Chapter 15

Before

I’m standing in the kitchen with Gran. She’s asking a question, but the floor under my feet is warping, and while she’s right in front of me, hands on my shoulders, it’s as though she’s speaking from inside a corked bottle bobbing at sea.

“Please tell me Mr. Rosso picked up the envelope,” she repeats. “Molly?”

“He didn’t come,” I say. “Mr. Rosso didn’t stop by.” My eyes are on the kitchen table. I’m willing the envelope with the rent to reappear, but it doesn’t. And I know it won’t.

“That lady knew you. She said her name was Maggie.”

Gran’s hands slide off my shoulders and she covers her face with them. A sound escapes her, a strange one that I’ve heard only once before, in a nature documentary—the sound a mother sheep made after a lion snatched her lamb and ran away with it.

“Gran, who is she? Maybe it’s not too late.”

Tears stream down Gran’s face. “Oh, my dear girl,” she says. “It’s years too late.”

“But who is she?” I ask.

Gran is silent. A deep furrow settles into her brow. “You don’t know? You really don’t know?”

I shake my head.

“Why would you,” she says. “After all, she’s a stranger to you.”

“She’s a thief,” I say. “We should call the police. They can catch her and get our rent money back.”

“It’s no use, Molly. She’s long gone, and the money’s gone with her.”

Gran crumples onto the kitchen floor. I sit cross-legged in front of her. I feel my ribs tighten around my heart, the gravity of our predicament sinking in.

“Gran, please don’t cry. I’m so sorry.”

Just then, there’s a pounding at the door. We both jump. It’s her, I think to myself. It’s Maggie. She’s had a change of heart and is returning our money. She’s a good egg after all!

I hop to my feet and help Gran to stand. I pull a tissue from the box on the kitchen table, passing it to her. Then I grab a kitchen chair and rush to the front door. I stand on it, looking through the fish-eye peephole.

I’m instantly deflated by what I see. “It’s Mr. Rosso,” I say.

“Leave him to me,” Gran replies, as she sniffs and blows her nose. Then she comes to the door as I move my kitchen chair away.

She opens the door to our landlord, with his bulbous nose and his arms crossed against his round belly.

“Good day, Mr. Rosso,” Gran says. “I trust you’re having a pleasant one.” Her singsong voice catches in her throat.

“Rent day’s only pleasant when everyone pays,” he replies.

Gran presses her hands together, then rubs them against her thighs. “Mr. Rosso,” she says. “I’m afraid we’ve encountered an unforeseen situation that has led to a delay in our rent payment.”

“Now say that again in plain English,” Mr. Rosso replies.

“We don’t have the rent money. But I’ll pay you soon.”

Mr. Rosso’s face goes from regular red to a shade somewhere between flaming beet and blood-red rose. “This building is crawling with good-for-nothing bums, but I thought you were better than them, Flora. I really did.”

“I’m terribly sorry to disappoint,” she replies. “There’s that saying about lemons and lemonade, but in this instance, I don’t even have lemons, so there’s not much I can do. Sometimes, Mr. Rosso, life interferes with a person’s best intentions.”

“Not without consequence,” Mr. Rosso replies, his nostrils flaring. “It’s the only way people like you ever learn.” He turns and shuffles down the hall.

“I’m sorry?” Gran calls after him. “Might you explain what you mean by people like us?”

Gran and I stick our heads out the door in anticipation of a response, but Mr. Rosso never offers one. He doesn’t so much as glance back our way.

We step into our apartment, and Gran gently clicks the door closed and locks it.

“What did he mean, Gran?” I ask. “What’s going to happen?”

“Idle threats, dear. Nothing to worry about.” She takes in a deep breath, exhales, and then claps her hands together. “Why don’t we do what we do best? Why don’t we deep-clean the apartment?”

“Deep cleaning to give life meaning,” I chime.

“Tidy up to cheer us up,” Gran answers.

“What are you waiting for? Grab a duster, Buster!” I say, as I race to the kitchen to prepare a bucket and rags for our Deep Cleaning Adventure.

We spend the entire afternoon scrubbing and dusting, polishing and wiping. Though Gran looks tired and doesn’t hum the way she usually does, I feel glorious, invigorated by the scent of zesty lemon that billows in the air, the comforting smell of home.

As dusk settles in and the day fades to black, everything in our modest apartment, from the kitchen to the washroom, from the front entrance to both of our bedrooms, is spotlessly, immaculately, perfectly clean.

Gran and I always save the best for last. We’re in the living room, clearing out her curio cabinet. We sit on the floor surrounded by Swarovski crystal animals, souvenir spoons, and framed photos. Gran holds the photo of my mother in her hands. A deep furrow reappears on her forehead as she rubs the gold frame, trying to make it shine.

There’s a strange sound—an electric sizzle. Then suddenly, the lights go out.

Silence.

“Gran?” I call out.

I can’t see anything. It’s pitch-black in the living room, where I’m sitting on the floor, but I discover my ears work even better in the dark.

What I hear next is a plaintive, distinctive sound—a mother sheep calling out to a lamb she will never see again.