The ride downtown was quiet.
Mr. Crenshaw drove carefully.
He didn't ask me whether I had argued with Hugh.
He didn't ask what Marlee thought.
He simply kept both hands on the steering wheel.
I watched the familiar buildings pass.
The grocery store.
The post office.
The little bakery where my husband used to buy cinnamon rolls on Sunday mornings.
I had lived in that town for most of my adult life.
There wasn't much I didn't recognize.
When we reached the hardware store, Mr. Crenshaw parked behind the building.
He got out and walked around to my side.
"Take your time."
I stepped down.
My knees were stiff.
I adjusted my cardigan.
Then I looked up at the windows above the store.
My windows.
The thought felt strange.
Not unpleasant.
Just new.
Mr. Crenshaw opened the back entrance.
"We'll bring the boxes up first."
I nodded.
He had already arranged the furniture in the apartment.
My dresser.
My small table.
The chair I liked to sit in when I read.
Everything was waiting.
He carried the heavier things.
I took the smaller boxes.
I didn't want him doing every bit of work.
He laughed when I tried to lift something that was too heavy.
"You're allowed to let somebody help you, Tressie."
I smiled.
"I know."
I was still learning that there was a difference between accepting help and surrendering control.
We carried the last box upstairs.
The inside staircase was narrow but manageable.
I didn't have to climb an exposed set of steps beside a garage.
I didn't have to worry about rain.
When we reached the apartment, Mr. Crenshaw opened the door.
I stepped inside.
The rooms looked even better than they had when I first visited.
The windows let in daylight.
The kitchen was small, but it had a proper counter and cupboards.
There was enough room for my table.
Enough room for my dishes.
Enough room for the things I had spent years collecting.
I put the box down.
Then I stood still.
Mr. Crenshaw looked at me.
"Everything where you expected?"
I nodded.
"Yes."
He carried the dresser into the bedroom.
We positioned it against the wall.
Then he brought in the chair.
I asked him to move it closer to the window.
He did.
The afternoon light fell across the seat.
I could already picture myself reading there.
I opened one of the kitchen boxes.
My plates were wrapped in newspaper.
I removed them one by one.
Mr. Crenshaw watched me arrange them.
"Want me to put the rest in the cupboard?"
"No, thank you. I'll do that."
He nodded.
He understood.
After the last box was inside, he checked the front door.
Then he handed me the keys.
"Two copies. Keep one somewhere safe."
I looked at the little hammer-shaped ring.
"I will."
He gave me a small smile.
"Welcome upstairs, Tressie."
I thanked him.
He left me alone.
I stood in the middle of the kitchen.
There was no refrigerator noise from my old duplex.
No familiar pipe knocking behind the bathroom wall.
No sound of Hugh's truck outside.
Just quiet.
I went to the window.
From there, I could see part of the street.
People were walking past the hardware store.
A delivery truck stopped nearby.
Somebody laughed.
Life was continuing.
I put the keys on the counter.
Then I opened the box containing my good quilt.
I unfolded it.
The fabric was a little worn along the edges.
I smoothed it with both hands.
I remembered my husband lying beneath it during cold winter nights.
I remembered him complaining that I always stole the warm side.
I smiled.
Then I placed it on the bed.
His Army photograph went on the small dresser.
I stood it near the lamp.
For a few seconds, I looked at his face.
"I found us a place," I whispered.
It was silly, perhaps.
But I felt better after saying it.
I unpacked my dishes.
I arranged my cups.
I put the silverware in the drawer.
Then I made a little list of things I still needed.
A bath mat.
Some groceries.
A new light bulb for the kitchen.
Nothing expensive.
Nothing urgent.
I made coffee in my own kitchen.
The smell filled the apartment.
I sat by the window.
I had spent the last several days wondering whether I was making a terrible mistake.
Now I was sitting in a room I could afford.
No garage smell.
No hot plate on a card table.
No one waiting for me to agree to watch children five days a week.
I took a sip.
The coffee was warm.
I looked at the keys on the counter.
Then I smiled.
Not because everything was suddenly perfect.
Because I had somewhere to begin again.
Click here to continue reading: PART 11: My First Evening Alone Was Quieter Than I Expected, but My Son’s Silence Made the New Apartment Feel Different
My Son Offered Me a Place to Live, but the Price He Put on My Independence Was Something I Never Expected
Part 10 of 20
