Devoured: A Novel(2)

Less than ten seconds into our conversation and Seth’s arguing with me. I slam my oversized bag onto my bed. My wallet along with a bunch of tampons and makeup spill out onto the lavender cotton sheets and some fall on the carpeted floor. I’ll clean it up later. “I work. And I’ve tried to call you from this number several times. You just didn’t answer.” I don’t sound angry, which is how I feel, but like I’m explaining myself to my brother. Like I’m the one who should be sorry for him ignoring me.

I hate myself for sounding like that.

“Sienna, it’s Gran,” he says.

And this—this is when I literally freeze in place, standing between my bed and desk. I must look like one of those tragic, serious statues in the cemeteries back home. My heart feels as if it’s stopped. The first thing I’d assumed when Tori told me Seth was trying to reach me was that my mom had somehow gotten herself in trouble again. I hadn’t even thought of my grandmother because she’s so strong and resilient and wonderful.

She’s also 79 years old.

I try to say something, anything, but there’s a lump the size of a lint-flavored golf ball clogging the back of my throat. I’m choking and wheezing when Seth finally exhales an exasperated sigh and snaps, “She’s fine, Si. Well, physically fine.”

Then, he tells me what’s going on. He says words like foreclosure and eviction notice. New owner—some douchebag musician from California. Court on Monday. And then he tells me that I need to be there for her, for him.

“I have to work,” I whisper. I can’t imagine what Tomas will say if I ask for time off for anything besides a funeral or the certain impending demise of an immediate family member. He might fire me. Or worse, he might give me a horrible reference and I’ll never get another wardrobe job for the rest of my life.

“No, you’ve got to be here.”

“Seth, I can’t just . . .” But I’m already sitting in front of my laptop with my online bank statement pulled up on one tab and a discount ticket website on another. I’m already entering in my debit card information for an early Monday morning flight, biting down so hard on my lower lip I taste blood. I’m broke. Half of what’s in my account—half of my total savings—will have to go to Tori for my share of the bills.

And before I hang up with my little brother, I’m already shoving my belongings inside of the beaten Coach suitcase my grandparents gave me five years ago as an eighteenth birthday present.

?



It’s mind-numbingly cold in Nashville—33 degrees to be precise—and snowing lightly when I scoot into Seth’s messy Dodge pick-up truck on Monday afternoon. From the way I’m sweating, though, you would think it were the middle of August and that I’d arrived in Nashville dressed in head to toe wool. The flutter sleeve top I so carefully selected because it makes me look professional clings to my skin and the tops of my thigh high tights sag to just above my knees.

The sudden spike in perspiration is my own fault—I spent the entire four hour flight from California fretting over how I’d convince Gram to come back to L.A. with me. And the more I thought about it, the more doubtful I became. My granddad had built her that cabin and land as a gift after my mother was born in the early seventies. There’s no way in hell Gram’s giving it up without a fight, even though from what Seth has said, the house is already gone.

“What’d your boss say?” my brother asks as he turns onto the interstate. He slams on the brakes to avoid hitting another car. The Dodge skids on the slippery road, jostling us around, but Seth manages to get the truck under control halfway into my frantic gasp.

Seth doesn’t so much as flinch. He squints straight ahead, the same way our dad does when he drives in crappy weather, and rubs the tips of his thumbs on either side of the steering wheel—another Dad trait. With his dark blonde hair, brown eyes, and year-round tan that puts my easily-burnt skin to shame, Seth even looks like Dad now.

“You going to answer me or just sit there with your mouth wide open?”

Digging my hands into the hem of the dark tweed pencil skirt I’m wearing, I shrug. “I worked through Christmas and New Year, so he didn’t have much of a problem. Besides, I’m just an assistant.” I don’t add that I had to beg Tomas for the time off and that he’d pointedly said I better take care of my family drama and have my ass back in L.A. before the end of the month—two and a half weeks.