I'm Glad My Mom Died(81)

Nothing has worked. He won’t read the articles. He won’t go to the support groups. He won’t try a new therapist and even quit going to his current one. He doesn’t want a hobby. He bought more weed.

I’m helpless. I’m powerless over him. But I love him. And I want us to be together. So I’ll keep trying.

“So do you wanna come?” I ask him again.

“Oh, uh… nahhh, Jenny. I’m just gonna stay here. But thanks for inviting me,” he says as he keeps twirling his hair.





83.


“BOB, DID YA HEAR HER?! She ran out of all her money!” Grandma wails, then throws her head on Grandpa’s shoulder and weeps a tearless weep into it. Grandma’s not even a weller.

“She didn’t say anything like that, hun,” Grandpa assures her with more patience than I understand.

I’m sitting with my grandparents in the living room of my Studio City home. I still have Grandma blocked, but she won’t let Grandpa see me without her tagging along. I’ve just broken the news to them that I’ll be selling my house. The news is not going over well.

“What am I gonna tell Linda? And Joanie? And Louise?!” Grandma yells with her arms flailing in confusion.

“I think you can just tell them the truth,” I offer.

“That my granddaughter who I love more than anything on this entire planet decided willy-nilly to up and move out of her beautiful home and into a measly little one-bedroom apartment?!”

“Sure.”

“No!”

“It’s gonna be okay, hun,” Grandpa tells Grandma with a pat on her hand.

The areas in my life that cause me stress is a topic I discuss often in therapy with Jeff. My house has come up enough that Jeff asked why I don’t sell it.

“Well, I’ve wanted to sell it for a while, but I can’t do that.”

“Why not?” Jeff asks.

“Because it’s… not smart.”

“Why is it not smart?”

“Because a home is a good investment.”

“Hmm. Tell me what’s stressful about your home.”

“Well it’s constantly falling apart. There’s always something to fix—a contractor comes by almost every day. I didn’t realize homeownership was gonna be another job, a job I’m not interested in and don’t have the time for.”

“Anything else?”

“It feels lonely. And kinda scary. It’s too big for me. And I don’t like the neighborhood. And somebody leaked my address online so I’ve had a couple stalkers who show up sometimes and leave creepy notes, and one time one of them left a bouquet of roses dripping with blood…”

“That’s a lot of stressful things.”

“Yeah.”

“And yet you’re not selling it because it’s a good investment?”

“Yeah.”

“What about it makes it a good investment?”

“I’m not exactly sure. It’s sorta just a thing I’ve heard. You know? Everybody says a home is a good investment.”

“A good investment for one person might be a bad investment for another.”

“Okay.”

“What about your investment in your mental health? Feeling safe is important to mental health, and you mentioned that you don’t feel safe.”

“I don’t, but… I don’t know. I don’t think I can sell it.”

Jeff holds an unblinking stare at me.

“I could buy some plants.” I shrug. The amount of times I’ve thought buying plants might make a difference in my life is staggering.

“Any other ideas?” Jeff asks.

“I could take more vacations.”

“But that doesn’t directly impact your main environment—your home. Which is the main environment that influences your mental health. So why don’t we stay focused on the home?”

“But no plants?”

“Bigger than plants.” Jeff nods.

“I could… hire an interior decorator?”

“Okay, and how would that reduce your stress?”

“Well, the house is kind of empty-looking. And feeling. It feels lonely.”

“And some rugs are gonna help that?”

“They might,” I say with a little sauce. Don’t love that judge-y question, Jeff.

“All right,” Jeff says simply. “Then why don’t we start there?”

I get home and call my realtor to ask if he knows of any good interior decorators. He says he knows just the one.



* * *



Liz shows up at my place in a black flowy top and cheetah-print leggings. I should’ve known then. Shania Twain is the only person on earth who should be allowed to go anywhere near cheetah print.

“So how would you describe your home style?” Liz asks as she sits down at the dining table. She plops her big bucket bag on it and starts pulling out scraps of fabric, binders of materials, and thick home magazines.

“Uhhh…” I look around the empty room. “I have no clue. I was thinking I’d just go with whatever you were thinking.”

“Oooh, excellent,” Liz says excitedly. “I have lots of ideas. I think the front-runner is… glamor chic with animal-print accents.”