Chapter 6 - The Inventory
When I walked through the front door at 2:00 PM, the house was dead silent.
Nadine was upstairs taking her afternoon nap—the sacred two-hour window where nobody was allowed to run the dishwasher, watch television with the sound on, or walk past the master bedroom too loudly.
I didn't tiptoe.
I walked straight up the stairs, my boots clicking deliberately against the hardwood floor. I bypassed my own bedroom, walked down the hall, and threw open the door to what used to be Iris’s room.
Nadine had made herself entirely at home. A lace runner sat on the dresser beneath a collection of porcelain ceramic cats she had smuggled in from her previous life. Her clothes hung neatly in the closet, pushing Iris’s few remaining winter garments into a cramped corner.
I didn't say a word. I grabbed two industrial-sized black contractor trash bags from the kitchen pantry, marched back upstairs, and began emptying the closet.
Hanger by hanger. Dress by dress.
The plastic hangers snapped with sharp, satisfying cracks that echoed down the hallway.
The bedroom door flew open. Nadine stood there in her floral housecoat, her hair undone, clutching a tissue to her chest with wide, terrified eyes.
“Myra! What on earth are you doing? You’re going to wake the neighbors—!”
“Pack your bags, Nadine,” I said, not even looking up as I tossed her collection of porcelain cats into the bottom of the black plastic bag.
“Myra, stop this instant! Cal! Cal, come upstairs!” She shrieked, her voice rising to a frantic pitch that shattered the delicate, enforced peace of the household.
“Cal isn't here,” I said, turning to face her. For the first time in nineteen years, I didn't use my dispatch voice. I didn't soothe. I didn't moderate my tone to keep her calm. I used the raw, unfiltered voice of a mother whose child had been banished to a basement. “And even if he were, it wouldn't matter. Your bags go out today. The jade plant goes out today. And if you aren't out of this house by five o'clock, I’m calling the county sheriff to serve you an official eviction notice for trespassing.”
Nadine staggered back, clutching her chest. “I am your mother-in-law! We are a family!”
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“You are a guest who overstayed her welcome by six weeks,” I said, stepping past her and grabbing her largest suitcase by the handle. I dragged it across the floor, the zippers jangling against the wood. “And the lease is officially terminated.”
I hauled all three suitcases down the stairs, one by one, dropping them with heavy, definitive thuds onto the front porch. Finally, I picked up the sickly jade plant, carried it out to the driveway, and set it squarely in the middle of the oil stain on the asphalt.
