How can this be? My heart sinks in my chest, and my mouth drops open as I turn over this letter to find the correction for its message but only see a blank white abyss. Where’s the punchline to this must-be joke? The “Ha, ha, I got you”?
But no. My sweaty, shaky hands grip horrible words from some stranger stating that the building where I live and work is going up for sale. I fall back onto the stool behind me and look around my flourishing New Age store I created from a whim of a teenage idea twelve years ago.
Who will be my new landlord? When I left my parents’ home at eighteen, I was determined not to go to college, like most of my classmates, so I could start my life as soon as possible. The Bumbys offered me the lowest rent I could find—and in the French Quarter of New Orleans, no less. I’m forever grateful to them for paying their past fortune forward to me, since someone gave them a break when they were young and hungry for their own business. Now I have everything that surrounds me to treasure each day.
They’ve never even talked about selling their properties…have they? I mentally scan our conversations. No, never. All of those times over the years when I came to Betty with my boyfriend issues to gain her wisdom or how she told me all about her grandkids’ adventures plus her and Dale’s hopes and dreams never once led to, “Hey, Mary. We’re going to leave you in the dust someday. Okay? Great. See ya.”
Alright, I know my imagination is running wild, and they don’t deserve that, but come on. I just thought we had a closer relationship than maybe what they feel. They’re in my small circle of trust. If I had needed to leave this location, I would have given them warning, and not through some cold, impersonal letter. How could they have not told me—or any of their other renters—that they’re selling their properties? I consider them family, and family doesn’t blindside family.
Now that I think about it, they have seemed distant in the last few months. We’ve called each other less, but I just thought we were all busy. And when I tried to meet Betty last week for lunch so I could get her opinion on my newest relationship disaster, I was given a list of reasons for why she couldn’t join me, even when I offered alternative dates. She always wants to hear the gossip, so the realization should have hit me over the head. Wow, my intuition must be on the fritz.
Tears begin to well up in my eyes as more thoughts flood my now throbbing head, but I try to hold them back. “Mary doesn’t cry.” I drop the letter on the counter in front of me like I’m ridding myself of a bomb.
The Bumbys have kept my rent ridiculously affordable, but who knows what a new owner will charge. I’m sure they’ll want to raise the cost as high as possible for this desirable area. Who in their right mind wouldn’t? I don’t scrape by, but I also don’t have much disposable income, even at this monthly price.
So, wait. If I can’t swing the new fee, I’ll have to move. No! I can’t imagine living and working anywhere else, especially with the returning customer base I’ve gained. Not only do the tourists sustain A Healing Hand, but my locals are the heart of my dependable profits. Plus, the customers who attend my classes have come for years. I don’t know if they’ll continue their yoga, tea leaf readings, or any of my other offerings at a new site in God knows what part of the city. It would be like starting over again. And I’d miss them.
A tear escapes down my face. Damn it. Stay strong. Don’t think about the worst circumstance. I’ll be alright. Maybe if I tell myself that phrase enough it’ll be true. I squeeze my eyes shut, press my fingers to my temples, and mentally repeat the statement a few times.
Shaking my head to get myself together, I breathe in and breathe out as deep as my body allows. You know, recharging all my chakras. Yes, keep that vibe going, Mary.
Okay, I’ll just have to talk to the Bumbys tomorrow. It’s too late to contact them at this hour, and I need to close the store for the night. Plus, it’s dinner time for Mr. Grayson, who I definitely can’t tell about this letter tonight. Oh, he’s my cat. He’ll be displeased enough to be hungry, but to learn this news, too? Forget it. I expect a turned-up nose and a veering head as a full-on cat protest if I tell him these words. See, he loves to roam between my—I mean, our studio apartment and my store. If I have to move and the store doesn’t have living space above it, there goes his freedom. I may as well prepare for attitude for months. No thanks.
I snatch the letter and stuff it into my satchel under the counter. Maybe I’ll leave that energy down here tonight. No need to let it enter my safe space upstairs.
Locking the front door and turning off the last set of lights before I go upstairs, my awareness is altered by the vigorous aroma lingering from the candles I blew out pre-letter. Closing my eyes and breathing in sweet air from what seems like days ago, my body relaxes another notch. Ahh, nothing like lavender to greet the night and loosen my shoulders. The scent sparks images of fields bursting with the bright-purple plant and—
“Ow!” I stub my toe on the stairstep that protrudes from its edge and grab my foot to ease the pain. My flip-flops give unwanted access to my piggies way too much. “It’s not cool to kick me while I’m down, Universe.”
Asking the Bumbys to replace that board always slips my mind since, nine times out of ten, I hit my toe as I climb to my apartment for the night, then forget about it until the next night. I must remember about the defect, because it’s worse than ever, but how can I remember when there are a million other tasks on my plate? Plus, one more concern now. I tap my forehead a few times and say, “Remember.” So much for the relaxing lavender.
My favorite little buddy is waiting for me at our apartment door when I push it open, just as I expect. His yellow eyes shine as they look up at me past his short gray fur, but I’m not fooled. That shine isn’t a total happy-to-see-me look. He has a hint of annoyance in those squinting eyes since I closed the apartment door today. I know my guy.
“I was protecting your tiny pink ears, not punishing you, Gray.” I pat him on his soft fuzzy head. “There was a drum circle, and that’s too loud for you.”
He fully closes his eyes for a moment, forgiving me as far as I can tell.
As soon as I walk over to the cabinet and reach for his dry food, he dashes over and rubs against my leg.
“Here you go.” I pour the mix into his bowtie-shaped food bowl and fill his top-hat-formed water bowl.
He yawns and lies down in front of his bowls to feast as soon as I put them on the floor. No need to waste all that energy standing when he can relax while he eats.
Taking his lead, I plop down on the floor next to him and stroke his back. “Oh, Mr. Grayson, what are we gonna do?”
I turn my head and notice a gleaming silver fork laying under a barstool. Looking back at Mr. G., I ask, “What did you do when I was gone?”
He doesn’t stop eating, leaving me to guess what cat antics he was up to during the day.
I giggle. “You’re always knocking things off the counter.”
But I guess company’s coming my way. It’s an Italian superstition that always comes true. I wonder who will visit me.