Be the Girl(4)

“Did you sleep well?” Mom asks as I fetch a coffee mug and pour coffee.

“Not really. The sun woke me up.”

“I figured. That room faces east. We’ll get you some blackout curtains when we go shopping today.”

“It was hot, too.”

“Doesn’t the ceiling fan work?”

“Yeah, but it was making this weird rattling sound, like it was going to fall and, like, chop my head off or something.” Worries that don’t inspire a deep sleep. I spy Uncle Merv in the garden through the back door, plucking red tomatoes off the vine and tucking them in a basket. The tomatoes match the color of his suspenders, the same ones he was wearing last night. It’s a decent-sized yard, I note, full of fruit trees, with neighboring farm fields stretching far beyond.

Uncle Merv shuffles slowly along, his mouth moving as if he’s talking to someone, but I don’t see anyone around. “He wasn’t lying about getting up early.” Four thirty, according to the clock on my nightstand. That’s when I woke up to his first of many phlegmy coughing fits.

Mom chuckles. “Yeah. We’ll have to buy earplugs.”

I flop into a kitchen chair at the table, my fingers busy combing through my freshly washed hair. I cringe with disgust at the slick strands. “Oh my God, I still have shampoo in my hair!”

Mom glances over her shoulder once before returning to her task. “I noticed the water pressure is bad.”

“And it suddenly turned scalding. I think I have third-degree burns on my back.” My body stiffens, as if mention of the injury is enough to make the pain flare.

“That was my fault. I shouldn’t have used the kitchen sink while you were showering. That’s the thing about these old houses.” She sighs. “Don’t worry. Calling a plumber is at the top of my very long to-do list, along with getting cable run into our bedrooms and the internet upgraded. He’s still on dial-up, can you believe that?”

“I don’t even know what that means.” I spy the pad of lined paper next to her coffee mug. She must have at least twenty things jotted down already. That’s my mom—the queen of organization and order. Sure enough, the word “plumber” is scrawled on the first line, followed by “new toilet” and “fix water pressure?” in brackets beside it. Below that reads “cleaning lady.”

I frown. “Why are you cleaning if you’re going to pay someone to come in and clean?”

“Because I couldn’t leave the moldy spoiled bag of onions that stunk up the house for that poor soul. But I think I’ve got it out. A few hours of fresh air and some candles, and maybe my stomach won’t turn.” She stands with a groan, peeling off the rubber gloves and brushing away a strand of her wavy, sable-brown hair from her sweaty forehead. Gray roots peek out from her ponytail, something my mom is normally on top of but let slip this past month. I scan her list again. Sure enough, “find a new hair salon” is on there—number four.

“How could he stand it?”

“Who, Uncle Merv?” She snorts. “He’s always had a terrible sense of smell.” She takes a large gulp of her coffee and checks her watch. “Come on, you’ll have to eat that in the car. We have a million things to do.”

“What about unpacking the U-Haul?”

She waves it off. “Later. Let’s try to be home for lunch at one, after Uncle’s had his nap. Preferably with something better to eat than what’s in there.” She points to the fridge in the corner, her nose crinkling with disgust.





“Which box next?” I ask through pants, sweat coating the back of my neck. When we left Calgary, temperatures were dwindling, the cool nights needing heavy blankets. But summer shows no sign of leaving Eastmonte, Ontario, anytime soon.

Mom’s hands sit perched on her hips as she stares into the U-Haul. “You know what? Let’s leave the rest until after the house is cleaned and your room is finished. No point moving things twice and I don’t have to return it until Monday.”

“Okay. I guess I’ll start painting?” I was fully expecting Mom to reconsider her agreement to my dark and moody indigo blue when we stood in the paint aisle of Home Depot, but she was the first to pull out the various paint chips for comparison.

“We have to prep first. Why don’t you start by taping around the built-ins …” Her voice trails as she watches a black sedan pull into the driveway next door.

“Are those the neighbors?” The ones she met at Aunt Connie’s funeral earlier this year. She hasn’t told me much about them, other than that they have two teenaged children and they’ve lived next door for years.

“The Hartfords, yes.” We watch as a blonde lady in her forties steps out from the driver’s side. She waves at us.

“That’s Heather.” Mom returns the greeting. “She’s a portrait photographer. She took one of Uncle Merv and Aunt Connie for their sixtieth anniversary, the one sitting on the piano.”

I watch another female climb out from the passenger side, this one much younger, with a short blonde bob and glasses.

“She’s very nice. They’re all very nice.”

The girl seeks us out immediately. “Hi, guys!” she hollers with familiarity, grinning, her hand waving wildly in the air. “You’re our new neighbors! We’re so happy you’re here!”