Page 6 of The Last Letter of Rachel Ellsworth

Chapter Five

Veronica texted her daughter on Sunday afternoon.

Got a minute?

Yes

Her phone rang, and there was Jenna on FaceTime, her hair yanked into a tight, high ponytail, her nose ring catching the light. “Hi. I stopped by Friday, but you weren’t there.”

“I had a job interview, actually.”

Jenna carried the phone somewhere into the kitchen she shared with three roommates. “That’s awesome. I know you’ve been looking. Did you get it?”

“I did. That’s why I’m calling. I’m going to be a research assistant for a woman who is digging into café culture.”

Jenna propped her phone up on a windowsill as she took down a cup and poured coffee from a pitcher of cold brew in the fridge. “That sounds great. Right up your alley, for sure.”

“The thing is,” Veronica interjected before Jenna could move on to the more exciting things in the world, like her own interests, “I’m leaving for three or four weeks, and I need you to water my plants once a week.”

“Wait. Where are you going?” She paused. “You’re not actually going to India? I thought you were just trying to save face.”

“Wow, thanks,” Veronica said. Although it was true, she still wanted to save face. “Not only India. London, Paris, Morocco.”

“Someone’s paying you to do that?”

“I know. I’m so thrilled.”

“Mom. Are you sure it’s not a scam?”

Veronica rolled her eyes. “It’s not a scam.” But suddenly, she worried that it was. Could this just be some elaborate setup to, what? Give her minimum wage? She was a bit long in the tooth to be trafficked, although she supposed it happened. Maybe she should—

Stop it. Just in case, she’d go over the paperwork carefully. And honestly, if she got stranded somewhere, she’d just use her credit card to get home.

In the meantime, she said to her daughter, “She has some mobility problems and needs help with bags and that kind of thing.”

“Oh, I get it.” She nodded. “Like a companion?”

“I think that’s the main part of the job, honestly. Will you water the plants?”

“Of course.”

“Once a week. Put it on your calendar. I’ve had some of these since you were a baby.”

“I promise.” The information seemed to settle. “Do you think you’re up to such a big trip?”

As if she were a hundred, not fifty. “I’ll be fine.”

“What if I need you?”

“I still have a phone, and your dad lives here, too.”

Jenna rolled her eyes. “That helps.”

“You’ll be fine. You’ll be in Breck for the holidays, and I’ll be home in early January.”

“Oh,” Jenna said, a light bulb going off. “Are you doing this as a change of scenery for Christmas?”

“Maybe,” she admitted. Last year had been terrible. “But I also do need a job, and this will be better than being a clerk somewhere.”

“True.” A voice called from off-screen. Jenna glanced over her shoulder. “I’m happy for you, Mom. Gotta go.” She blew a kiss and ended the connection.

Unlike Jenna, her sons never liked phone calls. She texted them both at the same time. Hey, I got a job, and I’m going to be on the road for a few weeks, leaving next Wednesday. If you need anything, you’ll have to go to your dad. Do you want to come over for dinner Tuesday?

The only other person who’d care was Amber, a friend she’d met in forced group therapy after her arrest. Everyone else had either decided to take Spence’s side or had been horrified by her arrest. Understandably.

Eventually, she’d have to tell Spence about the trip, but there was time. She didn’t have to do it now.

She managed to get in to see her doctor on Thursday, was dosed up with vaccines and malaria pills. “I’m also giving you a prescription for antibiotics and an antidiarrheal,” Dr. Romero said. “Take IMODIUM with you, lots of it. And a really good mosquito repellent with DEET.”

Veronica typed notes into her phone. “Isn’t DEET bad for you?”

“Not as bad as malaria or dengue fever.”

“Point taken.”

“Also, you’ll want Benadryl, and the usual NSAIDs. Do you have a water bottle with a filter?”

“No.”

“You can buy a good one at REI.” She dropped her readers on the table. “Saves a lot on discarded single-use plastic, and you’ll always know you have it. Don’t drink the water in Morocco or India, even to brush your teeth.”

“Got it.”

“Also,” she said with a smile, “don’t let the warnings scare you. It’s going to be an amazing trip. Happy for you.”

Dr. Romero had been the one to see Veronica after she broke her wrist one winter night, and when she’d been arrested, she prescribed Xanax to help get her through the worst of the madness.

Thinking about it now, she felt deep shame.

A normal person would not have lost her mind over the loss of a marriage.

“Thanks. I’m really excited.”

