Page 22 of How to Kiss a Hawthorne Brother
My gaze darts to Kristyn who looks as concerned as I do.
“Is it a big deal? Because we’re going to be there in less than five minutes, and we’re planning onstayingthere.”
“No, no, no. Nothing big. The house is livable. I even had the house cleaner drop by to make up fresh beds for you and adjust the thermostat, so it should be nice and comfortable.”
“Oh. That was nice of you.”
“Nonsense. It’s what people do, Kate. You would know that if you ever came home. You’dalwayshave a fresh bed ready for you.”
I grit my teeth and force a breath in through my nose. “What’s up with the house, Mom?”
“It’s a small thing, really. It’s just...well, your Grandma Nora’s bedroom is a little more crowded than usual. It might take some extra time to go through her things.”
“Crowded? Crowded with what?”
“Oh, you know. This and that.”
“I don’t know what that means.”
I turn onto Millcreek Lane and slow down as I approach Grandma Nora’s house, wondering which of the neighboring houses is Brody’s. Though, neighboring is a relative term. The houses all sit on at least an acre, with huge yards and stretches of forest dividing them. A house that’s three doors down might be a quarter mile away.
“She liked to hold onto things in the months right before she died,” Mom says. “And she did all kinds of shopping. The home shopping channel, and online too. Honestly, I didn’t even know she knew how to use the internet.”
I pull the car into the circle drive in front of Grandma Nora’s house. The yard is neatly trimmed, and there are fresh flowers in the pots on the front porch. It doesn’t look like a house that’s been sitting empty for four years.
“I don’t think she always understood what she was buying,” Mom continues. “But she got so upset when I tried to stop her. Anyway, I’m sure you’ll see it all when you get there. It’s mostly in the back bedroom and in the hall closet. I only mention it because I didn’t want you to wonder where it all came from.”
“Okay, well, thanks for the heads up.” I cut the engine and look at Kristyn who has been working hard not to laugh as she listens to my mom’s...warning? I don’t know what else to call it.
I’m imagining a hoarding situation, piles of debris and garbage mixed with unopened Amazon boxes and storage bins full of broken lightbulbs, but I can’t imagine Mom letting it get that bad. She’s always been pretty fastidious. And Grandma Nora was too.
“We’re here now, Mom, all right? I’ll call you if I have any questions.”
“There should be a lot that you can sell, Katherine. Things that are still in their original packaging, even.”
A dull ache starts to pulse at the back of my head. Mom already made it clear she left most of Grandma Nora’s things behind when she moved. Linens, housewares, décor. I was planning to keep what could be used to stage the house and donate the rest. Sellinganything,original packaging or not, doesn’t sound like much fun. “All right, well, I’ll keep you posted.”
I end the call, drop my phone into my lap and lean my head against the seat, my eyes closed. “What have I gotten myself into?”
Kristyn unbuckles her seatbelt. “We might as well get inside and see.”
I open my eyes and shoot her a look. “You seem way too excited about this.”
She shrugs, but it doesn’t do anything to diminish the literal glee dancing in her eyes. “I saw an episode of that hoarding show on Netflix that was all about a situation just like this. A grandma who had this crazy addiction to online shopping. She spent all her money on eBay though, on those mystery boxes people sell? Where you pay for the box having no idea what’s inside it?”
“That’s an actual thing?”
“Totally. And it’s crazy what some of them sell for.” She climbs out of the car, and I follow, moving to the hatch to retrieve our luggage.
“Anyway,” she goes on, “they found the craziest stuff in her house. She had something like ten thousand spoons, none of them matching. What could someone possibly do with that many spoons?”
I half-wonder if Kristyn realizes the gift she’s giving me with her random babbling. As long as she’s talking, I’m not freaking out. And walking up the steps to my childhood home for the first time in half a decade—the first time since before Grandma Nora died—has significant freakout potential. “Only spoons?” I say as I retrieve the key from under the flowerpot next to the front door. It’s right where Mom said she left it. “No forks and knives to match?”
“Only spoons. And no one in her family could figure out why.”
I unlock the door and push it open, not letting myself hesitate. I can handle this. I can do hard things. I can...stand right here on the porch without going inside.
It isn’t that my childhood home was unhappy. I was safe and cared for. I had food to eat and clothes to wear. But my mother and me? We didn’t get along. Still don’t get along. We aren’t...enemies, exactly. We just don’t understand each other.
