Chapter 9 - Ordinary Things That Stayed Broken
For three days Wren avoided Adrian's calls. On the fourth, she sent a message asking him to stop. He sent one reply—I will—and kept his promise.
She didn't move immediately. Ms. Ortiz had helped her apply for a transitional-housing placement, and leaving the apartment before she had somewhere else to go would have meant sleeping outside again. But she bought her own groceries with the small emergency assistance she qualified for and refused a second delivery from Marco. She wrote down her clinic appointments, then crossed each one off after attending. The paper stayed taped beside the refrigerator because she was afraid that putting it in a drawer would make it vanish.
Jo came on Saturday to check the irritated skin around the haircut. She carried an oatmeal-colored scarf her daughter had chosen.
"My kid says this is the least ugly one," Jo announced.
Wren fingered the soft fabric. "She sounds honest."
"She learned it from her father. He once told me my birthday cake looked tired."
"Does he still live with you?"
"No. Different reasons, though the cake probably didn't help."
Wren laughed, then surprised herself by saying, "I think I knew my mother. Not just from pictures."
Jo set down her bag. "Do you want to tell me about her?"
"I don't know what is true yet."
"Then tell me the parts you like."
Wren spoke about jars of peanut butter, a song with the wrong ending, and a ring that may have hit a tiled floor. She left out the moment she feared most: smoke, a stuck door, and a voice calling her name from somewhere she couldn't reach.
At the community center Evelyn had a problem that no lost niece could fix. A dozen middle-school students had signed up for the spring performance, and half had changed their minds after seeing the costume options. Evelyn had ordered paper music stands that arrived in the wrong size. The funding for an accompanist ran out two weeks before the performance. She needed someone to put chairs out on Thursdays and clean up afterward.
"Is it paid?" Wren asked.
"A little. Not enough to impress anyone."
"I don't need it to impress anyone."
"Then yes, it's paid."
Wren took the job. Her first shift went poorly. She mistook two labeled storage closets, put the music books beneath the stage, and accidentally unplugged the keyboard while somebody was practicing. A teenage boy groaned loudly.
"I'm sorry," she said.
"It happens," Evelyn replied. "Put it back in, and ask Marcus whether it saved his settings."
Marcus's settings were gone. He complained for ten minutes. Wren offered to help reenter them, and he let her. He taught her which buttons to press, then told her to leave the sound effects alone because adults always made them worse.
That evening Wren counted the money in her pay envelope twice. She bought a new toothbrush without checking the price and felt strangely foolish about how good it made her feel.
Meanwhile Evelyn was losing patience with people treating Wren as an event. A donor who hadn't been to choir in six years called to ask whether the "missing heiress" would attend the next fundraiser. Evelyn told him the music program wasn't a zoo. He replied that he was only trying to help.
"Then buy the children some decent folding chairs," she said, and hung up.
When Wren arrived for her shift, Evelyn confessed the call.
"I may have cost us a contribution," she said.
"Were you supposed to be nicer?"
"Probably. I'm getting too old to fake it."
Wren studied her aunt's face. "Am I making your life harder?"
"Yes," Evelyn said, and watched Wren's expression sink. "Not because you're here. Because I don't know how to have you here without being afraid of getting it wrong. I was used to missing you. This is different."
Wren stood very still.
"Sometimes I want to ask you to call me Aunt Evelyn," the older woman went on. "And sometimes I want to take that wish back before it becomes a demand. I'm not particularly good at this either."
Wren looked down at her hands. "I can do Evelyn."
"That's enough."
After rehearsal they walked to the bus stop together. Evelyn offered her gloves, and Wren declined. On the bus, Wren saw her own photograph in an article on a passenger's phone. She moved to the back and stared out the window until the city blurred.
Two weeks later the social worker called about a small furnished studio she could rent on a sliding scale while she rebuilt her records. It was not large or particularly pretty, but it had an ordinary lease, a number for maintenance, and a window that opened onto a courtyard full of recycling bins. It was hers to accept or refuse. She accepted it after visiting twice.
Moving day involved six shopping bags, Jo's scarf, a folded clinic printout, and the little brass bell. Adrian's apartment had acquired a half-decent pillow and two chipped plates; she packed neither. She cleaned the stove because leaving it dirty felt rude. Then she left the key card in an envelope addressed to him.
At the new studio, Evelyn helped carry boxes. She did not ask why Wren had chosen a place with a view of the rear entrance. She only tested the kettle and announced that it whistled like an injured bird.
That evening Wren sat on the floor, making a list of things she needed: a second towel, a decent lamp, scissors that worked, a winter coat with pockets. The phone rang. She nearly ignored the unfamiliar number.
It was the clinic's case coordinator.
"The accredited laboratory has completed the relationship testing you agreed to," the woman said. "Would you like to come in tomorrow with your support person to review the findings?"
Wren stared at the list in her lap. She had spent years believing that a name could be stolen or imposed on her. Now a stranger was offering her evidence, and she was afraid of both possible answers.
"Can I bring two people?" she asked.
"Of course."
May you like
Wren called Evelyn. Then she called Jo.
She did not call Adrian.
