Ruth Campos. I’ve heard that name before. I’m pretty sure she got into it with my mother over the phone one time, not too long ago, when Mom tried to pass herself off as the person who had Violet’s power of attorney in hopes of getting a little bit of money. It didn’t go so well.
Ruth lays out the details both kindly and matter-of-factly: Violet passed away in her sleep on Sunday morning. She was ninety years old. She remained sharp as a tack until the very end, and while her mobility had declined, she’d gotten highly invested in local outreach concerning the preservation of forests. Per her wishes, there was no service, no public fuss. Her cremated remains have been scattered all over her land, to be with her husband Victor’s ashes. He died right after I turned eleven. I heard about it but wasn’t allowed to attend the funeral.
The whites of her eyes are a bit pink, mascara smudging as she blinks rapidly. “I’m gonna miss that lady.”
“I can’t believe she’s gone.” I can’t imagine her not being in that big house anymore, watering her pretty garden, humming as she dusts the spindlework around her living room doorway. All this time, even though I’ve certainly been a blurry speck in her past, she’s been a bright, stabilizing presence in the back of my mind, and my emotions are being crushed under that rock as it rolls away.
I haven’t seen her in twenty years. My summer at Falling Stars, Violet Hannobar’s late-1800s estate resting on two hundred and ninety-four acres of land an hour southwest of here, is my happiest memory. For a little girl who was passed from relative to relative and then cast out when Julie Parrish burned bridges, Violet’s friendly pink house was nearly as big as a castle and pure fairy tale. I never wanted to leave.
And according to Ruth, now it’s all mine.
She shows me a few papers from the envelope, but my mind is reeling and I can’t make sense of any of it. The splash of a water slide and shrieking children press in around my ears; a kazoo blasts from the loudspeaker whenever kids fire the water cannons in Rocky Top Tree House and my concentration fractures, life as I knew it this morning and life as it’s going to be slamming into each other like oncoming trains.
My gaze wanders over the lobby that’s functioned as my second home from the time I turned eighteen and joined Mom as a housekeeper. We weren’t the kind of family who could afford vacations, so being employed at a water park hotel was the next best thing. I remember walking beneath the giant statue of a bear strumming a banjo in the parking lot, which you can see from Dollywood, and feeling very adult.
Like being on vacation every day, my mother said. Living the dream. Now she’s in Atlanta, living a new dream. I’ve been stuck here, not remotely feeling like every day is a vacation.
“She said she was going to leave me everything,” I murmured, “but that was forever ago. I was a kid.”
“She loved you.”
“She didn’t love anybody else better than me, in the twenty years since we saw each other?”
“Those twenty years didn’t stop you from being her niece.” Ruth lays her hand over mine. “She understood why you didn’t return. Time away can make coming back awkward. And your mother held a fierce grudge.” She draws back, straightening the contents of the envelope. “You were the only apple on the family tree she liked, if you don’t mind my saying. Who better to inherit the estate?”
I’m struggling to process this information, but it won’t sink in. If this means what I think it means, I can leave my living situation: a tiny apartment I’m being crowded out of now that my roommate’s boyfriend moved in and his friends are always sleeping over. I don’t know what I’ll do for a job, but with a house already paid for, it isn’t such a big risk to leave Pigeon Forge.
I can leave Around the Mountain Resort & Spa. I can leave Gemma.
“I can move in now?” I ask suddenly. I nearly pounce on her, I lean forward so fast. “Like, today?”
Ruth nods, eyes cutting to a herd of people decked out in their bathing suits, heading to the water park. The doors blast open and the roar and gurgle of water rides rushes out before the doors muzzle it again. “All ready to go. There are some dying wishes of Violet’s to run over with you, but the fine details can wait until after your arrival.”
A blue mist sweeps across hoods and trunks in the parking lot, swirling up in capricious spring winds. My heart lifts with new hopes, new plans taking shape, pumping ferociously.
“The property is mine,” I say quietly. My voice sounds strange, not like myself.
“The property is yours,” Ruth affirms. Minutes slip away as I sort through this reality, but Ruth shows no signs of impatience. She merely excuses herself to buy a coffee and croissant, then returns and eats in companionable silence.
“What’s the catch?” I ask. “There has to be a catch.”
She chokes on her croissant and gulps the coffee, wincing. “Went down the wrong pipe. Don’t worry yourself, it’s all in order. No debts, no mortgage. Violet thought of everything.”
I flatten my hands on the table. That’s all there is to it, then. “Okay.” Deep breath, Maybell. “I guess that means that . . . I quit.” It comes out sounding like a question. I quit? Can I do that? Is this really happening?
Christine is at the checkout desk, berating a temp for parking in her spot. I could stroll up to her right now and make a big, dramatic scene. A satisfying “I quit!” story for the ages.
I could throw my name tag in the pool.
Confidently lay out all my grievances and how she’ll be sorry when I’m gone. How many hours I’ve given to this company, only for them to stick me with a health insurance policy that’s riddled with holes, no paid overtime, and none of the bonuses I was led to believe I’d receive. I could point at the wet seats and say Clean. That. Up. Punctuating each word with an obnoxious clap of my hands.
Dark spots speckle the edges of my vision as I stare at Christine, who senses being watched and turns to give me a Why are you sitting down on the clock? look. God, how gratifying it would be to utter the magic words.
But when Christine taps her watch and frowns pointedly, old habits die hard. I’m a meek little mouse, rising to my feet as if I’m going to head straight back to the dorm-room desk behind a folding wall that is supposed to be my office, which I am never at because they’ve eternally got me shampooing gum out of the carpet.
No one’s around to bear witness when I carefully leave my name tag, key card, and lanyard in the break room. No one looks twice when I retrieve my purse from my locker. I almost take my stash of Mountaineer Tickets with me, good-behavior rewards I’ve been saving up to cash out for a large lemonade slushee. They’re useless in the real world, so I shove them into the temp’s locker. It’s surreal to be leaving, and just as surreal to be leaving so quietly. After more than a decade of dreaming I might be the type of person who goes out with a bang, I’m not even giving a fizzle.