Chapter 9 - THE EXORCISM OF WILLOW CREST
By Saturday morning, the removal was complete.
Under the watchful eye of two Collin County sheriff’s deputies, Tiffany’s sister and a commercial moving crew spent three hours packing every piece of furniture, every decorative vase, and every designer rug that Tiffany had brought into our home.
I stood on the front lawn with Mark Henderson, who had driven over to ensure that none of Hailey’s belongings were mixed into Tiffany’s boxes.
“She’s ruined,” Mark said quietly, watching a mover carry a large gilded mirror out the front door. “The grand jury in McKinney indicted her on two felony counts this morning. Thorne told her sister she’s looking at three to five years minimum if she doesn't take a plea deal.”
“She’ll take the plea,” I said, watching the truck. “People like Tiffany don't do well in front of juries. When those twelve people see the video of Maya on her knees, there isn't a lawyer in Texas who could save her.”
“How is Maya doing?” Mark asked, turning to look at me.
“She slept twelve hours last night,” I replied. “First time in six months she didn't set an alarm for six in the morning.”
“Hailey wants to see her,” Mark said, his voice softening. “She feels guilty, Greg. She feels like she should have noticed what was happening when she visited.”
“Tell Hailey it wasn't her job,” I said firmly. “It was mine. Bring her over next weekend. We’re having a barbecue.”
Mark smiled—a real, genuine smile—and extended his hand. “I’d like that, Greg. I really would.”
We shook hands. A bridge that Tiffany had spent two years trying to burn between our households was finally rebuilt.
When the moving truck finally pulled away from the curb at noon, the house was strangely hollowed out.
The living room had no sofa, no rug, and no ornate coffee table. The foyer was empty. The walls were bare where Tiffany’s tasteful, sterile artwork had once hung.
Kelly walked through the front door carrying a cardboard box filled with painting supplies. Behind her came Evelyn, carrying two large pizzas from the shop on Custer Road.
Maya walked into the center of the empty living room.
Her sneakers squeaked against the bare hardwood floors. She looked around the vast, open space, her eyes taking in the empty corners, the sunlight streaming uninterrupted through the high windows, and the sheer absence of Tiffany’s suffocating order.
“It’s huge,” Maya whispered.
“It’s yours,” I said, walking up beside her and putting an arm around her shoulders. “Whatever you want to do with this room, Maya, we do. You want to paint the walls blue? We paint them blue. You want a ping-pong table in the middle of the dining room? We buy a ping-pong table.”
Maya looked at Kelly, who was setting the paint cans on the floor with a wide grin.
“Can we paint the front hallway first?” Maya asked.
I looked at the slate tile where the gray bucket had stood forty-eight hours ago.
“What color?” I asked.
“Yellow,” Maya said, her eyes sparkling with quiet mischief. “Bright yellow. Like the sun. Not like the gloves.”
Kelly let out a joyous laugh, dropping to her knees and popping the lid off a can of golden-yellow latex paint with a screwdriver.
“Grab some rollers, Holloway,” Kelly ordered. “We’ve got work to do.”
For the next four hours, the four of us transformed the entryway.
There were no schedules. There were no laminated charts. There were no penalties for dripping paint on the baseboards. Evelyn sat on an upturned milk crate, eating pizza and directing traffic with a paintbrush in her hand, while Buster wandered between our legs, leaving faint white paw prints across the dry sections of the floor that nobody bothered to wipe up.
Maya laughed.
It was a sound I hadn't realized I was starving for—a bright, ringing, uninhibited sound that bounced off the high ceilings and chased every lingering ghost of Tiffany out of the rafters.
At 4:00 PM, my phone rang.
It was my regional vice president, Arthur Vance, calling from the corporate headquarters in Chicago.
“Greg,” Arthur said when I answered. “I heard about the domestic situation. Take all the time you need, of course, but we have the regional realignment meeting in Houston on Tuesday. Are you going to be able to make the flight?”
I stood in the bright yellow hallway, looking at my daughter.
Maya was currently using a small roller to paint a clumsy, lopsided smiley face directly onto the drywall near the coat closet, her face smeared with yellow paint, Kelly laughing beside her as she tried to fix the smile’s ears.
“No, Arthur,” I said. My voice was completely steady, calm, and free of hesitation. “I won't be on the flight.”
“Greg? What are you talking about? That’s the annual territory distribution.”
“I’m stepping down from the travel position, Arthur,” I said. “I’m taking the local account management role we discussed last spring. The thirty percent pay cut is fine.”
Arthur was silent for a long moment. “Greg, that’s a significant step back from the executive track. You were in line for senior VP next year.”
“I don't care about the track, Arthur,” I said, watching Maya wipe a streak of yellow paint across Kelly’s nose, prompting a mock battle with the paint rollers. “I have a job here in Plano that I’ve been neglecting for two years. And I’m not missing another day of work.”
I hung up the phone and slipped it into my pocket.
I walked over to the paint tray, picked up a roller, and dipped it into the golden paint.
“Hey, Maya,” I said.
She turned around, her eyes bright with laughter.
“You missed a spot,” I said, and gently tapped the paint roller against the tip of her sneakers.
May you like
She shrieked with delight, grabbed her own roller, and came straight for me.
***
