Chapter Seven

August 22

The house is unlocked when I get back, which is a good thing, since I realize, as soon as I pull the Jeep into the driveway,

that I completely forgot to ask my mom for a key.

The house also seems to be empty. I toss the car key onto the table by the door. Nobody’s in the living room or in the kitchen.

“Mom?”

There’s no answer. I go down the hall to my bedroom (my suitcase and the trash bag of clothes are still there, which is more

comforting than it should be), and then to her bedroom. It looks the same as it did when I lived here. Same floral quilt on

her bed. Same photo collection on her dresser—a picture of my uncle Darby in his air force uniform, a black-and-white photo

of her parents on their fiftieth wedding anniversary, my old school pictures...

Another shiver goes up my back. This is not helping.

I stick my fists in my eyes, trying to push away whatever the hell I saw in the bookstore, and go back down the hall to the

kitchen. I’m about to try the basement when I glance out the window and see my mom, halfway up a stepladder in the backyard

under the big maple tree, which still has a tire swing hanging from one of the biggest branches. Mr. Grumpy is sitting at

her feet, tongue lolling out of his mouth, looking anxious. Or maybe that’s just the forehead wrinkles.

I push my way out the back door. “Mom!”

She turns her head and looks down at me. She’s wearing sunglasses and a wide-brimmed straw hat, but otherwise she’s still

in her pajama pants and bathrobe. “Oh, hi, Darby! Did you just get back?”

“What are you doing up there?”

She points to the tire swing. “Cheryl says I’ve got to get this thing down before we show the house. I’m trying to remember

how we got it up here in the first place.”

I look at the tire swing. And then up at the branch. Force myself to focus. “It’s rope. I think you’ll probably have to cut

it down.”

“Yes, yes, I suppose.” But she’s not looking at me. She’s not even looking at the tire swing. She’s standing on her toes on

the stepladder, peering over the tall wooden fence that runs around our yard.

“Mom, are you spying on Jeannie Young?”

She looks back down at me and the ladder wobbles dangerously. I reach out and grab it. “Don’t be ridiculous,” my mom says.

“I’m spying on her penguins. She’s got more back there, you know. I think their numbers have grown since last week.”

This is too much for my brain. I have a sudden, very strong urge to go inside and crawl back into bed. Give up on today and

try again tomorrow. “Can you please come down off the stepladder? I’m worried you’re going to fall.”

She snorts, but she climbs down, one foot at a time, until she’s back on the ground. I could swear even Mr. Grumpy looks relieved.

“I can climb a ladder,” Mom says defensively. “I’ve been taking care of this house all by myself without you telling me when

it’s safe to climb a ladder. I cleaned the gutters just a few weeks ago!”

I run a shaky hand through my hair. “You’re right. I’m sorry.” A twinge of guilt cuts through the swirling cloud of what the fuck . Of course she’s been taking care of the house by herself. And I have no idea how it’s been going because we never talk about

that. Just like we never talk about anything. Because I hardly ever call her.

“Well, I’m back now,” I say. “So I can get the tire swing down.”

I half expect her to fight me on this, just on principle, because my mom is stubborn. But she shrugs. “That’s true.” She starts

back toward the house. “I’ll leave the ladder for you, then. I should take a shower! Can’t go see my new condo in my pajamas.”

And she disappears through the back door.

Leaving me with Mr. Grumpy and the tire swing. I let my breath out and look up at the branch overhead. The tire swing hangs vertically, held up by a thick rope looped through the tire and over the tree branch. The rope is so weathered, it’s almost white. I reach up and pull half-heartedly at the knot above the tire. Unsurprisingly, it’s not remotely effective. If the rope has stayed knotted for this many years, there’s no way it’s going to budge now. I’ll have to get a saw. There’s probably one in the basement somewhere, but I can’t make myself go look. It’s one step too many for my overloaded brain.

Instead, I grab hold of the rope and swing my legs through the tire swing. My momentum sets the swing in motion, and Mr. Grumpy

hastily backs up out of the way with an alarmed grunt.

I stare across the backyard. It’s green in a way nothing in New York City is. Central Park comes the closest in the height

of summer, if you’re standing out in the middle of one of the rolling lawns. But even so... there’s something different

about the grass here—the depth of the green, the saturation of it. The way it sits against the sky, which is almost completely

cloudless and just blue .

Now that I think about it, I realize this is the color I think of when someone says blue . This kind of clear, pure blue that seems to go on forever.

The rope creaks against the branch, and the sound is so familiar, I shiver. For a disconcerting moment, I feel like I’m still

in high school. Sitting here on this tire swing, listening to the rope creak against the branch, because I’m seventeen and

Michael isn’t talking to me anymore and my mom is still at work and I don’t know what else to do except sit here, swinging

slowly back and forth...

