Page 8

Emily Bond

Sort of Seeing Someone

I step out of Esther’s shop and take a breath of fresh air, or as fresh as it gets in a state were pot is legalized.

Just then, my phone rings again. It’s my sister, Nora. I know I’ll regret this later, but I answer.

“No, Nora,” I say, diving right in. “Liv did not call me yet for my birthday. Nor did Mom. You’re first.”

“Good to know,” she says. “But that’s not why I’m calling.”

“What’s wrong?” I ask, detecting a hint of dread mixed with worry in her voice.

“I need you to come home for a week. I’ll pay for your plane ticket. Esteban has to go to Houston for work and I cannot—I repeat—I cannot stay home alone with the kids all day.”

“Your kids are in school all day,” I remind her.

“Yeah, but like, before and after that.”

“That’s like a total of three hours.”

“Moonie, don’t be petty.”

“I’m being…mathematical?”

“Can you come home for a week or not? You know I don’t trust anyone but you with the boys after we had that identity theft incident with the Craigslist nanny.”

I want to tell her that’s what you get for hiring someone off a buy/sell/trade website, but I’m afraid she’ll call me petty again.

I process Nora’s question.

On my Uber ride over to Little Italy tonight, I looked up apartments and everything was out of my price range—even with my severance and Gerda’s refunded rent.

I went on to sell a piece of my soul, texting Gavin that I’d take him up about a position at the studio in Claremont, but he replied and said the rest of the Laid Off Club had already taken all the available positions.

Without proof of income, no landlord will let me even apply to rent.

Sure, I could throw myself into job hunting, but I’ve been here for two years.

Throwing yourself into things isn’t how it’s done.

We take it easy. We take it slow. The last job I had was a lifestyle.

No matter how many hours I log in front of a screen combing through job boards, I know it won’t be easy to find another opportunity like that—perfect location, perfect energy, perfect people.

Esther said my time was up for now . So I close my eyes and clench my fists like I’m gearing up for a shot of cheap tequila.

“I can come home for...”

“...ever?!”

“Fuck no,” I quickly correct her. This is temporary. It has to be. “But I can come home for a while ,” I say softly.

I hope the instant regret I feel is just heartburn from the spicy hummus I dipped a carrot into on my way out of Yas’ condo.

“Are you shitting me?” says Nora.

“I’m not. It’s a long story, but…it’s time for me to come home,” I say. I may be borrowing Esther’s words, but I sure sound like a foreign exchange student whose Visa expired.

“Look, I’m not one to turn down help watching my kids, but I feel like I’d be the worst big sister in the world if I didn’t throw in a hearty, ‘Are you sure about this, Moonie?’”

No.

But also yes.

But also no.

I settle on: “Yeah.”

“Oh my god. The Miller sisters all in one city again? Pinch me.”

Before she gets lost in the kumbaya of it all, I bring her back down with a logistical request of my own.

“I need you to let me live in your coach house for as long as I’m watching the boys.”

“Done.”

The way Nora instantly clamps down on my offer, I debate layering on a few more asks: a first-class ticket back, an actual salary, health insurance (I am twenty-six now…), PTO. Instead I go with: “And I need a steady supply of coffee beans stocked at all times.”

“You can use our Keurig whenever you want. It’s instant.”

Her response reminds me that I better start mentally adjusting to the hurried, press-of-a-button kind of life that awaits me in Chicago.

“Fine,” I say. “I’ll check flights later, and see you sometime this weekend. Just…can you wait to tell mom I’m coming back until I’m settled in? I don’t want her to feel like she needs to run home and check on me.”

“I don’t think we need to worry about mom running home ,” Nora says. “But yeah. It’ll be our little secret.”

As I hang up, a lady with a pet snake on her shoulder passes me.

God, I love it here.

The next day, I walk over to the neighborhood CVS for a tube of Chapstick.

At some point, this lip color from Yas—amazing as it is—turned my lips into the Sahara Desert.

Esther Higgins said I’ll get another chance with the one , which, by process of elimination, can only beBrody.

