Chapter 9 - The Ground Below
Two months later, on a warm Sunday afternoon in July, Nathaniel and I drove his truck down Interstate 5 toward Tacoma.
We didn't take the highway exit toward the luxury waterfront condos. We took the exit toward the old brick neighborhoods near the rail yards, pulling up across the street from a modest, two-story craftsman quadplex painted dark green with clean white trim.
The building wasn't luxurious, but it was solid. The gutters were clear of moss, the gravel driveway was neatly raked, and sitting in four terra-cotta pots by the wooden mailboxes were clusters of brilliant, thriving yellow pansies.
Through the front bay window of Unit 2B, I could see Bailey.
She was standing at a small wooden kitchen table covered in textbooks and sample swatches. She wore her hair in a messy bun, a pair of dark-rimmed reading glasses perched on her nose, wearing an apron over her jeans.
Beside her on the table was a course catalog for the Tacoma Community College interior design certificate program—an evening course she had enrolled in using her assistant manager tuition assistance.
A young man in a worn denim jacket walked up the front steps carrying a bag of groceries. When he reached the porch, he wiped his boots carefully on the mat, smiled through the window at Bailey, and gave her a friendly, respectful wave.
Bailey looked up from her blueprints, smiled back—an honest, tired, unperformed smile—and waved with her pencil before going back to her notes.
Nathaniel rested his forearm on the steering wheel, watching the scene through the windshield.
“Do you want to go up?” he asked gently.
I looked at my sister through the glass for a long time.
She had twenty-four dollars in her purse, a three-hundred-dollar rent credit she had earned with a push broom, and three textbooks she was paying for in monthly installments.
She was alone.
She had no family trust, no country club invitations, and no fiancé promising her an emerald-cut diamond.
And for the first time in twenty-six years, Bailey was standing on her own feet.
“No,” I said softly, a warm, genuine smile touching my lips. “She’s busy building.”
May you like
I reached across the console, took Nathaniel’s hand, and squeezed his fingers.
“Turn the truck around, Nat. Let’s go home.”