Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 83331 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 417(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83331 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 417(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
I nodded, unsure what I could possibly say that wouldn’t sound forced.
“Hey, would you happen to know how I can reach Laura?” I asked instead. “My mom’s sister?”
“I can get you her number, or make sure she gets your number, whatever you prefer.”
“Thanks, I’d appreciate it.” I gestured at a pad of Post-it notes on her desk. “Can I write down my number so you can give it to her?”
She passed me the pad and a pen, and I wrote my number down, then gave it back to her.
“You should go home, Bess. It’s late.”
“I’m only staying another ten minutes or so.”
“Okay, I’m going up to the apartment before I fall asleep standing up.”
“You bet. See you in the morning.”
I nodded. “Thanks, Bess. For all your help today and…before I got here.”
She hummed cynically. “Just doing my jobs. Every time someone quits, I get their workload without any extra money.”
Lacking the mental energy to engage with her anymore today, I just ignored her comment and walked through the open doorway that led to the back room, where the stairway to the apartment was. I’d passed through this room earlier but hadn’t paid much attention to it.
There was a water cooler, a table with four chairs, and a bulletin board covered with old Far Side cartoons, some curling at the corners. Several cases of printer paper were stacked along one wall.
Another wall was lined with framed photos and plaques. One of the photos was a portrait of an old man laughing, with a shining lake in the background. Another showed the top few inches of a STOP sign poking up through a massive snow drift. A wide-eyed child was about to take the first bite of a hot dog in another one, neon carnival lights swirling around her.
Every photo was beautiful. More than that—they were spectacular. I read the words displayed beneath the photo of the man by the lake.
Pete Douglas, Best Standalone Photo
“John Grinnell Turns 95”
Newspapers with a circulation of 30,000 or less, Minnesota Newspaper Association, 2009
Every photo had been taken by my uncle and had won an award. There were around a dozen of them. I took a final look into the sparkling blue eyes of John Grinnell, smiled, and started up the stairway to the apartment.
The stairwell was painted dark maroon, the walls bare and the steps made of worn wood. When I reached the top, I put the key into the gold door handle and turned it, suddenly curious about what I’d find inside.
For tonight, I could roll with a hoarding situation or a meth lab as long as there was a bed in there somewhere.
I was pleasantly surprised when I pushed the door open and stepped inside the apartment to find warm, worn wood floors, an open floor plan, and sparse furnishings. After locking the handle and the dead bolt, I walked into the living room area and set my bags down on the simple brown couch with an afghan folded over the back of it. A leather recliner sat on the other side of the room, with a floor lamp and a bookcase nearby. There was a tug in my chest when I saw a hardback book on a small table beside the recliner, an open pair of glasses perched on top of the book.
The small television had a layer of dust on the screen.
A tiny table for two sat in the kitchen area, which was dated but clean and organized. Furrowing my brow, I walked over to the old green refrigerator, tears filling my eyes when I saw the photos displayed on it with magnets.
They were all pictures of me. Me as a grinning toddler learning to walk, as a toothless second grader, and even one in my high school cap and gown, my bright hazel eyes shining with happiness. There were ten photos altogether, and I sagged with sadness for the uncle who had cared about me enough to proudly display my pictures even though we’d never met.
Where had he gotten them? It was one thing for my parents to ditch out on their hometown if they had awful families who didn’t care for them, but these photos told a different story. It gave me an unsettled feeling, but I consciously shoved it down, overwhelmed by the events of the day.
Quickly, I checked out the rest of the apartment. In the only bedroom, the queen-size bed was unmade, a basket of dirty laundry sitting in one corner. The bathroom was small but adequate, with a towel hanging over the shower curtain rod.
I couldn’t bring myself to sleep in the bed; it didn’t feel right. Instead, I washed off my makeup, brushed my teeth, changed into pajama pants and a UCLA T-shirt, and lay down on the couch, covering up with the afghan.
My anxiety had ample material to draw from tonight: inheriting a newspaper when I’d been expecting money or maybe a nice cabin on a lake, how I’d unload the building from several states away, and what headaches it could cause me in the meantime.