated. “And I’ll ask Tyson to come over. I feel bad that he came all the way here and he’s been hanging out in the dingy motel all day.”
“Pizza does sound good,” Willa says.
“The car is full,” Damian says, poking his head into the room. He’s been making runs all morning to the Goodwill. “Need anything while I’m out?”
“Pizza,” Willa and I say in unison.
“Got it.”
“Enough for Tyson, too,” I add.
“No problem. Be back soon. Call if you think of anything else.”
“Thank you, Damian.”
“No worries, Kit.”
I text Tyson to ask if he’ll come over.
Tyson:
I’d love to, thanks for the invite.
Next, I shower, and try to make myself presentable after a day of cleaning. As soon as I turn the hair dryer off, I hear a knock on the front door. Damian is already back and hollers that he’ll answer it. Shortly after, Willa knocks on the door to tell me the attorney is here.
She’s a woman in her late fifties, if I had to guess. Introducing herself as Susan, she tells me she met my grandmother years ago, when they both joined a cribbage group that met one night a week at the community center.
“It’s too bad they didn’t catch the cancer earlier,” she says.
“Cancer?” I ask.
“Yes, dear. She didn’t want to tell you she was diagnosed with late-stage colon cancer early this year. I figured your father would have told you since she passed.”
