Page 9 of An Introvert's Guide to Life and Love
My dad sits at my parents’ kitchen table, reading the house documents. One finger wanders up to scratch the top of his head. I sit across from him, hunched over, biting my thumbnail.
Finally, he tucks his reading glasses into his shirt pocket. “This all looks pretty standard, Mal Gal. After you sign here, we’ll send this back to Leonard and Lottie’s representation, and it’ll be official. You’re a homeowner.”
I exhale, only just realizing how tense I’ve been. “And are we sure there’s…?” I trail off, jiggling my leg nervously. “I mean, what about… Maeve?”
“Maeve?” my mother asks from the kitchen, where she’s making a pot of tea. “Mom left it toyou.”
“Yes, but Maeve is…”
Older, wiser, has caretaking experience? She’s a mom, for gosh sakes!a panicked voice in my head squeals.
Hear me out, says another, more rational voice in my brain.Could this possibly be your little-sister impostor syndrome talking?
“I guess that’s true,” I say out loud.
“What?” Mom asks.
Talking to the voices in my head: Add another tally to the column marked “Unfit to Care for a House/Grandpa.”
It’s been over twenty-four hours now, and I still can’t wrap my mind around it. There I was, living my life the same way day in and day out, looking after myself and my apartment, and all of a sudden I’ve inherited… Pebble Cottage and Leonard Gilberstein.
“Mom,” I say slowly. She places a mug of chamomile tea in front of me and sits down. “Do you have any idea why Lottie would do this?”
“Well…” She tilts her head to the side and blinks, staring into the middle distance.
Dad chimes in. “Lottie never explained her reasoning to anyone. As a rule.”
“That is true,” Mom says, “but she told me enough over the years that I think I can puzzle it out. She saw Gramps in you, Mallory.”
“Huh?” I don’t know what I expected her to say, but it wasn’t that.
“Ever since you were little, she said you were like him. You both have a quietness about you. You both prefer to be on the edge of the action, observing, rather than in the thick of it.”
“Oh.” I didn’t know I shared this with Gramps. It certainly rings true for my own personality. Growing up, though, I always figured Gramps was in his own little world because he was busy and important, thinking brilliant scientific thoughts. It’s funny to think that maybe he’s actually just an introvert, like me. It sort of makes me smile.
“Well.” I bite my lip nervously. “Hand me the pen. Let’s do this.”
I try to remember the last time I saw the house. My grandparents lived there for decades, raising their two daughters there. They moved into their beachfront retirement community when I was probably twelve or thirteen, so my memories of the house are all from early childhood. I remember the room with the boxy old TVwhere we watched Cartoon Network—the brown room. Brown carpets and dark-brown, wood-paneled walls. I remember a giant sunroom, enclosed on all sides by screens, with slightly rusty deck chairs and a glass-topped table where Lottie and Mom and Trish would play Scrabble and drink iced tea. I remember stepping down with bare feet onto a cobbled pathway—the stones were always warm from the sun, even at night—and feeling enveloped in the tiny, overgrown backyard, full of lush green bushes, short trees with spiky leaves, and St. Augustine grass. It smelled green. The air was always humid and sweet. And of course, there was the pool. It was small and oblong, shaped like a kidney bean. At night, the water glowed teal from lights under the surface. I liked to watch the water ripple in the evenings as lightning bugs zapped around overhead.
I haven’t thought about the place in ages. It became a forgotten memory after Lottie and Gramps moved into Sandy Shores, with its two fancy pools, the endless rooms to explore—the party room, the library, the gym—and, of course, the beach. I’m glad I can remember details about Pebble Cottage now.
I feel like I’m getting a handle on owning the house, so I turn my attention to the other part of the package deal: Gramps.
Midmorning on a Friday, I begin typing an email to him, and then I stop. If I’m going to do this properly, I should put in a little more effort. So I pick up the phone instead.
It rings for a long time before he answers.
“’Lo?”
“Gramps? Hi, it’s Mallory. Did I catch you at a bad time?”
“Hello, Mallory. No, no. I was just… resting.”
I glance at the time. It’s almost two in the afternoon in Florida. Was he sleeping?
“Well, how are you?” I cringe—I have no idea what I’m supposed to be saying or asking.
“Oh, fine. I’m fine, thanks for asking.” There’s a pause. “How are you?”
