Mom rolls her eyes. “Well, I’m sure Benton would be happy to hear that, but I doubt it was eight-year-old boys he was thinking of impressing when he bought it. I mean… I hope not, anyway.”

  I laugh at this, but it seems to go over Cameron’s head.

  As night falls, we bring the inflatable mattresses inside from the car and set them up in our empty bedrooms. Mom looks a little sad as she’s setting up Cameron’s bed and I get the feeling she’s having those thoughts again. The ones telling her she’s not doing good enough for us. That she’s a shitty mother.

  I come up beside her and wrap my arms around her waist, resting my head on her shoulder. “I missed you, Mom.”

  I feel her take a deep breath in, smelling my hair in that weird way she always does.

  Her voice comes out a little cracked. “I missed you too, baby.”

  3

  RUBY

  The one luxury kitchen item I own is an Italian coffee bean grinder and stovetop espresso maker set.

  I treat myself to one glorious coffee every single morning to start my day. The set was a divorce gift to myself and cost me a hundred dollars. I’m not sure if it would count as luxurious to others but for someone like me, who uses pans with broken handles and spatulas that are half melted for years on end without replacing them, my beautiful coffee set stands out in my kitchen. And having gone a full three days at the new house before our boxes and furniture were finally delivered last Friday by the worst moving company ever, I’m very much appreciating my 7am espresso right now.

  Week number one at the new house has gone much smoother than I’d been expecting.

  Cameron has made fast friends with a kid down the street named Leo, so I barely see him during the day anymore. And Mory seems happier now her things have arrived and she has her own personal space upstairs in her bedroom. I’m hoping she makes new friends easily when she starts school next week. She’s always been a little quiet around new people, and I feel bad for pulling her out of her last school to move fifty miles away just when she’d gotten comfortable there.

  I finish my coffee and look at the shopping list I’ve been jotting down on the back of an envelope. It’s not the usual eggs, milk and bread on my list today. Instead, it’s brushes and paint, hand tools and sanding equipment. All the things the online videos told me I’d need for a DIY renovation.

  This is brand-new territory for me and I feel as though I’m probably out of my depth, but I can’t afford to hire tradesmen and since there’s a lull in my work right now, I have the motivation and time to do this all by myself. I’m going to work room by room, so the whole house won’t end up a complete mess all at once. Starting with the living room. I’m eager to get it done first because the one thing my kids will do with me as a family is sit down to watch a movie once a week, and I want a comfortable space for us to do that in.

  “Mom, can I go see if Leo can come out to play?” Cameron walks into the kitchen in his pajamas still wiping sleep from his eyes.

  “Cam, it’s still early. How about you have some breakfast and get dressed before you go banging his door down?”

  He groans, then grabs a chair and hauls it over to the counter to reach the cupboard above him before pulling out a box of cereal and a bowl. Once settled at the table with his breakfast, he scoops it quickly into his mouth, letting the milk dribble down his chin, seemingly having forgotten the table manners I’ve worked hard to teach him.

  “Is that how you eat cereal at your father’s house?” I ask.

  “We don’t eat cereal at Dad’s. Caitlyn cooks us breakfast every morning,” he says while chewing.

  Of course she does. Because Caitlyn is Wonder Woman. She makes her own sourdough bread, does age-based crafts with the kids, decorates gingerbread men with them, takes them on hikes and plays board games with them. Of course, these are all things that I could be doing myself with my kids, but when Aaron and I divorced I went through a period of depression that sucked all the enthusiasm out of… well, everything for me. I couldn’t find joy in any of the things I usually could, and my career as a visual artist went into a huge downward spiral that I still haven’t recovered from (if it weren’t for our divorce going in my favor, I’d be flat out broke by now). At that point, Mory was in the awkward pre-teen stage and Cameron was five. I still loved them with all my heart but I could barely bring myself to get out of bed each morning, let alone take them out to explore nature and build stick forts in the forest with them. When I finally got myself the therapy I needed, and realized I was just as worthy of happiness as a single divorced mother as I was before my marriage fell apart, I slowly started to regain an appreciation for the little things in life. But Caitlyn was already in the picture doing all the wonderful things with my children that I suddenly wanted to be doing again, too.

  So, I tried. I tried really hard. But when I did crafts with the kids, I was told it was boring. And when I asked if they wanted to help me cook dinner, I was told they had homework to do. And when I offered to take them out to do something fun on the weekends, they wanted to see their friends instead.

  At first this made me resent my ex-husband’s new perfect girlfriend, who never failed to keep my children happy and involved in everything she did. But when that just left me bitter and self-loathing, I came to realize this wasn’t Caitlyn’s fault at all. She wasn’t trying to out-mother me or steal my children’s affection. The reason they were happy to do these things with her was because they only spent summers and Christmases there: periods of time where there’s no school, no homework, and no friends to distract them, away from home, in Arizona. She and Aaron get the kids’ full attention during those twelve weeks of the year, and for the other forty, I wake them up early every day for school, make them clean their bedrooms and eat their vegetables and enforce strict screen time limits. No wonder they think I’m the boring one.

