Previously Loved Treasures (Serendipity #2)(16)
Caroline closed her eyes and tried to imagine herself driving south on Route 95. A silken cord was tied to the back of the car, and as she started to move the cord grew taut. For a few moments it stretched like a giant rubber band and threatened to pull her back, but when she pressed hard on the accelerator the car sped up and the cord snapped. It was the final tie to a love that never was.
Breaking free is never easy. There are no baby steps in walking away. There is only one gigantic leap. You take it or you remain forever rooted to a life of unhappiness.
Caroline took a deep breath and made the leap. “I can be ready to leave this Wednesday.”
Caroline Sweetwater
I can’t believe I’m actually doing this. Me, a girl who’s never been particularly adventurous, leaving home to live with a woman I’ve never even met. Of course I have questions, I’d be crazy if I didn’t.
But strange as it may be, the truth is I feel good about doing it. I like myself better than I have in a very long time. Maybe it is irresponsible to just up and leave, but I like having a grandma and I feel that for once in my life I’m doing what I want to do. It’s funny, I talked to Missus Sweetwater for a few hours but in that short time she made me feel better about myself than Greg ever did, and I’ve been living with him for almost three years.
On second thought, it’s not so funny. It’s actually quite sad.
I told Missus Sweetwater about the novel I’m writing, and do you know what she said? I’m proud of you honey, that’s what she said, and I could tell she really meant it. You know what Greg said about my novel? He said it was trash. Of course, he’s so insensitive he wouldn’t know a love story if it rose up and smacked him in the face!
At first I thought I was giving up everything, but thinking about Mama and the misery she had I realized I wasn’t giving up anything. This apartment is no more mine than Greg is, and as far as a career goes mine’s laughable. For the past three years I’ve been telling myself that one of these days Greg is going to want to marry me, but it’s never going to happen. He’s not going to propose, and he’s not going to make me a columnist. He can’t. Greg has to keep me small so he can be big; how sick is that?
I can’t say for sure if Ida Sweetwater is my real grandma or not, but I’m choosing to believe she is. Why else would she want me to come there and live with her? It’s not like I have a lot to offer.
I’m not telling Greg I’m leaving, and I’m not telling him about Grandma Sweetwater either. I’ll leave a note on the table and by the time he gets home Wednesday night, I’ll probably be somewhere in South Carolina.
Once I get to Georgia I’ll have plenty of time to finish my novel, and hopefully I’ll sell it to a big publisher for a million bucks. If that happens, I think I’ll send Greg a copy with a sticky note that says, So now how do you like those apples?
The Bed and the Bear
By the time Ida hung up the telephone, she was already thinking through plans for Caroline’s arrival. The only unoccupied room in the house was the one awaiting James’ return and while it was once the most vibrant room in the house, it was now nothing more than a worn-out reminder. A room darkened with the weariness of waiting and deafened by the sound of silence. It needed to come alive again.
Forgetting the arthritic hip that ached from the too-steep stairs, she hurried up the steps and flung open the door to the closed-up room. It was exactly as James had left it thirty years ago. Through the years the magazines on the floor had yellowed with age, and the curtains, now weighted with decades of dust, hung limp.
Ida could no longer remember the last time she’d stepped inside this room. It had been ten, maybe twenty years. After James disappeared she could not bring herself to move one thing, not even the worn sneakers hanging from the bedpost. With everything left untouched the room was a shrine of sorts, a place where she had gone to sit and breathe in the scent of him being there. The sheets on the bed remained unwashed, and a scattering of laundry still remained on the floor of the closet.
Decades ago Ida closed the door to the room and put her thoughts of it in a memory box that was too painful to open. She moved through the years, not thinking of the room and not allowing herself to step inside and reopen the box of memories. And now, oddly enough, the room was not at all the way she’d remembered it.
In one fell swoop Ida snatched the coverlet from the bed. She spread it on the floor and began to toss in all the things that should have been thrown out ages ago. Sheets, pillowcases, old clothes, gym shorts—one by one they landed in the center of the coverlet. When the closet and all the drawers had been emptied, she gathered the four corners of the coverlet together and hauled it down the staircase one step at a time. Thump. Thump. Thump.
Hearing the commotion, Wilbur poked his head out into the hall. “You need help?”
“No, thanks, I’m doing fine.” Ida thumped down another step.
“Wait a minute!” Wilbur hollered. “I’m coming.”
“I told you I don’t need help.”
“I heard what you said. The thing is you do need help, you’re just too stubborn to ask for it.” Without another word of argument he squeezed past her and grabbed the other end of the coverlet. “Go on now, I’ve got this end.”