A new house

Each long summer since Cindy’s children left has been full of aspirations beyond sporadic cleaning streaks. Each long summer was the summer Cindy would start crafting, would take up a job to augment her teacher salary, would take that trip to see her daughter in New Mexico. Each long summer was ultimately full of Candy Crush, self-hatred for being on the Candy Crush leaderboard, and calls from her mother.

Her mom always had a sixth sense when it came to phone calls. When she raised her three kids, her mother would wait until the exact moment Cindy’s spine creaked against the old, wooden chair at the dinner table. Cindy’s food grew cold while she coaxed her mother off some invisible ledge or soldiered through a rant. The calls became less predictable once those children moved out – instead, they came at the exact moment Cindy was the least prepared to listen to the sound of a woman that has never had a therapist.

Amy was a 75-year-old woman living among ghosts in Cindy’s grandparents’ house. The curios from two lives well lived filled attics and side closets. The rest of the house was filled with Amy’s belongings – newspapers, presents administered then taken back, books on loan that have never been returned. The ghosts and their belongings didn’t leave Amy much space for visitors. The ones who did visit were on trial for taking her things. Cindy was one of those visitors – and each time the phone rang, she was reminded of such.

For a lifetime of calls at the worst moment, the mother-daughter duo exchanged daily pleasantries as if the other were calling or picking up for the first time.

“I’m making gumbo,” Amy said, her voice lilting in a way that told Cindy she had just mixed some wine with her painkillers. “I’ll bring you some.”

Cindy winced. She’d recently learned Amy cleaned dishes in the bathtub. “It’s 8 p.m. How ready is the gumbo?”

“I’m making the roux.”

“We ate four hours ago, but I’m sure the gumbo will taste good.” Or as good as any gumbo finished at 11 p.m. will taste, Cindy thought.

“I’ll bring you some.”

“Maybe we could come over to get it.”

“Last time you and your family were over, Jennifer tried to take a bag of my belongings

with her.”

“How could I forget? You called the cops on my daughter for stealing a load of piss-stained newspapers.”

“I don’t go into her house and go through her stuff,” Amy said.

“But you have. Jenny felt like an awful granddaughter for losing the digital camera you gave her.” It was ancient history, but Cindy and her husband changed the locks on their home for a reason.

“She wasn’t using it, so why should she get to keep it?”

“Because that’s not how gifts work, Mom,” Cindy said.

“Speaking of, thanks for a great birthday. I really wish my granddaughter called or texted to wish me well,” Amy said. Thus began the second leg of the call: complaints made against other people whose names were or were not Cindy Brewer. 

“I’m sure she’s thinking of you all the way in Albuquerque, Mom,” Cindy said. 

“She hasn’t wished me a happy birthday since she was in braces.”

“Well, I’ll tell her to call you, but I can’t control her,” Cindy said. “I can only say it’s been tough on all of us watching your house fall apart.”

“You care about this old house more than me.”

“It’s the house where grandma and grandpa raised me. The family used to drive in for reunions. I just wish you could let us help you.”

“You want to help me?” Amy said. A clatter rang out in the background. She’d misplaced the file powder. “I’ve been thinking. And I know that even though Daddy willed me this house, he wanted you to have it one day. You can have it on one condition: you sell your house.”

“Excuse me?”

“Sell the house, give me the money so I can move elsewhere, and this house is yours.”

“Just the house?” Cindy said, dumbstruck. “Or the house, the things grandma and grandpa willed me that you haven’t given me, and all of their things that we need to go through?”

“All of it. I’ll go live wherever.”

“You have to know that your house will cost tens of thousands, if not more, to repair after the state you’ve left it in.”

“Well, I could fix it with some money. I don’t have any right now. You could change that.” A pause. “Also, can you tell Mark to come by later? My water stopped working this morning, and I need to use the bathroom sometime soon.”

“Mark’s at work.”

“Well, he’s going to have to come by after.”

“Why can’t you just ask Mark to do that?”

“Why can’t you just be a good daughter?” Amy snapped. “All I ever do is try to love on you and feed you, and all you and your kids do is judge me and pretend like the stuff I have in my house is my problem. It’s your problem. It’s all your stuff that you want to throw away because you’re animals. Animals,” she repeated. “Why can’t my child be grateful for what I do, and why can’t my daughter’s husband do one tiny thing and come help me out? Your grandparents would be ashamed.”

The click on the other end was the only tether to reality for Cindy as she took in her mother’s offer. It was the latest deal in a long line of arrangements. When she filed the offer into her brain, it went in between the evenings she had to pay her mother to watch her children and the fake pearls Amy gave her when Cindy asked for the jewelry her grandmother promised her after her death.

The phone call ended as all others did: a shock that lingered after her mother passed on her anger, irritation and insecurity to her daughter. All that was left to do was to take a deep breath, pour a glass of wine and to dial Jennifer’s number.