“I saw Miller at the hardware store on Tuesday,” Shaun said. “He said they were leaving Friday morning.”
“Friday is tomorrow,” I said.
“I know,” Shaun said.
“Did he mention if they were driving or flying?” I asked.
Shaun took a step closer to the truck, his fingers still working the coins in his pocket.
“He said they were taking Ryan’s car because it has more trunk space,” Shaun said.
“He is really going through with this beach trip then,” I said, looking down at my shoes.
“We all need a break, Shannon,” Shaun said. He kicked a stray piece of gravel toward the grass. “But we don’t all get to walk out the door when things get heavy.”
“He thinks he earned it,” I said.
Shaun rattled his coins louder. “He thinks a lot of things.”
I looked back toward the kitchen window, where the empty brass hook was casting a thin shadow on the wall.
My mother, Clara, sat in the low oak rocking chair with her blue cardigan buttoned to the collar, her fingers tracing the faded floral print of the armrest. On the braided rug near her feet, Soleil lay on her stomach, her tiny head turned to the side as she slept.
I sat at the dining table with my laptop open, the brightness turned down to keep the blue glare from reaching the corner where the baby rested. The screen showed the home page for the county recorder of deeds, its gray columns of text blinking in the dim light of the dining room.
“She has her father’s chin, but those are your grandmother’s eyelashes,” my mother said, her voice dropping to a soft murmur. She adjusted the stiff collar of her knit sweater, her hand lingering there until she was sure the baby had not stirred.
“Soleil sleeps deeper than the other two,” I said, without looking up from the search bar.
I typed the county name into the database query box and clicked the link for public land records. My fingers felt stiff from washing bottles, and I rubbed my left wrist where my leather watch strap used to sit, a habit that still remained after three weeks without it.
“Did your father ever show you the original survey maps for the Elm Road place?” she asked.
“The ones with the red ink on the margins?” I asked.
“The ones from the summer we put in the new well,” she said, looking toward the window. “He always said the boundary line ran four feet past the old stone foundation of the barn.”
I did not answer her right away because my eyes were fixed on the search results loading on the screen, a long list of tax parcels with numbers that meant nothing to me yet.
“Why are you looking at that house today, Shannon?” she asked, her voice dropping lower.
“I just wanted to see if the property taxes were up to date,” I said.
I clicked the first document link, but a small yellow warning box popped up on the screen, demanding a user login and a ten-dollar fee for public document retrieval.
By four, the sky had turned the color of wet slate, and the smell of roasting chicken began to fill the small kitchen. Ryan sat at the wooden table, his shoulders hunched forward as he scrolled through a group chat on his phone.
I stood at the counter, slicing celery on the plastic cutting board, keeping my eyes on the knife. The rhythmic tap of the blade was the only sound besides the low, steady hum of the refrigerator.
