Chapter 11: Open House

By two o'clock on Sunday there were twenty-three strangers in my father's house.

They walked through the living room with paper cups of cider and knocked on the walls.

A woman in a camel coat stood in front of the hearth saying, "We'd take that out, obviously."

The realtor had put a plate of store-bought cookies on the kitchen table and a sign-in sheet beside them.

Dale stood at the foot of the hall in a fresh suit, shaking hands.

"Original hardwood," he was saying. "Detached garage, great bones. The sellers are motivated."

I had been standing in the front doorway for four minutes.

Nobody had noticed me.

Ewan was a step behind my shoulder, and Maude was a step behind him, with her cane planted.

"Whenever you're ready," Maude murmured.

I walked into the middle of the living room, turned around, and clapped my hands twice.

"Hi, everybody."

Heads turned.

"I'm Rosie Pickett. I grew up in this house. My father built that awning on the porch and I can tell you which stair squeaks."

A man at the back laughed uncertainly.

"This house isn't for sale."

"Rosie," Dale said, in his warmest voice. "Honey. Not today."

"It's got a loan against it, and my mother never signed for it."

Nobody moved.

The woman in the camel coat put her cider down.

"My stepfather signed my mother's name while she was in a hospital bed," I said. "She has lupus."

"She's confused," said Dale. His smile was gone. "Folks, I'm sorry. Her mother's very ill, and Rosie's been under tremendous strain."

"I am not confused."

"You are an unstable young woman who."

"I'm a dental hygienist," I said. "I'm very stable."

Somebody snorted.

A pair of buyers near the door exchanged a look.

Dale took a step toward me, and Ewan took one forward too.

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