Chapter 12 - A Cheap Flip Phone And A Locked Door
I set the small white box on the marble island next to the shattered black phone and didn't touch either one for a minute.
The kitchen was quiet that morning. The mug was still on the left side of the counter where it had always been. The beige case lay beside the cracked screen like something waiting to be claimed. My hand rested flat near them because I needed it to stay steady.
My daughter came in first. Her hair was pulled back. She looked at the box, then at me.
"What's that?" she said.
"A flip phone," I said. "Prepaid. It calls and texts. That's it."
My son came in behind her holding his dark blue phone. He read the box over her shoulder. "You got one for yourself?"
"I did," I said. I opened the box slow. The plastic smelled new. The phone was cheap and light, the screen tiny. I slid the battery in the way the kid at the counter had shown me. "My number stays the same. This is basic function until I decide what's next."
My daughter picked up her shattered phone, then set it back down. "So you're not fixing it."
"No," I said. "I'm keeping it as it is."
"Why?" she said.
"Because it's a record," I said.
She stared at me. I didn't soften it. I took the shattered phone and the beige case and put them both in the wide drawer by the stove, on top of the dish towels where I would see them every day. I closed the drawer.
That was the first scene done, and my hands were shaking only a little.
I wrote the Wi-Fi code on an index card in my own handwriting. Guest network. Not the main one.
"Six to eight in the evening," I said. "In the kitchen. For job search only."
My daughter laughed once, short. "You're serious."
"I am," I said.
"Two hours? That's nothing."
"It's enough to send applications," I said. "I checked."
My son leaned against the white cabinets. "Mom—"
"This is the offer," I said. "You wanted communication possible. This is it. I turn it on at six. I turn it off at eight."
She crossed her arms over her brown blouse. "And if I need it for the apartment stuff?"
"You do it here," I said. "Between six and eight."
I held the card out. She didn't take it at first. Then she did, with two fingers, like it might burn her.
"Password changes every night," I added.
She looked down at the card. "Fine."
That word cost her. I heard it.
The apartment office was off the highway in a low brick building with a cracked parking lot. We took my car because my son offered to drive and I didn't want the fight about gas. He parked under a thin tree and left the engine running for the air.
My daughter sat in the back. She had put on clean light pants and tried to smooth her blouse. Her knee bounced the whole way.
Inside, the office smelled like cold air and carpet cleaner. A woman with a clipboard showed us a one-page sheet. One bedroom. Second floor. Application fee. Deposit. Proof of income.
"Can we see it?" my son asked.
"Not today," the woman said. "I can walk the grounds. I have a viewing slot Thursday at ten."
My daughter's voice went tight. "That's two days."
"It's what I have," the woman said.
I took the slot. I printed my name clearly and wrote my prepaid number underneath. My handwriting looked old to me there on that form.
In the parking lot afterward, the heat came up off the blacktop in waves. My son held the appointment card. My daughter stood by the car with her arms wrapped around herself.
"Thursday at ten," he said. "That's real."
She nodded and didn't speak. A truck pulled in too fast and then slowed. Somewhere down the road a siren rose and fell.
I unlocked the car. Before she got in, she looked at me.
"Are you coming Thursday?" she asked.
"Yes," I said. "I'll drive."
May you like
She got in the back and closed the door. My son handed me the card and I put it in my purse next to the new flip phone. The shattered phone was still in my kitchen drawer where I'd left it. The bank access was still closed. None of that had changed.
But we had a time and a place written down. That was new.