I slide through the tire and wriggle free of it. Mr. Grumpy looks up at me. His tongue is still hanging out of his mouth.

His ears drag on the grass. In the sunshine, he looks grayer than ever.

Because I’m almost thirty. Not seventeen.

I pull my phone out of my pocket, ready to text Olivia and Ian and Joan. Who cares if Olivia’s mad at me? Who cares if they

all are? I need Ian to tell me about some random thing he read online about how brains can make up weird stuff. I need Joan

to laugh at me. Honestly, I’d even take Olivia texting me a big old told you that you shouldn’t have left New York...

But my phone is still dead. Obviously. Because I haven’t plugged it in.

I close my eyes. I need to stop thinking about this. All of this.

I’m going to see my mom’s new condo. I’m going to help her pack stuff up. I’m going to watch her random British murder mysteries

and sit on the couch with Mr. Grumpy.

I am not going to think about whatever just happened in that bookstore.

It’s a fifteen-minute drive to the new condo. Nothing in New York time, and Actually Pretty Far in Oak Falls time. You could

probably drive from Strickland Farms at one end of Oak Falls to the Solutions Bank at the other in under half an hour.

Mom insisted on bringing Mr. Grumpy, saying he needed to see the condo too, so he could get used to it. She also said he didn’t

like sitting in the back seat because it made him lonely, which means he’s sitting on my lap in the passenger seat, hanging

his head out the window, ears flapping and drool flying in the breeze.

The cicadas are really going now, and the air streaming into the Jeep is hot. It’s sunny here in a way New York never really

manages, simply because all the tall buildings get in the way. Manhattan streets are practically always in the shade, but

here I actually have to squint against the glare of the cloudless blue sky.

The new condos are right off Main Street, Mom tells me, near Krape Park and the baseball field, which means she’ll be able

to walk to the band shell for the musical every summer and walk to the coffee shop. Which will be great, she says, because she won’t have to deal with traffic.

“Look at this!” She waves a hand at the three cars ahead of us, waiting at a stop sign on Main Street. “Middle of a summer

day. I knew there would be traffic. I should’ve taken the back roads.”

Is she joking? “Mom. There’s no such thing as traffic here.”

“Oh, yes, there is. You’ve seen the coffee shop. Things are getting hip!” She shakes her head as we inch up to the stop sign.

“Young families moving in, and the coffee shops and traffic come with them. The other day, I couldn’t even find a parking

space here! I had to park on a side street!”

I open my mouth to explain the concept of actual traffic to my mother, using, say, Midtown Manhattan as an example, and change my mind. It wouldn’t do any good, and anyway, I suppose it’s probably all relative. There are multiple people out on the sidewalk in the middle of a Monday. I remember looking out of the window of In Between Books on any given weekday and Main Street would be dead.

I rub my eyes under my glasses and stare fixedly out the front windshield. I’m going to see my mom’s condo. I’m not thinking about In Between Books.

I don’t look at it as we drive past.

The new condo buildings are on a tidy new boulevard that didn’t even exist when I was growing up. The sign reads starry hill drive , which seems both whimsical and misleading since this road is as flat as the rest of Oak Falls.

Mom turns the Jeep into a freshly paved parking lot between two identical brick buildings with pointed roofs. Like a lot of

Midwestern architecture, the condo buildings can’t seem to figure out what style they’re going for. But they definitely look

new . Their brick corners are crisp and perfectly straight. The white-sided balconies are glaringly bright. It’s all a far cry

from the worn brick storefronts of Main Street that date back to the 1800s, or the ho-hum midcentury ranch houses that make

up most of Oak Falls. The condo buildings are three stories... which is tall for around here. And they just sit here in

the middle of... well, nothing. Past these buildings, Starry Hill Drive just stops, with a sign that says, dead end . Past that, there’s just a big field. And a for sale sign.

“They’ve been selling land around here for more development,” Mom says, when she notices me looking at it. “I’m guessing it’ll

be more condos. Or a subdivision. Come on, let’s not keep Cheryl waiting!”

I clip Mr. Grumpy’s leash onto his collar and follow my mom through the parking lot as she leads the way to a glass door set

under a white wooden archway. She heaves the door open. “We’re here, Cheryl! Sorry we’re late!”

“Phyllis!” A tall woman in a gray business suit, with dyed blond hair that can only be described as helmetlike, clicks across

the spotless lobby toward us. “No worries at all. I see you brought Mr. Grumpy! And...” She looks at me and seems to lose

her train of thought.

“Cheryl, you remember my son, Darby.” Mom squeezes my shoulder. “He came all the way from New York to help me move. Can you

believe how long it’s been since he and Natalie took ballet together?”

