Page 18 of Mountain Grump
I shake my head again, remembering the out-of-body feeling when I deposited the twenty-thousand-dollar check Uncle Jack gave me.
I knew he wasn’t hurting, but I didn’t think he had that sort of money sitting around.
Or maybe it was his retirement? That he didn’t get a chance to use.
Tears build along my lashes. Again. And I groan.
It’s too quiet.
That’s the problem.
And it’s going to remain a problem because there’s no internet here. Barely any cell service.
Maybe I could get internet? But I don’t really know how to go about that either. I’m so far away fromeverything. I doubt the company I used in Vegas can just come plug a router into the wall. And, well, twenty thousand is more money than I’ve ever had in my life. But it’s not enough to live off, so I need to make it last.
I’ll start to worry about my job situation tomorrow.
The house is paid off. I don’t have rent or a mortgage. So minimum wage might be enough. I have to figure out how the utilities work, but I know how to grocery shop on a budget. And electricity, garbage, and water can’t be that much.
Or am I on a well?
Unsure what my water source is, I look back down at the water pouring out of the faucet into the tub.
Not wanting to waste it, I bend and stick my hand under the flow.
Hot!
A real smile pulls across my mouth, and I pull the little doodad on the faucet to redirect the water to the shower head. There’s a pause. A stutter. Then steaming water shoots out with a hiss.
Excitement fills me as I step under the stream and pull the shower curtain closed behind me.
Then I remember that I haven’t unpacked my toiletries.
I don’t even know which box they’re in.
My shoulders slump. “Crap.”
I’m tempted to just stand here, let the water do its work, but I have blood on me. And dirt containing who knows what caked onto my cuts.
Dripping wet, I step out of the shower onto the white bath mat.
Crossing my fingers, I take hurried but careful steps across the bathroom to the tall cabinets and pull open one of the doors.
A massive bottle of shampoo, and a six pack of green bars of soap—minus two—stare back at me.
“Yes!” I snag a bar of soap and start to turn back to the shower, but then I see the empty towel bar on the wall.
I open the other cabinet door and spot a stack of white towels. After grabbing one, I drape it over the towel bar, then step back under the spray of water.
Fifteen minutes later, I reemerge from the shower. My hair is twisted back in a damp braid, not washed, but the rest of me—forehead to toes—is scrubbed to a squeaky level of clean.
Standing, I let water drip off me for a minute before pulling the curtain back and reaching for the towel.
As I dry myself, I can’t help but notice that the towels smell nice. Like laundry. And I wonder what his process was like when he packed everything up at the end of the summer. Clearly, he did all the laundry, putting towels away, packing up the bedding. But even then, I haven’t noticed much dust.
I think about the box of popcorn on the counter. And how it seems like he left it there for me.
Did he have this plan even last fall? When he closed up the house, did he know then that I would be the one coming back here, not him?
