I slumped in the corner of the gym, exhausted. My life had been a mad dash since I’d been released from the psychiatric assessment center more than two weeks before. Keeping up my appointments with Dr. Alexander, group therapy, my probation officer, and logging in hours of community service had me burning up the asphalt of the highway between Greenfield and the city.
When I was home, I cleaned, preparing the final touches on the house before Rose opened it for showings in just two days. And I’d had no time to look for a place to live in the city.
I leaned against the gym wall and closed my eyes. The sounds of basketball filled my ears. There were more teenagers than usual; the numbers had been steadily increasing since Big Tim’s death. The news of his murder seemed to act as a magnet, drawing in youth from the streets. The banner that bore his image still hung in the gym. I’d noticed several new messages had been added.
“Hey! Take off, loser.” Sekeena’s distressed voice rose above the din of bouncing balls. I opened my eyes. Sekeena stood on the far side of the gym, her arms wrapped around her torso. She was wearing a baggy tracksuit, the hood pulled up over her head.
Creeper, a popular boy with an unfortunate nickname, stood near her, tossing a basketball up in the air. I had watched him and Sekeena try to outdo each other on the court the first time I’d visited the gym. He was tall and lean, and he and Sekeena were always in each other’s face. Jack had told me that the boy’s real name was Terrance, but he earned his nickname in junior high when a growth spurt shot him to six feet tall and he compensated by slouching, his spine curving into a near-perfect C.
Sekeena threw Creeper a violent look and skulked away from him, toward me. She threw herself down on the floor beside me. She used her sleeve to wipe the tears from her cheeks.
“Sekeena, what happened?”
She stuck her chin out, putting on her tough-girl act. “Nuthin.”
I turned and watched the basketball game, pretending interest. “Oh, good. For a second there I thought your crying meant there was something wrong. Thanks for clearing that up.”
She gave a half laugh, half sob, and leaned on my shoulder. I put one arm around her and patted the pocket of my pants, looking for a tissue. When would I learn to stuff them with tissue like my mother always had? No matter the season or the crisis, if you needed a tissue, my mother could produce a variety to choose from. I came up empty-handed.
Sekeena sat up, pushing the tears off her face with her palms. “I’m pregnant.”
I tried not to look shocked. She was a tomboy, an in-your-face, play-hard girl who never gave a guy an inch. At least on the basketball court. Obviously she’d been giving one guy plenty of room. Or maybe not.
“Creeper?” I asked, taking an educated guess.
She didn’t seem to think it was a dumb question. She wiped her face with the back of her hand. “Yep.”
“Was it … your choice?” The world was a different place than the one I had spent my teens in just a decade ago. And the city was far removed from the sleepy town I’d grown up in. Working with teenagers had taught me I couldn’t take even the simplest thing for granted.
She tossed her head back. “Creeper doesn’t force girls.” She gave a bitter laugh. “He doesn’t have to.”
I looked over to the game. Creeper took control of the ball and dribbled it in for an easy layup. “Does he know?”
She fiddled with the drawstring of her track pants. “No,” she said in a flat, sort of disgusted way that teenagers speak when they don’t want to talk. The she threw me a startled look. “Don’t tell him, either.”
“If that’s what you want.” I stood and offered a hand to hoist her up off the floor. “Let’s go talk in Jack’s office.”
She stood, but pulled away. “Nothing to talk about,” she mumbled. “And I have to go look for a place to live.”
“Your parents kicked you out?” I pictured an overtaxed mother, young children tugging at her leg, an unemployed father clad in a white undershirt, sitting at the kitchen table waving a furious fist in the air and hollering, Get outta here!
Sekeena’s lip curled in a sneer. “No, they didn’t throw me out. At least not yet.” She crossed her arms, head bent so far down she looked like a rag doll. “My mom said to just get an abortion.” She snapped her fingers.
I felt a sharp pain, like someone pinched my breastbone. “Is that what you’re going to do?”
“Quick fix. My mom’s style, not mine.” She pointed to her flat abdomen. “And don’t bother her about it, she’s busy with her own problems.”
She took two tiny steps backward. “Anyway, I’m going to split, see where I can hole up until I decide what to do about …” She shrugged.
I reached out a hand. “Did Jack have some suggestions for where you can live?”
She chewed her lip. “I haven’t told Jack. Telling him is worse than telling my parents, ya know?”
Some perverse part of me felt proud that Sekeena had confided in me before Jack, as if it somehow justified my being there with those teenagers. But I also knew that Jack wouldn’t react as Sekeena suspected. “He’ll understand. And he’ll be able to help, too.” He’d done nothing but help me from the day I met him; I knew he would bend over backward to help Sekeena.
She tucked her chin to her chest. “He’s such a straight shooter. He’ll be disappointed in me.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “I don’t know how to tell him.”
Creeper had played a part in the problem as well and could shoulder some of the blame, I thought. But I held my tongue, no use adding fuel to the fire. “Would you like me to talk to Jack for you?”
She was silent for so long I wasn’t sure she’d heard me. Then a quiet peep, “Yeah. Thanks.”
She turned, but I stopped her with a touch. “Are you certain you need to leave home right now? I mean, do you have to?”