In the event he rides by on skateboard while I’m packing up my things and we end up making out one last time before my flight to ORD, I don’t want his last memory of me to be the girl with the dry, cracked lips.

In the checkout lane, I notice a book of crossword puzzles.

I’m sure none of the clues in the crossword book have to do with popstars or A-list celebrities, but I grab it anyway as a parting gift for Gerda.

Then, I double back to the school supply aisle and grab her a fresh pack of Dixon Ticonderogas.

Just then, a ping on my phone. It’s my mom.

Sorry I didn’t call yesterday. The day got away from me.

No worries, I reply back, wondering just how many hours she spent on the pickleball court before she realized it was too late to call her daughter on her birthday.

So…how was your birthday?! Do anything special? she asks, the same way she’d inquire about how my school day was when I was little.

Now, I decide—when I’m next in the check-out lane—is not the time to fill her in on just how special my birthday turned out to be.

Nope! Just your standard b-day , I fudge.

Oh. Okay. Just checking.

She sounds disappointed. I wonder if her Mother’s Intuition can sense the dread of the day?

CVS’s signature four-foot-long receipt prints out after I pay and I scan it for any good coupons before tossing it in the trash with the other five hundred receipts.

When looking at it, the date and time stamp catches my eye.

It’s 2pm on Friday, September 13 th . I know Gerda said she and Betty weren’t leaving until the nighttime, but a part me worries that “nighttime” to a woman her age is really 4pm.

I don’t want to miss saying goodbye to her, so I head straight home.

“Find a place to live yet?” Gerda asks the moment she opens Betty’s door after my first knock. I can tell this has been weighing on her mind.

“Yes. But…it’s in Chicago. My sister’s house.”

“Oh, dear. I was afraid that was what it would come to,” she says.

“Please don’t think this your fault—it’s not. My life actually came crashing down in more ways than one and it’s just…time.”

“When do you leave?” she asks me, still standing in her the doorway facing the alley.

“I guess I’ll fly back tomorrow. Nothing is really keeping me here, you know?” I say the quiet part out loud.

“Can we have the rest of this conversation on the patio? For old time’s sake?”

I nod and she follows me across the alley to the backdoor of her OB beach house.

We walk through it to get to the patio on the front side, like we’ve done so many times before.

However, this time, Gerda walks extra slow through the teeny tiny house.

She traces her finger along the walls and marvels all around like the ceiling was the Sistine Chapel.

“I’m really going to miss this place,” she sighs out.

“I am, too.”

“You know my husband, Larry?” she asks. “He actually died in the house. Right here, watching Jeopardy! to be exact. I was going to include that tidbit when I replied to your ad. I thought it was a fun fact. Betty talked me out of it. Said she thought it might scare someone away.”

Betty’s gut instinct for the win!

Finally outside the house someone died in , we each take our respective seats at the table one last time. Gerda’s chair scrapes famously across the cement. I will not miss that sound.

“I feel so bad,” Gerda says.

“Don’t,” I reassure her. “I was renting a place too good to be true. There was no way this could last forever, even I knew that. I’m just grateful for the time I had here.”

“You’re making me out to sound like a scam artist.” Gerda shakes her fist at me.

“You know I don’t mean it like that,” I say. “I’m happy for you! Your new life sounds amazing.”

“What about your new life? What’s happening there?”

“My older sister, Nora, called me yesterday. She needshelp with her two young boys. They can be a little much at times.”

“Population control,” Gerda mumbles through a cough.

“So I’ll do that. I’ll nanny them. They’re my nephews after all, and I love them. In exchange, I will live in her coach house until I figure out my life. Here’s a pic of them she sent me this morning.”

I slide my phone—5G radio waves and all—toward Gerda. Nora’s kids are strangling each other in the photo.

“Jubilant,” she comments flatly.

“It’s definitely going to be a new pace of life,” I say, picturing a drawer full of coffee pods. “But I just keep repeating ‘free coach house’ when I think about all the Legos I’ll be stepping on.”

