With complete abandon, my little sister jumps into my waiting arms, and I place her into the truck. Lucy scrambles to the other side of the bench seat, and I close the door behind me. Even though we’re only going a couple feet backward, I click her seat belt into place then put my hands on the wheel.
“Sawyer, you need your seat belt.” Her innocent expression forces me to put it on.
Lucy can be Jiminy Cricket on crack, and most days, I need the additional conscience. I place the U-Haul into reverse, and the motor rumbles as I gently tap the gas. Seventeen isn’t old enough to drive a U-Haul, but being a pharmaceutical representative, Mom has a way of talking until people listen.
My son is a doll. She dropped her million-dollar grin and fluttered her hand in the air when the guy at the U-Haul counter protested the idea of me driving. Perfect to a T. He’s going to win Olympic gold someday. You should see how good of a swimmer he is.
Mom waves me back, in theory guiding me, but I don’t watch her. I trust the mirrors instead. There’s not a ton in the truck. Most of our possessions are in storage as we wait for our newest house to be built. It should have been done by now, but the contractor is late, the house we had been living in has been sold and now we’re in short-lease-apartment purgatory.
Bright-eyed and grinning like I took her to the gates of Disney World, Lucy opens her door the moment I place the truck into park and jumps out. She senses adventure while I sense a train wreck. Mom has that grin that suggests she has something bad to tell me, but is intent to sell me the impending trauma as something good.
While you were at summer camp, I accidently forgot to feed your hamster, but wouldn’t you prefer a turtle?
I dropped the leftover spaghetti dishes on your eighth-grade graduation suit you had laid out near the table, but wouldn’t you rather skip the ceremony and spend the evening with me?
Lucy has the stomach flu and I have a huge meeting with clients, and if you stay home with her you don’t have to take that reading test.
I’m slow leaving the truck and slower still as I cross the high grass of the front yard to join Mom on the crumbling front walk.
“You know, most people consider it a privilege to live on Cedar Avenue,” Mom says. “The houses have been in families for generations. Aren’t they gorgeous?”
I glance around, not really understanding the draw. It’s a house. Not a waterfall.
The other towering homes on this street have manicured lawns that suggest the laser-sharp precision of a gardener. But this particular home is overgrown with bushes and wild roses that look like they haven’t seen a sharp pair of shears in years.
Mom grew up in this small town. Until I was eleven, I lived in Louisville. It was weird being a transplant at first, but I’ve learned to fit in.
Removing an elastic band from her wrist, Mom draws her done-by-a-master-stylist blond hair on top of her head into a bun. What Mom does for a living relies heavily on appearances. Her acrylic nails are always perfection, her makeup on point, her body the result of a daily onslaught of forty-five minutes on the treadmill then another thirty minutes of P90X.
Her black yoga pants and tennis shoes are a testament that she meant what she’s said and she’s going to pitch in and work. Sweat beads on her forehead and she brushes it away with the back of her hand as she looks at the monstrosity of a house in front of us.
In typical Mom fashion to save time, she signed a lease without a walk-through. “The house seemed cheerier in the photos.”
“So do psychopaths.”
The yellow house is three stories, was probably built in the eighteen hundreds and has a turret. The color alone should be inviting, but there’s something dark about the house. Like the glass in the windows is a bit too thick, the air surrounding us too heavy, a pressure building that we aren’t welcomed.
It doesn’t help that the house sits at the bottom of a steep, looming knob and near the top of that huge hill is an aging, abandoned TB hospital that everyone in town knows is full of ghosts and demons, and it’s where devil worshipers perform their ceremonies.
“Try being positive.” Mom pushes my shoulder, but I don’t budge.
“I’m positive psychopaths look cheerier in photos than they do in real life.” A side-eye from Mom, and the hurt on her face causes a pinch of guilt. It’s up to me to keep her going when things are hard.
I wink at her to take away the sting of my words. “You did good finding us a place.”
Mom loves a compliment, and she accordingly glows. “I did well.” She emphasizes the last word, a reminder she would like me to focus on my worst subject. There are subjects people get and subjects people don’t. Math, I love. English is a constant struggle.
“We have the entire first floor and three bedrooms,” Mom continues. “One for you, one for Lucy and one for me. There’s a full kitchen and the appliances come with it. We can use the washer and dryer in the basement, we only pay half the utilities, and considering how much houses cost on this street, our rent is practically free. The best news is that we’re only here until December.”
When the contractor promised our house would be done.
“Did you tell your father about the move?” Mom’s light tone is now forced. After all these years, the mere mention of Dad still causes her to flinch.
“Yeah.” I’d begrudgingly sent him a text, but only to get Mom off my back about it.
“What did he say?” She puts on her designer sunglasses that are too big for her face.
There’s no answer that will make her feel better. “Nothing much.” And it’s the truth. Mom glances over at my sister who’s playing with a stick under the shade of the tree.
Where Lucy looks like Dad, with black hair and fair skin, I favor Mom. Our skin has a natural, year-round tan and our eyes are the same baby blue. My hair, though, is the original sandy-blond instead of her salon-bought platinum.
I’m tall, close to six feet and so is Mom. She was a volleyball player in high school and college. No volleyball for me, I’m a swimmer like Dad. A good one, too. If I can keep up my grades, my coach is convinced I’m on track for a state title.
“Are you sure you should be handling all these boxes with your arm?” Mom asks. It’s the hundredth time she’s asked this question in the past two weeks.
“The doctor went a week over to be safe, so I’m good.”
“You’re such a great kid. I don’t know what I’d do without you. Our landlord and his daughter live on the second and third floors, but they won’t disturb us. They have their own entrance. I think the daughter goes to school with you.”
My head snaps up as this is the first time I’ve heard this part. “Who?”
Mom waggles her eyebrows. “Why? Thinking of having some late-night trysts?”
No. I don’t like the idea of anyone from school having a bird’s-eye view of my life, but saying that to Mom will only make her fish for an explanation. Mom laughs as she takes my noncommittal silence as an affirmative. She’s always on the search for me to be her version of normal.
“Hannah helped me find this place. She said that Sylvia said that the girl who lives here isn’t someone you all associate with.” Hannah’s a Realtor and one of Mom’s best friends, and Sylvia is Hannah’s daughter. Besides Miguel, Sylvia’s one of my closest friends.