Page 6 of The Ground Beneath Our Feet
OMG! I have to get you a going-away present!
Monica! You don't have to!
Yes, I do. Now that you’re a grown woman, I know just the thing.
Ooookay. Can’t wait to see.
That night I lay in my bed staring at the stalactite surface of the popcorn ceiling. I’d said yes to the apartment, but I hadn’t said yes to the job. And I couldn’t call Amelia until the morning.
What if this was the worst idea I’d ever had?
What if my momcouldn’tsurvive without me? She’d gotten used to me being the one to make sure that the mortgage was paid. I called the plumber when a sink got plugged. I got the oil changed on her car.
Would Brooks and Sebastian know how to do that? They were so young. Just baby adults.
When my dad was alive, they were helpless. I was the one who defended them. I was the one who kept them from being hurt.
They couldn’t make it without me.
I didn’t sleep. I just gazed at my ceiling and regretted agreeing to the room.
But the next morning, I called Amelia and accepted the job.
The next day, a FedEx arrived with keys and a note from Mikey that said,Make yourself at home. I normally get home from work around 5:30. Second floor, second door on the right.
The bold handwriting—all caps, slanted to the right—looked confident, like the email I’d received from him.
I also got a present from Monica that came in a fancy black box. She ran up to the house leaving her shiny red Honda running, with her dark hair freshly cut in a chic bob. She shoved the box in my hands, hugged me fiercely, and said with a faux glare, “You’d better call me. Or else.” After I thanked her and hugged her again, she whispered into my ear. “Better not let your mom see that.” Then she winked and was off.
The following day I made a dozen trips to the car, packing up my clothes into my Corolla. I left the smaller sizes in the back of my closet. I brought the present from Monica.
When I got into the car, my mom handed me a tin of homemade cookies and promised to come visit. Brooks hugged me hard, and Sebastian said, “You got this.” Looking back at the bars on the windows of my home, I wanted to leave it all behind and never return. But I loved my mom.
Still, I left.
I left, and the world didn’t end.
I drove up north to Santa Barbara, an expansive, open coastal drive. Soon, I got close enough to the beach to see the dark, gray-blue water. Although I was born in Los Angeles, I never went to the beach because I’d never put on a bikini.
When I got into Santa Barbara, I pulled off the freeway onto a leafy, tree-lined street, filled with rows of old houses. They were so pretty!
Looking around for the number, I found the right place and stopped in front of a light blue, gingerbread-laden, Victorian house, three stories, with trees in front and a small lawn. I got out.
An old hound dog lay on the porch, its jowls on its paws, and lifted an eyebrow when I approached.
Some guard dog.
The note gave instructions for which key to use, and I managed to unlock the old-fashioned door without any trouble. The dog yawned audibly.
I stepped inside. The house was cool but sunny, with hardwood floors and a few open windows. The sweet smell of the leafy spring trees continued inside and a warm breeze followed me in. The air felt so light, unlike the dark home I grew up in.
But it was a pigsty.
Papers everywhere. Mugs and glasses on every surface. Laundry strewn all over the couch.
A rabbit hopped around in the corner and what were clearly rabbit droppings were piled next to the coffee table. A turtle lurked in a huge tank to the side, and a one-eyed, ugly gray cat lazed in a sunlit square on the floor.
Who lived here, Dr. Doolittle?
