Chapter Eight: Lucy

CHAPTER EIGHTLUCY

The next morning, I go to see Grandma. I invite Mom, hoping she’ll say no, but she grabs her crutches and hobbles out to my car.

“Has she sent you a picture of the house?” Mom asks as I navigate the streets of Plumpton. I remember them well, much to my dismay.

“No.”

“God, it’s awful. I’m so embarrassed.”

I stand in front of it and cock my head. “Huh.”

Mom grunts as she digs her crutches into the dirt and stops next to me. “She sold her old house—which was paid off, I’d like to add—to buy this … thing.”

“It’s pink.”

“Yes.”

“I feel like she should have mentioned that.”

“She had them paint it that color on purpose. It was supposed to be brown.”

“Huh.”

“It’s two hundred and fifty square feet. Who in the world wants to live in two hundred and fifty square feet?”

“Grandma, apparently.”

“And why is it on wheels? Where is she going to take it? She’s never left Texas.”

That, I must admit, is a good point.

The tiny house is kind of cute, actually. It’s basically a square box on wheels, but it has a certain charm, and it’s not just the cheery pink color. There’s a garden on the left side, and in front, two chairs and a small table. It’s on a plot of land surrounded by trees, a much larger home barely visible in the distance.

The door opens, and Grandma steps out. She wears a loose, faded blue dress with white daisies dotting the hem. Her gray hair is pulled into a bun and her lips are a bright pink color that almost matches the house. I don’t think I’ll look that good when I’m eighty.

“Lucy!” She spreads her arms wide.

I walk across the grass to embrace her. She holds me at arm’s length when I pull away.

“You’re not just my favorite grandchild, you’re also the most attractive one by a mile.”

“Mom.” Mom stops next to me with a grunt. “I wish you would stop saying that. It’s so rude.”

“It’s only rude if you tell the other ones.” Grandma turns away, waving for us to follow. “Come in! I made iced tea.”

I follow her inside, cold air blasting my face as I step out of the heat. Mom shivers. One upside of a tiny house—easy to keep cool in the summer. Or freezing cold, if you’re Grandma.

For two hundred and fifty square feet, the house makes impressive use of space. There’s a kitchenette to my right, and to the left, a sofa against the wall with a television mounted opposite it. For a moment, I wonder whether she sleeps on the sofa, until I see a rollout bed tucked into the wall. There’s a bathroom in the far corner with only a curtain for a door.

“Sit down, Kathleen, you’re making me nervous on those crutches.” Grandma points at the couch, and Mom obediently sits. I put her crutches against the wall.

“See, I can just move the table around when I have company!” Grandma slides the small square table so it’s in front of the couch.

I sit on one of the stools she pulls from underneath it. “It’s very nice.”

Mom shoots me a look like I shouldn’t encourage her. Grandma pours tea from a jug into three glasses, and then plunks two of them on the table. They’re stemless wineglasses, the kind you’re supposed to use for red. I only know this because Nathan is insufferably pretentious about wine. I like to drink my wine straight from the can.

“I’m glad you think so. Your mother is extremely disapproving.”

I take a long sip of tea and smile at her. Grandma doesn’t ask if you want your tea sweet or unsweet. There’s only one way iced tea is made, in her opinion—sweet enough to leave a nice coating of sugar at the bottom of the glass. (She is correct.)

Mom waves her arms around in a way that feels disapproving. “You had a three-bedroom house! And now you live in a closet!”

“Tiny houses are very hip. Millennials love them.”

“You’re not a Millennial.”

She shrugs once, a shrug that would make Arya Stark proud.

Mom looks at me. Two matching vertical lines have appeared between her eyebrows. “Her old house was lovely. It had those big windows in the kitchen, and a sunroom in back.”

She says this to me like I don’t remember the house just fine. Like I didn’t spend many evenings there as a kid to avoid the yelling and tension at home. Grandma and I would sit at the kitchen table, eating candy that would ruin my dinner, while staring out the huge windows at the neighbor who always had to chase her little dog down the street.

“The sunroom was too hot most of the time anyway,” I say. Mom sighs.

Grandma nods in agreement, and then reaches into a cabinet to grab a bottle of vodka. She pours some into her tea.

Mom purses her lips. “Mom, it’s not even noon.”

“What’s your point?” She pours a little more into the glass. “Lucy, you want some?”

“No, thank you.” I try not to laugh.

“I seriously don’t understand developing a drinking problem in your seventies,” Mom says.

Grandma sits at the head of the table. “Why not? Way I see it, seems like the perfect time to develop a drinking problem. It’s dull as hell around here.”

I’m pressing my lips together hard to keep from laughing. Mom mutters something I can’t understand.

“Let’s give it a rest for today, shall we?” Grandma takes a long sip of her drink. “You can resume judging all my life choices after Lucy goes back to L.A.”

Mom sighs heavily but doesn’t argue. She adjusts the front of her pale green blouse, like having her neckline in order might fix this situation as well.

“How is L.A.?” Grandma asks. “How’s Nathan?”

“Mmhhh … I think that’s about to run its course.” He still hasn’t located his balls and officially dumped me, but I did get a we should talk when you’re back text this morning that I haven’t replied to yet.

Mom looks from me to Grandma, a tiny frown on her face. Mom didn’t know about Nathan. It occurs to me now that Mom probably has no idea how often I talk to Grandma. Far more often than I talk to her.

Grandma has also noticed Mom’s expression and now looks very pleased with herself. “And how is Plumpton? Different than when you left?”

“A little. There’s a Starbucks.”

Mom drinks her tea and makes a face. She puts it down, nudging it to the other side of the table. “Did you give some thought to what you want to do for your party?”

“Oh yes, I made a list.” She jumps out of her chair—she moves like she’s many years younger than eighty—and grabs a piece of paper from the kitchen counter. She hands it over to me. It’s a list of people to invite, a few food suggestions, and a list of cocktails. At the bottom, in capital letters, it says “PIE.”

“Instead of cake?” I point to the word.

“Yes. Several types of pie. But definitely pecan. And apple. And peach.”

I laugh. “Okay. I’m sure Dad can handle that.”

Mom nods. “Don makes an excellent apple pie.”

Grandma looks at me. “You know that radio host is in town?”

“Podcaster, Mom. They call them podcasters now.” Mom glances at me and then quickly away.

I rub the goosebumps on my arms. “Mom told me.”

The very large bottle of vodka is still on the counter. I imagine smashing it into Mom’s head.

A soft voice whispers in my ear, “Let’s kill—”

“Has he ever tried to contact you?” Grandma asks.

“Let’s kill—”

Not now. I shake my head, and the voice, away. “He emailed me.”

Mom blinks. “About what?”

“About doing an interview.”

“What did you say?”

“Nothing. I didn’t respond.”

She clucks her tongue. “That’s rude.”

“I never respond to emails about Savvy.”

“Can’t blame you,” Grandma says.

Mom leans back in her chair. “He was perfectly nice.”

“Of course he was; he wanted something from you.” Grandma turns her attention back to me. “Are you going to go see people while you’re in town? Any of your old friends?”

I snort. “What friends?”