Be the Girl(2)

He clears his throat and offers me a curt nod, his sagging jowls jiggling with the gesture. “You’re the spitting image of your mother when she was your age.”

I smile politely as I tuck strands of my long, sable-brown hair behind my ear. “Yeah, that’s what everyone says.”

He opens his mouth, but then hesitates as if reconsidering his words. “You know, Debra used to spend two weeks here every summer with us. Until you were how old—thirteen, was it?” He peers at my mom.

Her face pinches with thought. “Fourteen. I stopped coming the summer before high school.”

“That’s right. You were busy with summer jobs after that.” He shakes his head. “Connie always looked forward to those visits. She’d spend the whole month before cleaning this place top to bottom until it sparkled.”

It’s far from that now, I note, eying the layer of dust that coats the nearby lamp and the stacks of hastily folded newspapers on the floor. A sizable cobweb dangles from the ceiling in the corner.

“And what about you? You didn’t look forward to my visits?” Mom teases, reaching out to squeeze Uncle Merv’s forearm—her signature move for offering comfort. I imagine the wound from losing Aunt Connie to a massive stroke five months ago, after sixty-one years of marriage, is still fresh.

“I looked forward to the free garden labor.” He runs his thumbs along the underside of his red suspenders as he chuckles. No doubt they’re all that’s holding up his pants.

Mom laughs. “Well, now you have free labor times two. How is the garden this year?”

He grunts. “Wild. The apple trees are ready to split in half and there’re too many damn tomato plants. I told Iris not to plant so many but she didn’t listen. Now I don’t know what to do with them all. I’ve got tomatoes coming out my a—”

“Aria and I will be happy to pick and can them for you. If I can remember how, it’s been so long. Right, Aria?”

“Uh … sure.” Can them? What does that mean?

“Well, that’d be much appreciated.” Uncle Merv has the kind of gruff voice that makes me think he’ll need to cough to clear the phlegm from it any moment now. “There’s a tuna casserole in the fridge if you’re hungry. Iris’s not as good a cook as Connie but it’s not half bad.”

Who is Iris?

“That sounds great.” Mom gives him her best fake smile and I purse my lips to stifle my grin. She likes tuna anything as much as I do—not at all.

Uncle Merv more waddles than walks toward the narrow staircase ahead of us. I can’t tell if it’s on account of age or his excessive weight. Probably both. “Also, Iris tidied upstairs. Haven’t been up there in years but I’m assuming it’s in order. She always was the fussiest of Connie’s friends.”

Ah, mystery solved.

“She didn’t have to do that, and I’m sure it’s fine.”

“Well, then …” He smooths his hands over his belly. “It’s past my bedtime. You know me, I like to get up with the birds. ’Course, you guys are still probably adjusting to the time zone. I’ll try not to make too much noise in the morning.” He stops near the open door and scowls at the driveway. “I thought you weren’t bringing anything with you!” It sounds accusatory.

“Barely anything. A TV and coffee maker, stuff like that,” my mom placates in a soothing tone, catching my eye as she pats Uncle Merv’s shoulder. She warned that he might have a hard time adjusting to this new arrangement, despite his willingness. He is eighty, after all, and he tends to fret when his routine is interrupted. I’d say taking in his forty-five-year-old niece and her almost sixteen-year-old daughter for the foreseeable future hasn’t just interrupted his routine; it’s about to wreak havoc on it.

He makes a sound that might be acceptance. “I suppose you’ll be needing help unloading. The kids from next door should be able to help. Emmett’s a big, strong boy.”

“There’s nothing in there that Aria and I can’t manage. Don’t you worry about it, Uncle Merv.” In an airy tone, she says, “Aria, why don’t you head upstairs to check out your room. It’s on the left.”

I can tell that’s code for “I need a moment alone with Uncle Merv to talk about you.”

The narrow, steep steps offer a noisy creak as I climb them and venture into my new bedroom—a narrow space with steeply slanted ceilings painted Easter yellow. A window sits centered on the far side, draped with thin, gauzy curtains that do little to block out the street lights. It’s framed by bookshelves and a small bench. My mom was right—there’s no way my furniture would have fit in here. It’s already cramped with a twin bed as it is. I don’t even have a closet. It smells freshly cleaned, at least; the scent of lemon Pledge and fabric softener battling to mask the rotten odor wafting from downstairs.

“You haven’t told Iris anything, right?” I hear my mom whisper. I pause to listen from inside the doorway.

“That old gossip? Hell, I’m no fool. All she knows is that you and Howie divorced and he’s got a new family. I had to give her something and I figured you wouldn’t care if they knew that much.”

“No, that’s fine. I don’t care if the town knows my ex-husband is a cheating bastard who knocked up his paralegal.” There’s no shortage of bitterness in her voice. “But I want to make sure Aria gets a fresh start and she can’t do that if anyone finds out about what happened.”