South of SomeWhere (-Editing-)

|Rain|

I like the wet. Not the nasty, dirty, filthy, muddy wet that seeps into the bottom of worn out galoshes or stains your favorite onesie. The kind that comes with a frigid chill to the air. It kicks Fall out the door and onto the welcome mat and beckons Winter in with a cheerio, "Hullo." And that is where my story starts. On a very wet, very dark, very cold day in October.

Streaks of water drizzle down the cab window. The darkened sky does nothing to dislodge the brick of unease that has settled in my stomach. As I slide out of my cab, I slam the door behind me with a loud thud. Pulling my pencil skirt straight, I tilt my head backwards to stare up at the HWT Tower. It towers over me, intimidating and menacing. In that moment, I feel smaller than my 5' 2" height. I wonder what it would be like, sitting up in a posh office, having an intern bring me chai lattes, and typing feverishly on my shiny new MacBook Pro. The idea is almost dizzying. No one but execs make that type of money, or can afford a Maserati. I grimace as one whizzes past, whooshing air onto my tight clad legs. I think of my modest Toyota Corolla. It's good to be poor, but sometimes it would be nice to be able to pay your own parking tickets and not have to be bailed out by your best friend. Or ride the tram when you need transportation.

Lights flicker on toward the top of the building. It's only 4:30 in the afternoon, but the sun is low in the sky. I breathe in a comforting lungful of dry air, feeling a slight chill of wind to the 50 degree day. I hug my Aero hoodie around me, smelling the faint scent of my Bath and Body Works perfume. It's musky, floral and I get a hint of peppermint as I toss my hair over my shoulder.

'Breath, Ayvee, breath.'

I closed my eyes and try to focus myself. I feel the steady ache threatening to resurface, but I push it down. It has been a year since the death of my adoptive mother. I hate the fact that I can't think about her without crying. Ever since I washed up on the shore of a beach in Brisbane, nothing was ever the same. The dreams, the memories... I can't get away from them. Her hands, laugh, smell. She was my mother. If only for four years.

I remember the first time I saw her. It was an October similar to this one, but late in the month. Halloween was slowly approaching, and the foster home was in full swing. Candy poured into the pantry, and more often than once, a child was caught pillaging the store house of sticky goodness and sent to bed hungry. I had lived at the orphanage for as long as I could remember. Foster homes were never an option. When I was kicked out of my sixteenth and last foster home, the reports were the same. Never connected, isolated herself, didn't want to become part of the group. Maybe it was partially my fault, but didn't they get why we orphans never wanted to "connect". Try living constantly with people picking you out of a catalog and saying, "No that one is just isn't tall enough. She's too skinny." Until they pick the model child to live in their model house with their freakishly model-like family. It's enough to make me sick. Except Jane Kendall is...was different.

The day was bright and surprisingly warm. Sun rays beat down on me warming my blonde hair as I sat in the branches of one of the ancient oaks on the orphanage's grounds. I, as usual and a habit that I haven't grown out of, was wrapped in my favorite sweater. Have you ever had a piece of clothing that you wear until it becomes a part of you? You have to have it on because it's literally a second skin. It cradles you in comfort and there's that smell. The smell of your perfume and everything wrapped up into one package. You forget it when you go out of town, and it's at the back of your mind nagging you, taunting you. If only you'd remembered it and hadn't brought that wool cardi that your Aunt Jean bought for you last Christmas and surely she won't ask if you've brought it, but of course she does.

That was what my childhood sweater was to me. Navy blue with small navy buttons, I could've sworn I was ectothermic. I wore it everywhere and being in Australia that's not an easy feat. I only shed my second skin on the hottest days when the sun crackled everything and made the leaves smell like scorched paper. The day I met Jamie, I had placed it as an umbrella over my head, shading me and creating a sort of house among the leaves.

I saw the car before I saw its occupant. The sleek black Bentley pulled up the gravel drive, leaving a trail of dust in its wake. The instant I glimpsed it, it was like I was the magnet and it was the pull, I knew I had to see who it belonged to. But I ignored the feeling. Whoever or whatever the car contained, it wasn't for me. Nevertheless, I was entranced. The windows cast flashes of blinding light out, and I shaded my eyes. When the car stopped, the chauffeur opened the door. If the car's occupant had a chauffeur, they must be wealthy. Wealthy enough to afford a $200,000 car. This occupant would want a model child. They wouldn't want me. I turned away as the door opened with a soft click.

I will not look, I will not look...

And a small, sliver of long buried hope resurfaced. What did the person look like? My head swung around to catch a glimpse of a mousy brown haired women in a well-manicured skirt suit walk up to the door, knock gently on it, and enter the home. A flash of neon on the ground caught my eye. It was Matthew. With his white blonde hair and lanky body, he clocked in at around an 8 on the "Model-Child" Richter scale.

"Where are you going?" I called down to Matthew. He stared up into the tree as if confused where the sound had come from. Then, he saw me.

"It's a new parent. Aren't you coming?" He leaned his head back and gave me a puzzled look.

"No, you go along." Shrugging his shoulders, he ran off to his room.

Against my previous words, I found myself stuffing my book into my messenger back, and climbing down the tree. I'm still afraid of heights. It's probably the fear of falling to my death that has me running the other way when someone mentions something that involves being several hundred feet up in the air. But that tree was like a home to me. Grasping its cool smooth branches had my palms sweating, but I knew that whenever I had a bad day I could climb as high as I could go and hide. No one would risk coming up after me. I had to jump to reach the first branch, swing my legs over the sturdy wood, and haul myself up. It was too much work, and they would most likely fall.

Taking the last swing down, I landed securely on my feet, bending my knees to take the impact. That was the first time I heard the voices. Like the gentles papery whispers of dry leaves brushing together, they filtered into my brain. A jumble and mishmash of words, sentences, and voices that I desperately tried to distinguish. They weren't loud, they weren't painful, but just annoying enough to have my head swinging from side to side, trying to clear my mind. Then, I understood what they wanted. They wanted me to go to the car. As though my feet had a mind of their own, I walked slowly toward the car. Sun glinted on the polished metal, and I inhaled smelling burnt gasoline and earth dust.

I approached the car with caution. Why did these voices want me to touch it? Was there some mystic thing going on, and most of all, why were they in my head? My hand stretched forward and skimmed the heated metal. Then, I was jerked into someone else memories. I saw a woman, her mousy brown hair pulled high into a pony tail, a tall man his blue eyes winking, drives through the sunset, laughter, and with a gasp, I jerked backwards and fell in the dirt.

"WAVERLEY!" Matthew screamed at me, and I turned to see him at the house door. "Get inside, she's having tea with us, and she wants a girl." A thrum of hope caught my heart. Maybe this was it. Maybe it was....

Someone was watching me. I crash down from dream land, and my head swings around as though on a pendulum. I scan the crowds of pedestrians, and my eye latches on to a pair of black ones. The next minute, there gone.

You're just hallucinating Waverley. There wasn't anybody there.

I stare up again at the towering building and take a deep breath.

"Courage Ayvee Lee." I can almost hear her voice in my head. I stride forward, and push open the door.