She frowned. “My mom is on my case to get an abortion. My dad yells at her to shut up, then yells at me.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Yesterday my mom told me, basically, that I have to get an abortion or move out. She doesn’t want the burden. Like she would do all the work?” She snorted. “She acts like I don’t have a brain.” She was quiet for a moment, then said, “I don’t know what to do. I just need to get out of there so I can think straight.” She jogged away a few steps, turned and waved, the conversation over. She headed for the exit.
I watched her go, wondering what choice she would make. And how could I help her to make it? She had no idea I’d had an abortion, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to share that information with the kids who gathered. What could I do to help her?
I checked my watch. Three fifteen. I was due for my appointment with Dr. Alexander.
I drove, deep in thought about Sekeena. She was so young, too young to be a mother. Too young to have to make such huge decisions about life and death. I idled at a stop sign and looked around. Where was I?
I had driven blindly, without thinking, for at least fifteen minutes and found myself in a neighborhood I’d never seen before. Tree-shaded boulevards were trimmed with winding walkways. Rows of large, Victorian-era houses lined the street. It was reminiscent of a 1950s TV show, where the world seemed honest and clean.
I inched the car forward, drinking in the sites of the pastel-colored houses, greener-than-green lawns with giant oak trees shading oversized lots. At the end of the street, I noticed a corner house with a sign out front that said For Sale by Owner. I slowed my car.
I stopped in front of the lot. Painted in buttery yellow with white trim, the two-story house seemed to smile and bend and bow. I glanced at the time. I was late for my appointment with Dr. Alexander. And I was on probation, required to keep all appointments with him. But I turned the engine off and climbed out of the car. I pulled out my phone and called Dr. Alexander’s office. “Sorry, but I’ll be late for my appointment,” I told his receptionist. We rescheduled for the next day.
I walked up the curved sidewalk just as a woman, whom I would have pegged at about sixty, maybe sixty-five, came out onto the veranda. She waved, as if she’d been expecting me.
I returned the wave. “I noticed the For Sale sign.”
She stuck her hand out. “I’m Georgia.” She pushed a strand of salt-and-pepper hair back up into the twist on her head. “Are you looking to buy a house?”
“I suppose I am,” I said.
“Come in, then.”
It was one of those hold-your-breath moments, walking into the house. Like entering a cool breeze, a calm river, a soothing sunrise. The small rooms of a traditional Victorian had been pushed aside and opened up so that the broad foyer flowed into what could correctly be called a great room. The rounded archways, crown molding, and restored ancient flooring worked together to provide a sense of stepping back to a gentler time. Across the room a large-scale fireplace warmed the room. The walls had been painted a soft dove gray, trimmed in the same crisp white as the veranda. It was a room that made you say “Oh.” And nothing more.
When we walked into the kitchen, I was temporarily dazed by the size of it. Georgia seemed chagrined. “Harry always said the kitchen is the heartbeat of the home. We wanted it nice in here.”
Nice was an understatement. Four chefs could work here without interfering with each other. Windows ran horizontally across one full wall, giving a full—nearly panoramic—view of the backyard. I peered out, half expecting to see children playing. Instead there was only green grass and fruit trees. And a boxwood hedge that seemed to act as a barrier or fence. “What’s beyond the hedge?”
Georgia didn’t even look out the window. “The garden. Well, mostly weeds now, I admit. I haven’t had time for babying tomatoes since Harry turned sick.”
I turned to her, feeling a prick of guilt. “I’m sorry. Is he better?”
She smiled. “Better like only God could make him. He died five months ago, just after we finished the renovation on this place.” She let out a laugh. “But, bear in mind, the renovations have lasted nearly twenty-five years.” Her eyes drifted out to the backyard. “We raised our children here, five of them, and over the years, we tinkered—fixing a room up here, wallpapering there. Harry called it his burden of love.”
Her eyes sparkled bright, perhaps from tears. I felt a lump grow in my chest. Like a fist. “I’m sorry.”
Georgia jerked, as if suddenly waking. “No, don’t be. I’m going to live with my middle daughter and her children. Three sweet babies for me to hold and spoil.” She ran a hand along the countertop. “It’s time.”
Upstairs were five bedrooms, each one sunnier than the last, and four bathrooms. After the tour we sat on the back porch and sipped the iced tea Georgia had made. The silence between us stretched out like a homecoming. I was completely at ease with this place, this woman—a complete stranger. I caught her staring at me. “I’m sorry. I’m just amazed. You look—”
“What?”
She shook her head. “You’re going to think I’m trying to sell you a bill of goods, but you look just as if you were home.” She held up her glass to the house. “This place suits you.”
“I’ll take it.”
Iced tea spilled from her glass as she nearly lost her grip on it. “Oh, Kate, I didn’t mean—”
“I know you didn’t. And I know it’s impractical, ridiculous really, for a single woman to buy a house like this. But …” I could neither explain nor deny the impression; that’s how best to describe it—nothing but an impression, a notion more than a thought or idea, that I was to live here. A wordless imprint on my heart that spoke to me: Yes, here.
I looked around. “You said you’re moving in with your daughter. Would you consider selling the house furnished?”
Her hand fluttered near her throat. “Well, I don’t know. There are a few pieces of furniture that are heirlooms. My children would never want me to part with them. But—”
“But the rest of the furniture?”
“I suppose so. I don’t see why not.” She fanned her face with her hand. “
“Good. Should I write the check out to you?”
Georgia stood up too, shaking her head and smiling. “You’re certainly not one to waste any time.”
“I’ve wasted too much time already.”