Oh, right . Natalie Linsmeier. She definitely called me a dyke in high school. And not in the reclaimed-by-queer-people way.

“Oh, it’s been so long!” Cheryl quickly pastes on another smile. There’s no way she doesn’t know I’m trans. Mom never made

an effort to hide it after I came out, and I didn’t ask her to. Anyway, news travels fast in Oak Falls. There’s basically

nothing to do except gossip about your neighbors.

But still. I guess knowing something and seeing me are two different things. I wonder if I look like Cheryl expected. If I look more or less normal than she thought a trans

guy would look.

“So?” Cheryl turns her dazzling smile on my mom. “Are you ready?”

“Yes, yes.” Mom waves her hands at Cheryl, but she’s practically on the balls of her feet. I can’t remember the last time

I saw her this excited. “Let’s go!”

We take a shiny new elevator up to the third floor and Cheryl leads us down a carpeted hallway to a door sporting the number

12 in polished brass. She unlocks it, holding the door open for us.

Inside, the condo is big and bright, with white walls, high ceilings, and an enormous arched window at one end of the living

room, plus a sliding door that leads out to a balcony. A sleek modern fireplace sits nestled in one wall. The floor is carpeted,

but it’s much newer and cleaner than the carpet at my mom’s house.

My mouth actually falls open. In New York, you’d have to get deep into Brooklyn or way into Queens before you’d find a condo

like this for less than a million dollars. And it definitely wouldn’t be brand-new.

“So, everything’s just been painted,” Cheryl says. “But look around, and let me know if you think we need touch-ups anywhere...”

Mom doesn’t need to be told twice. She grabs my arm and pulls me through the condo, pointing out stainless-steel appliances

that are at least a decade newer than anything in her house, a bathroom that’s half the size of my entire studio, and the

view of Krape Park from the master bedroom. The second bedroom is smaller, with a single window, but from up here, I can see

over the trees to the steeple of First Church, where it sits at one end of Main Street.

“Well?” Mom says. “What do you think?”

I look around the room. “It’s nice.”

She frowns. “Darby, I know I haven’t seen you much recently, but I can tell when you’re not telling me something.”

A stab of guilt goes through me. I’m not being excited enough, and I know it... and I can’t seem to do anything about it.

“It’s nice, Mom. Really. It’s just...” I fish around for a word. “Different.”

Different than the house. Different from what I pictured—even though now that I’m here, I have no idea what I pictured. Maybe

something less shiny, less brand-new, less blank. Or maybe it’s just that my mom has always existed in her outdated split-level

house, and even though it’s weird to be back there, sleeping in my old bedroom, it also never occurred to me that one day

I wouldn’t have it.

Which feels incredibly selfish, now that I think about it.

“Well, I want different,” Mom says firmly. “Anyway, you’ll have a nice view. Plus, this is the top floor, so the rooftop deck

is very accessible. There’s a grill up there and one of those outdoor firepits.”

I’m pretty sure the only thing my mother has ever grilled is a cheese sandwich, but now doesn’t seem like the time to bring

that up. And anyway, I’m hung up on You’ll have a nice view.

Does that mean, like, a nice view when you come to visit ?

Or a nice view because this is your new bedroom since you don’t have your life together and will obviously be moving in with

me ?

“So...” Cheryl appears in the bedroom doorway. “Everything looking good?”

“Yes, very good,” Mom says.

“Well, in that case, we’re all set for closing.” Cheryl beams. “I’ll meet you here on Saturday to hand off the keys. And for

listing your house—Labor Day weekend still okay?”

All thoughts of the small second bedroom evaporate. “Labor Day weekend?” I look at Mom. “That’s in, like, two weeks.”

Cheryl looks between us, uncertain. “Well... as I told Phyllis, it could be very beneficial to have the holiday weekend

for an open house. Get some interest going before everyone’s busy with the beginning of the school year...”

“Yes, Labor Day weekend is perfect,” Mom says. She waves a hand at me. “Don’t worry, Darby, we’ll get everything packed up.

Especially since you’re here to help.”

I open my mouth to say that’s not really what I was worried about, but Mr. Grumpy lets out a whine from his spot on the floor.

Mom sighs. “He probably needs to go outside. Darby, would you take him? I might have to get him something for the balcony,”

she says to Cheryl. “He needs to go out more often now...”

I leave Mom and Cheryl to their discussion of movers and open houses and staging ideas, and pull Mr. Grumpy toward the door,

perfectly happy to have an excuse to escape. I suddenly don’t want to spend another minute in this blank, perfect space, trying

to imagine myself in that bedroom, or my mom watching her British murder mysteries in this living room, under this massive

arched window, like this makes any sense as home .