  All of this is something I’ve come to accept simply comes with the territory. And I no longer resent Caitlyn. I now choose to embrace the fact that my children have another reliable adult in their lives who loves them and looks out for them. At least, that’s what I’m going to keep telling myself if I want to maintain my sanity.

  “Done!” Cameron jumps up and hastily puts his bowl and spoon in the sink before rushing off to his bedroom.

  He’s soon back downstairs, dressed and turning the house upside down trying to find his shoes. This kid loses his footwear on a daily basis. It always strikes me as ironic that he can never seem to find his shoes, yet somehow he can spot a piece of onion in someone else’s food, two houses over.

  Before long he’s out the door, under strict instructions to return home to Mory if he needs anything, while I grab my bag and head out to the hardware store to collect my new arsenal of DIY tools, fixtures and paints.

  Driving through Lonerock I’m impressed with what I see. It’s a small town but there’s at least a few of the chain stores that I usually frequent and the streets here are clean and well kept. I pass by a large arcade and indoor trampoline center that I know Cameron will love. Just past that is a bookstore-slash-cafe that I think Mory might like. Maybe I can take her there this winter and we can sit together sipping hot chocolate and reading books. These are usually the kinds of images that float through my mind and never end up materializing, but I’m determined now that we’ve found our forever home to finally have the relationship with my kids that I’ve wanted for so long.

  My hardware store haul is successful but puts me back several hundred dollars—which is nothing compared to how much paying a crew to do the work for me would cost—and I arrive home ready to face this project head on. I run upstairs and put on the new pair of overalls I picked up in town (because every DIY enthusiast needs overalls) and get straight to work.

  First things first: the dusty old carpet in the living room needs to get the hell out of here. I know I promised Cameron that he could help me pull it up, but he’s still out with Leo. I passed by them on my way home, deep in their own little conversation while kicking around a ball, and I’m too impatient to wait until he eventually decides to come home. I’m dying to see if the original hardwood floors underneath the carpet are still in good shape.

  I start by hauling out the couch and TV stand—the only furniture currently in the living room—and leave them sitting in the hall. I then pull up the edges of the threadbare carpet at the far side of the room, rolling it tightly as I go so I can easily get it out to the car later. I’ll probably have to pay to leave it at the waste center, but it’ll be worth it to have this monstrosity gone.

  From the looks of it, the original wooden flooring is in pretty great shape. I feel as though I’ve struck gold as I keep rolling the carpet, uncovering dusty and scuffed but generally well-preserved wood. With a little sanding and buffing and a fresh coat of stain, I think it should come up nicely.

  The carpet roll is growing in size as I reach the other end of the room. It’s like an enormous roulade and I wipe my forehead with the back of my hand when I finally reach the end. That was exhausting. And I’ve barely even started. I sit down and slump back against the Swiss-carpet to catch my breath and that’s when I notice it. Something poking out from underneath the roll. It’s white and dusty and looks like a piece of paper that’s stuck where the carpet had just been lying. I reach down and pull at it. It slides out easily from underneath and I realize it’s not a piece of paper, but a photograph. An old one, from a Polaroid camera. It looks just like the kind my mom would take when I was a kid.

  A wave of nostalgia floods over me when I think of my mom snapping a photo of me and my brother sitting outside on the wall eating ice cream, then shaking out the photo as it developed, ready for us to see it within a matter of seconds. Of course, this was before we had phones with built-in cameras. I thought it was magical to be able to see a photo so soon after it was taken.

  I stare now at the photo in my hand. It’s of a young woman. She’s got those thick eighties glasses on that age her youthful looks and she’s wearing a corduroy dress with a lace collar. She’s got a huge smile on her face and is sitting against a wood-paneled wall.

  There’s a name written in permanent marker on the white strip at the bottom of the photo. Jessie.

  Was this someone who used to live here? Then it hits me. I’ve heard about this before! People leaving little mementos around when they’re renovating or building a house to be uncovered in years to come by new owners. I’ll bet young Jessie didn’t think for a second that the carpet they put in wouldn’t be pulled up for another thirty plus years. Judging by her age in this photo, my guess is she must at least be in her fifties by now, possibly in her sixties.

  This is such a cute idea. Maybe I should get an instant camera and do the same with a photo of me and the kids for a future owner to uncover. Although, it would take a very long time for them to find it because I foresee myself living in this house until the day I die.

  I stuff the old photo into the front pocket of my overalls to show the kids later, and begin the near impossible task of hauling the old carpet out to the car as I wonder where this Jessie is now.

  4

  JESSIE

  The rain beats down as Jessie leaves Granger’s Bar and starts the twenty-minute walk back to her apartment. It’s a little before midnight and the streets are already empty. Raindrops fall through the narrow beams of light from the streetlamps and look like little shooting stars.

  She was hoping Steve would be walking back to her apartment with her but seeing him cozy up to Katie all night had quashed that hope. She guesses he’s not into her after all. His loss. Jessie can do better, anyway. She’s got her own apartment, she makes her own money, she has a degree in economics and can speak three languages. Thinking about it now, she realizes that sounds more like a résumé than a reason why guys should be falling at her feet, but she really can’t comprehend why Steve would choose ditzy Katie—who probably can’t tell a hat from Tuesday—over her; the one who has been working alongside him for over six months, flirting wildly every day. Maybe he’s scared of powerful women. That’s probably it. Jessie’s strength intimidates him. That’s the reason he chose Katie over her tonight. Or it could have just been because of Katie’s giant breasts.

