In spite of her invitation, I hadn’t yet used the piano. I didn’t have time.
I shed my backpack and sat down in a swivel chair as she perched on a love seat. My hands were still trembling, so I tucked them under my thighs. I gave her the short version of my day, leaving out the part about the murder. And the part about almost being hit by a car.
Due to her heart condition, I was not, under any circumstances, to distress her.
She told me about her day. Her daughter, Jess, the one who’d been a champion swimmer at the country club, had called. Besides that? She’d been out and about running errands and had gone to the club to work out. She didn’t mind water aerobics so much—she’d signed up because you could only do it in summer when the pool was open—but she’d be happy to get back to her Pilates. Her conversation moved on to her friends.
I’d never met Doris or Helen or Irene, but I knew almost everything about them. Whose husbands had died. Whose children lived in the area and whose lived away. They all liked to travel together. At the end of the next week, they were headed to Bermuda. As she talked, I found myself thinking about the shooting, and a longing for my apartment crept over me. After about ten minutes, I couldn’t help myself. I stood. Grabbed my backpack. Smiled. “I’d better get back to studying.”
She stood as well. “Forgive me! I shouldn’t keep you.”
The kitchen had a back door, which opened onto the deck. It was a quicker route to my basement than going out the front door and around. I might have used the interior stairs that led from the front hall down to the basement, but in deference to my privacy, she never used them herself. Her folding step stool leaned against the door and her collection of reusable grocery bags hung from its knob.
She walked to the back door with me.
As I went out, she called me back. “I almost forgot! I have a package for you.”
For me? “I haven’t ordered anything.” I didn’t have the money to.
“Maybe someone ordered it for you. Birthday present?”
“My birthday’s in the fall.”
“Well. Surprises are always nice, aren’t they?”
It had to be from my father. He was the only one who knew where I lived. Was that why he’d been so strange when we were texting? Maybe he was waiting for some sort of reaction to the package.
“Can you wait for a minute? I’ll go get it.”
I really didn’t want to wait. I just wanted to get to my apartment, close the door, and lock it behind me. Maybe I’d even study in bed. But she had already disappeared. She soon came back, hand at her hip. “I thought I put it on the front table, but I can’t find it now. I don’t know where I put it.”
I told her not to worry. “It’s nothing I’ve been waiting for. Just let me know when you find it and I’ll come back up to get it.”
I continued on my way, crossing the deck, then went down into the yard to access my apartment. It would have been convenient if the steps down to the basement met the steps that led up to the deck, but they were at opposite ends. I’d worn a trail in the grass going back and forth.
Shadows were creeping toward the house from the trees that lined the property. The space under the deck was already a dark void.
I hurried past.
My basement door was at the bottom of a concrete stairwell. I’d placed a big terra-cotta planter filled with impatiens on the retaining wall beneath the deck. Mrs. Harper had won it at a garden club meeting and passed it on to me. The plants liked the cooler air that pooled there in the shade. But now the planter rested, shattered, at the bottom of the stairwell.
I glanced over my shoulder out into the backyard.
Daylilies and giant hostas waved back at me.
How had the planter fallen? The wind had been fierce earlier in the day, but not against that wall. It was too well protected by the deck.
Slipping off my backpack, I knelt and pulled the terra-cotta pieces from the dirt and the flowers. I stacked them inside the half of the planter that was still intact and pushed it toward the wall. I’d dump it in the garbage on my way to work the next morning.
But what to do about the impatiens? With their roots exposed, they’d soon die.
I fished a scoop-shaped shard out of the remains and used it to dig a hole in the dirt beneath the deck. I placed the impatiens in it and then covered their roots. They’d be safe there, and sheltered, until I could find something else to put them in.
I brushed the dirt from my hands, then picked up my backpack and let myself in the door. Turning on the light, I stepped into what Mrs. Harper called the rec room.
Despite the heat of July it was unpleasantly, humidly chill. With its faux beams and wet bar with accompanying spindle-backed oak bar stools, it was a time capsule from the midnineties. There was still a green leather wood-framed couch beneath one of the windows and some ghostly marks pressed into the carpet where several chairs used to be. What some people might have preferred to disguise with throw rugs, posters, or tapestries, I had decided to ignore. Mostly because I couldn’t afford to do otherwise. But also because it reminded me of a picture I’d once seen of a ski chalet in Switzerland.
I’d always wanted to visit Switzerland.
I moved the plants I kept on the bar top. When I left in the mornings, I made sure they sat squarely in the ray of sun that slanted in through one of the high, narrow basement windows. When I came home at night, I grouped them beneath a grow light I’d picked up at a bargain. It was the one luxury I’d allowed myself since I’d moved in.
My ex had only used the aloe vera, palm, and cactus as decorating props. He paid a plant whisperer to come in every week and take care of them, so I hadn’t felt guilty when I took them with me.
Since then, I’d added a start from Mrs. Harper’s hoya and one from her jade plant.
Some people had cats. Some had dogs. I had plants. Which were just as demanding as any other life form. If I was being honest, they gave me structure and purpose . . . as well as peaceful vibes and clean air. But more importantly, I recognized them.
Every single one.
The aloe, with its long, prickled, fleshy spears, was different from the jade with its shiny, rounded, plump leaves. The palm was the opposite of the cactus. They required nothing of me that I couldn’t give. And in return for my attention, they thrived.
Okay. Maybe not the hoya. The hoya grew best with a regimen of benign neglect.
They say every child, even those born into the same family, has his own unique requirements. Plants do too.
I ran a fingertip along the leaves of the palm. It came away dusty. I wet a paper towel and used it to wipe down the leaves.
Even though I hadn’t eaten lunch, I wasn’t that hungry. But I was exhausted. And shaky. I walked over to the bar where I kept milk, eggs, and cheese in the mini fridge beneath the counter. I made my nightly two-egg omelet on a hot plate and added some toast. Then I grabbed an apple from a plastic bag filled with them and hauled my study books out of my backpack along with a new pack of index cards.
As I dove into my study guide, Mrs. Harper phoned. “I was wondering if you might be able to help me, Whitney.”
I helped her with something almost every night. Sometimes it was a lightbulb that needed to be changed. Sometimes it was an investigation of some strange noise. She was always very appreciative. “You sure made that look easy!” she would say as she patted my forearm when she let me out the back door. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”