Both arms vaguely tender from the vaccinations, she drove to the giant REI near campus and found the filtering water bottle, then wandered the aisles looking for other things that might make travel easier without loading herself down.

In light of Mariah’s needs, Veronica had already mentally limited herself to one medium bag.

She picked up a stretchy clothesline that could be hung up in a shower, individual packets of laundry soap, a cube that adapted electronics to various power sources, including direct plugs for USB and C cords.

She eyed the first-aid kits but decided she could make one herself.

Although she browsed through the hiking pants and wicking shirts, she didn’t see anything she didn’t already own.

Before the divorce, she’d hiked most weeks with a group of women from the neighborhood.

Those outings had ceased with her arrest, but she still had the clothes.

They were sturdy and drip-dry—perfect for this.

She did add some drip-dry underwear, and then, wary of putting too much on her credit card, checked out.

She was loading it all into the back of her Subaru when her phone buzzed and Spence’s face showed on the screen. She almost ignored it, but as they were coparents, he did have a right to know that she’d be out of the country.

“I guess you heard the news,” she said.

“Uh . . . what news?”

She took a breath, unwilling to do this in a parking lot. “Nothing big; I’ll call you later. What’s up?”

“Did you sign the papers my lawyer sent over?”

She scoffed. “The reduction in alimony, you mean? No. I’m barely making it as it is.”

“Ronny, come on. I’m going to have a new baby! And we have three kids in college. I’m not a wealthy man. Give me a break.”

“Don’t call me Ronny,” she said for the millionth time.

“You’re the one who wanted a divorce. These are the consequences.

” A fit young man with messy hair carried a sleeping bag to his car.

Veronica realized she was appreciatively watching only when he gave her a sunny smile and lift of the chin.

She smiled back. “If it’s that dire, sell your precious house. ”

“It’s been in my family since 1925!”

Across the screen of imagination flashed a memory of her dining room, the windows looking out onto the garden of rare irises—now gone—she’d hunted down over decades, the glow of that table she’d polished so earnestly.

She had to take a breath to ease the pinch in her chest. “I don’t know what to tell you,” she said. “I’m on minimal alimony as it is.”

“It’s only you!”

“And whose fault is that?”

“Maybe if you hadn’t been so out of control, we could have worked things out ourselves and saved all the lawyer fees.”

She pressed her lips together, feeling the ache of those memories rising, too, tangling in all the losses of that year.

With effort, she looked up at the blue, blue sky, repeated the mantra she’d found in therapy.

Not worth it, not worth it, not worth it.

She opened the door and settled behind the wheel.

“I can’t really talk right now, Spence.”

“Ronny! Don’t hang up!”

“What?” she said sharply.

“Have a heart. Please, just think about it.”

“No,” she said cleanly and firmly and without heat. It was a trick she’d worked hard to learn. How to set boundaries without losing her temper.

She hung up. She would have to tell him she was leaving, but choosing when to do it gave her a sense of calm.

Less alimony. As if.

At home, she laid everything out on the bed.

She had not packed for such a long trip for herself before, but she’d done it plenty for Spence.

Ten years ago, he’d published a pop-philosophy self-help book that had been translated into quite a few languages.

He was on the circuit, speaking in various places as the author of the book, always imagining he’d hit the big time any minute.

He hadn’t yet. The royalties for the book were thin these days, and the pressure to write something new was mounting, but he had not written in years.

But she had learned to pack for him. What you needed was a week’s worth of clothing that could be recycled, with maybe a few extra bits. It saved mental energy to think that way.

She packed eight pairs of underwear, two pairs of pants (khaki and dark blue), two skirts that would shake out easily, four short-sleeve and two long-sleeve T-shirts, a swimsuit (one piece), a dress that could be worn with tennis shoes or sandals, a scarf that could be worn with anything, and three bras in various thicknesses and colors. Everything went into compression cubes.

As she was deciding how to pack the first aid, pharmaceuticals, and her cosmetics, the doorbell rang.

She practically skipped toward the door, so buoyed by her excitement, to find all three kids standing in the hallway.

“Hey!” she said, touching the screen of her watch.

“I thought you were coming for dinner tomorrow.”

“That’s not why we’re here, Mom,” Tim said.

“What, then?” It was either the trip, or Spence had sent emissaries to plead his case, but she didn’t think he’d stoop to using the kids.

“Can we just come in?” Tim asked.

She sighed and stepped back to let them in. “Of course.”