“Anytime, really,” Sharon said, looking at her half-eaten bowl of oatmeal. She could finish it in a minute. As for the rest of her plans, well, the dishes could wait, as could the load of towels she needed to fold. This was the advantage of being retired and living alone. Her time was hers and hers alone. At least it had been, up until now.
“I’ll call and let her know you’re on your way. Thanks again, Mom. You’re awesome!” In that moment Amy sounded more fourteen than her actual age of forty, making Sharon smile.
After they said their goodbyes, Sharon hung up the phone and hoped she wasn’t making a big mistake.
Chapter Four
The GPS directed Sharon to a run-down neighborhood, an area she knew to have a high crime rate. The houses were a mix—some were maintained well, as evidenced by their tidy yards and neatly shoveled driveways, while others looked neglected, their facades showing peeling paint, their property littered with junk. Sharon shook her head. How did people come to have a refrigerator on the front porch or a car on cinder blocks in the driveway? People lived such different lives.
When she got to the correct address, she turned off the engine and got out of the car, then made her way up the snowy walkway to the front door. She pressed the doorbell and heard voices inside, first a woman angrily yelling something she couldn’t make out, followed by a man responding just as loudly. She stamped the snow off her boots and waited until finally, a minute or so later, the door was pulled open.
A woman with a pinched face stood in the narrow opening. “Yes?”
“I’m here to pick up Nikita?” The woman gave Sharon a blank stare. Darn it, I shouldn’t have phrased it as a question. Clearing her throat first, she tried again, this time more definitively. “I’m here for Nikita.” No response, making her wonder if she was at the wrong house. “Is she here?”
“She’s here,” the woman said in disgust, then motioned Sharon inside. The woman turned angrily and walked away, the door still ajar.
Sharon let herself in and watched as the woman disappeared down a hallway. To her left, a staircase went to the second floor. On her right, in the living room, a bald man in his late thirties sat in a worn recliner, looking at something on a tablet. He had earbuds in and didn’t seem aware of Sharon’s presence.
“Nikita?” Sharon called out. “It’s Sharon Lemke, Amy’s mom. I’m here to pick you up!”
“Just a minute!” The voice came from upstairs, and a minute later, Nikita came into view pulling a large suitcase alongside her, a backpack slung over one shoulder. She was wearing ripped jeans and an oversize sweatshirt. The suitcase must have been heavy, based on the way it clunked on each step. Nikita looked different than she had that day at the mall, wearier and with dark circles under her eyes. Her hair was missing the purple stripe as well.
The woman came charging back down the hall, an angry expression on her face. She stopped just short of running into Sharon. For a second, she thought the woman might hit her, but instead she directed her fury at Nikita. “So that’s it, then? You’re just headin’ out of here without even a day’s notice?” She crossed her arms in front of her.
Nikita didn’t answer; she only looked at Sharon. “Let’s go.” She tilted her head toward the door.
“What about your job? You aren’t gonna be able to keep working there anymore if you’re moving out of the neighborhood. How you gonna get there without a car? Bet you didn’t think of that.”
Nikita shrugged. “It wasn’t that great of a job anyway.” She toted the suitcase toward the door. “I’ll get another one.”
Sharon held the door open, and Nikita lifted the suitcase over the threshold.
Behind them the woman said, “You’re just gonna walk out of here? We give you a room, treat you like family. Without your rent money, I’m gonna be short this month. What am I supposed to do about that? You don’t even care, do you? You’re just trash, that’s what you are.”
“Wait a minute!” Sharon said, but no one took note of her.
Nikita didn’t look back. “I can’t stay.”
The woman let forth a string of profanities, which carried across the yard as they approached the car. Wordlessly, Sharon popped the trunk, and Nikita put her suitcase inside. Just as silently, they got into the car. As Sharon started the engine, she glanced back at the house, noticing the man staring at them through the front window.
They’d gone a few blocks before Sharon spoke. “Well, she was a real treat.”
“Yeah.” Nikita tucked her hair behind her ear and sighed.
“Are you hungry? We could stop somewhere and get some food.”
Nikita shook her head. “No, thanks.”
When they got closer to home, Sharon filled the silence. “We’re almost there. I live right down this next block.”
“Nice neighborhood.” Nikita put her hand to the glass and peered out like a child.
The houses were deceptively modest in size, considering that most of the occupants lived privileged lives. Vacations in Hawaii. Tutors for their children. Summer homes on northern lakes. Financially, Sharon was an outlier by comparison. Not that she minded. She said, “Don’t be too impressed. My house is one of the smaller ones. In fact, it’s the smallest. By a lot.” The real estate agent had told her that the house had originally been the guest cottage of a neighboring house, a notion that amused her.
Sharon remembered her daughter’s reaction upon seeing the house for the first time. They’d been able to afford the house only because Sharon had gotten a lump-sum settlement from a car accident in which she’d been badly injured. Even after the bones had healed, her leg and hip had never been the same, but the $60,000 had helped with physical therapy and had even given her enough left over for a down payment on a house. Amy was a freshman in high school at the time, and Sharon was thrilled to find a house she could afford, right in Amy’s school district. She excitedly showed Amy through the house right after the sellers accepted her offer, making a point to stress that her daughter wouldn’t have to switch schools and would also have, for the first time ever, her own bathroom. She knew the house was tiny, worn, and shabby, but she hadn’t expected Amy’s lack of enthusiasm. Trying to put a positive spin on things, Sharon added, “You know what they say: the worst house on the block is the best investment!”
To which Amy had responded, “Yeah, but did you have to get the worst house in the whole state?” Sharon had burst out laughing then.
Thinking about it even now made her smile. The house had been a disaster, but it had served them well, and she wasn’t planning on moving anytime soon, especially given all the improvements she’d made over the years: remodeling both bathrooms and the kitchen, switching out light fixtures, painting every wall, and replacing flooring in every room. Looking at old photos, it was hard to believe it was the same house.
Pulling into the driveway, Sharon pushed the button for the garage door opener, then paused as the door lifted. “Nikita, I want—”
“Niki.”
“What?”
“Please call me Niki. Amy is the only one who gets to call me Nikita.”