  Jessie’s heel catches in a grate and she stumbles when it snaps off. Cursing, she reaches down and picks up the broken heel then carries on her way, doing a pathetic lopsided walk as she goes.

  She hears a car approach from behind and slow down to a stop before a voice calls out. “Are you all right? Do you need a ride?”

  She turns and sees a man staring out the open window. He has kind eyes and a disarming smile.

  “I’m okay, thanks.” She smiles back.

  “Are you sure? Because it looks like you’re limping.” She holds up her broken shoe and he laughs. “Come on, hop in and I’ll take you wherever you’re headed.”

  “It’s okay, really, my apartment’s just down the street from here.”

  She’s sure he’s just a considerate kind of guy, but she’s not stupid enough to get into a car with a complete stranger in the dead of night.

  “Okay, well, have a nice night.” He winks and begins to drive away slowly.

  Jessie continues on and by the time she reaches her apartment the rain has drenched through her clothes. She stands at the top step in front of the door, hand fumbling inside her bag trying to find her keys. Water droplets are falling against her glasses and she can’t wait to get inside, strip off these wet clothes and get into bed. She finally finds her keys and brings them up to the lock, but it’s so dark she can’t see to get the key into the keyhole. From behind her she hears a noise and begins to turn around to see what it is. She doesn’t even get a chance to scream before the large object comes at her head with great force and she falls to the ground.

  Jessie wakes up in darkness.

  Where is she? What’s happening? Something is moving, humming underneath her.

  She’s in a vehicle. She’s… she’s in the trunk of a car.

  She knows this is wrong, she knows the pain in her head is wrong and that she should probably be screaming and shouting and begging for help, but for some reason she can’t seem to find a way to make herself do this. She feels heavy, like she weighs twice as much as she usually does and her tongue is sitting weirdly in her mouth, like it’s not hers.

  She can’t tell if her eyes are open or closed because everything looks the same either way and the vibrating underneath her has turned to bumping. She’s being shaken back and forth like a rag doll. Why can’t she find the strength to move, to scream? What is wrong with her?

  This seems to continue for a long time before the bumping turns to thuds and the thuds to bangs as it feels like rocks or stones hit the bottom of the car. Where is she being taken? It feels like a rough dirt track. There’s nothing even remotely like that nearby to where she lives, on the outskirts of the city. How long has she been stuck in here?

  The bumping slows down and she feels the car come to a stop. With the engine off she can hear the rain hit against the metal above her and she suddenly remembers what happened.

  Her keys. She was looking for her keys. There was a guy. A guy stopped to ask if she wanted a lift home. She’d just left Granger’s Bar, where Steve was all over Katie. She remembers it all now.

  A door slams and a moment later the trunk opens and Jessie stares up into the night sky. Raindrops fall on her face as she squints out into the low light and sees a face looking down at her. It’s him. It’s the guy who offered her a ride earlier.

  She opens her mouth but when she tries to speak no words come out, just a noise that doesn’t sound at all like her voice.

  “Come on, sweetie, let’s get you inside. You’re not feeling too well, are you?” he says, pulling her up into his arms and walking her through the rain.

  She wants to struggle but her limbs hang loose and useless. What’s going on with her?

  There’s a wooden cabin in front of them now, old and uncared for. Is he taking her in there? No. No. Her mind is screaming out at her to stop him. To stop this and get home. But why oh why will her body not respond to her mind’s frantic pleas?

  The rusty hinges on the door creak as the man opens it up and walks inside, still holding her like a little child across his arms.

  “Okay, darling, I’m going to put you in bed. I think your medicine has you feeling a little sleepy,” he says, walking her through the dim, bare main room of the cabin and into a small bedroom.

  Medicine? What medicine? Has he given her something? Is that why she’s feeling like this, unable to find the strength to move or fight?

  He lays her down on a bare, dirty mattress and covers her up with a rough woolen blanket before leaving and going back through to the main room. She can hear him in there, moving things about. The sound of water running and a gas stove clicking to turn on the flame.

  She tries to keep her eyes open, but they’re drooping further and further to closed. The last thing she hears before she falls asleep is his soft, calm humming from the next room.

  “It’s a beautiful morning, it’s a beautiful day!”

  Jessie wakes to the sound of singing, sits upright, and straightens her glasses. There’s light coming through the window across from her and the realization of where she is comes crashing down on her.

  The man walks over with a tray and places it on the bed beside her. “Orange juice and a bran muffin, just for you.”

  She grabs the blanket and pulls it closer to her, ignoring the food. “Who are you?”

  “You can call me Charlie. And your name is Jessica. I read the letter from your mom inside your bag. She calls you Jessie, though. Would you rather I call you Jessie, too?”

  She ignores this.

  “Can I go home now, Charlie?” she asks nicely. “My head hurts and I’m supposed to be at work this morning, so people will probably be out looking for me.”