“A coach house…in Chicago. Is that safe?” she asks.

I forget how the rest of the world perceives Chicago as this place you need to pack your bulletproof vest and hide from the mobs.

I spare explaining that Roscoe Village is a place where balloon art and goldendoodles are front and backyard staples.

My sister’s neighborhood is basically all the Midwestern charm you can muster sprinkled into a two-million-dollar house with close proximity to city life and national attractions.

Think: seasonal bike shops, artisan donuts, and overpriced clothing boutiques all within walking distance.

Then ballparks, stadiums, and museums just a ten-minute drive away.

“I’ll be fine,” I assure her, not for the first time. “At least I’m not moving back to the Midwest in the middle of winter. I don’t think I could emotionally handle a fifty-degree temperature drop right now. Hey, before I forget…I got you something. A little parting gift, if you will.”

I empty the contents of my CVS shopping bag onto the tabletop.

“Lip balm?” she asks. “What the hell do I need that for?”

“That’s for me, G. This…is for you.”

I slide the crossword puzzle book her way with the package of pencils.

“One thousand intermediate level crossword puzzles,” she narrates. A smile purses across her lips as she resumes eye contact with me. “And some fresh pencils. I love these things.”

“I’m sorry I won’t be there to read you the clues. But hey, maybe that could be a new ritual for you and Betty,” I suggest.

“Oh. Speaking of rituals,” she says. “I have something for you, too. A parting gift, if you will ,” she says, lovingly mocking me.

Gerda didn’t come over holding any bags, so a part of me is awfully curious from where she’s going to pull this ‘parting gift.’ I stay tuned.

Her hand travels to the breast pocket of her housecoat—today’s print is citrus fruit themed. She pulls out a wad of leaves and sets it on the table.

“Potpourri?”

“It’s a smudge stick,” she says.

“Thanks,” I say, unsure of how to receive the gift—a common theme these days.

“Do you know what these are for?”

I shake my head no.

“Smudge sticks are bundles of leaves and herbs. These are blue sage. I bound them together with twine and now they’re ready to burn.”

“Wait. I’m supposed to burn your gift?”

“Yes. You see, Moonie, burning these herbs wards off negative energy and it cleanses your space. I know you’re not staying here, so wherever you go next, you’ll need to smudge. I got one for myself, too.Oceanhurstwill be great, but I have to cleanse it first.”

My sister is really neurotic. The coach house probably serves as an overflow for her negative energy.

“Thanks, Gerda. This is awesome.”

“This is a tradition that goes back thousands of years, you know.”

I don’t, actually. But I happily pick up the smudge stick and inspect it. It’s fragrant.

“Are you sure it’s okay to inhale this?” I ask, remembering that Esther lit something similar around me yesterday.

“It’s aromatherapy, Moonie . You’ve got a lot to learn about how healing rituals like this can be. Also, it’s Friday the 13 th . What are you doing to celebrate?”

“Probably ordering pizza.”

Gerda rolls her eyes.

“What time is it?” she asks.

“I can tell you, but I have to check my phone again, and you know what that means. Toxic radiation, ” I whisper.

“Do any young people own a watch anymore—and not the kind that reads your text messages for you?” she asks.

Without one on her wrist, I guess no old people own one either.

“It’s 3:30,” I say.

“ Oof . It’s getting late,” she comments. My prediction that she’d turn into a pumpkin come 4pm was right. “ Oceanhurst , here I come.”

I take a long, hard look at Gerda Germain—who somehow manages to exude excitement for the future through her uncertainty and fear. It is not lost on me that I need to channel some of that energy in a big way.

Gerda slides her chair out. This time, I’m convinced the sound registers on the Richter scale.

“Til we meet again,” she says, putting out her warm, wrinkled hands. I’m not sure if she’s asking for a double handshake, or to be pulled in for a hug. Either way I extend my hands her way and our palms connect. I am relieved to see nothing when they do.

Maybe Esther was just fucking with me after all.

.