|photo by Erica Marsland Huynh from Unsplash|
It's uncomfortable, but I resist the urge to knock on my own front door. The meaty, mouth-watering smell hits me as soon as I step into the foyer. It's even stronger now, but I still can't put a name to it.
"Hello," I call out, because it feels wrong to walk into an unfamiliar house unannounced. I feel like a trespasser.
"Welcome back," Dad says. From a room I haven't visited yet. He's set up a temporary office on my great-grandmother's dining table.
"Thanks," I say, stepping all the way into the room so I can look for the matching china cabinet. It's here, and the dishes inside—Mom's wedding china—are the same: creamy white with a thick band of gold. But I'm pretty sure the fabric on the chairs is wrong. "Wasn't there embroidery?" I ask, pointing. "Something Grandma Clark made herself?"
Dad gestures to the wall behind me, to a frame holding one of the intricate floral seat covers hostage behind a sheet of glass. "Your mom wanted to preserve them," he says. "She gave frames just like that to both of my sisters."
"That's nice," I say. And it really is, but Grandma likes the idea of there being a purpose for her embroidered creations. That's why she only makes chair covers and pillows—and the flower-laden vests Lindsay and I only wear when she's visiting. So. I can't imagine that she would...
No, she wouldn't. Grandma Clark would not approve.
I try to think of the last time I saw her. She's old, but like Mom's always saying, she's a young sixty-eight.
Except now she'd be seventy-one. And a lot can happen to an old person in three years. But not that—not to my favorite grandparent. Please don't let her be gone.
"Hey," Dad says. The antique chair groans as he shifts his weight to stand. "Sweetie, what's wrong?"
He opens his arms and I rush into them, burying my face in his worn T-shirt. I don't want to ask about Grandma, because I don't want to know. I need something—just one thing—to be normal.
"Allyson?" Dad cups my chin, gently urging me to look at him. But that only makes me cry harder, because the deep wrinkles around his kind brown eyes and the streaks of grey in his dark hair make him look so much older than I remember. Maybe he's aged prematurely because of all the stress. Like if his mother died, and the thing with his job and the moving. And maybe Lindsay is telling the truth about him and Mom.
He cradles my face with both hands, scraping at my tears with his calloused thumbs as he glances at the framed chair cover on the wall. "Your mom just needed a change in here," he says—completely misinterpreting my distress. "She wanted new fabric to match the paint and the curtains."
"It's okay," I say. "I'll get used to it."
"Wish I could say the same for your grandma," he says, keeping his voice low. Then he glances toward the kitchen with a grimace. "She hasn't seen it yet."
Yet. Meaning she will. Because Grandma Clark is still alive!
"I'm sorry," I say, breaking out of his hold on my chin so I can hide my face against his chest.
"You don't have a thing to be sorry for, sweet pea."
"Yes I do. I'm overreacting—now and before. I'm sorry I ran away after Noah called."
"It's okay, honey," Mom says, coming in from the kitchen, her tone soft and genuine.
Dad lifts one of his arms, inviting her into our hug. "You've had a busy day," he says.
"A busy week," Mom adds.
We stay that way—in a warm huddle that smells like clean laundry and the butterscotch candy Dad loves—and for the first time since my accident, I am entirely convinced that I'll recover that feeling of home.
But then I remember that my little sister will be coming through the front door with bloodshot eyes. And it would be easier for her sneak upstairs if Mom and Dad were preoccupied.
"Can I get something to drink?" I ask. "Noah took me to...um, I can't think of the name of the place. But he bought me a milkshake and my teeth are all sweatery."
"Moby's," my parents say in unison.
They exchange one of their great-minds-think-alike smiles as we break apart, and it's so familiar—so completely normal that it has to be real. And it really does make sense that Lindsay might be exaggerating their marital problems because she's stressed out. But that's something I can fix. I've already taken the first step by moving here.
Dad kisses the top of my head and goes back to his computer. I follow Mom into the kitchen. "You forgot your purse," she says, touching her fingers to a small brown lump as she passes the center island.
"I didn't know I had a purse."
I scoop it up on my way to the kitchen table, pull back the metal zipper and dig out the matching wallet. There's a driver's license in the ID window. It has my name on it—along with a very unflattering black and white photo.
"There's a prescription bottle in the inside pocket," Mom says. "I put a few of your headache pills in there, just in case."
"Yeah, okay. Thanks. I hadn't thought about being able to drive."
Mom takes a glass out of the cabinet by the refrigerator before she turns to brand me with one of her sympathetic, I-know-this-must-be-hard-for-you smiles. And I get this awful guilt-twinge, because that look shouldn't make me feel like I want to slam my fist through a wall. I'm not angry at Mom—not at all. It's just...her empathy makes me feel embarrassed. Because how it is even possible to not remember driving an entire car?
"How was the tour?" Mom asks. Making an obvious change in the subject.
But her diversion tactic only makes it worse. "Noah gave me another box of Raisinets," I say. Unreasonably irritated. "He says we used to put them in our milkshakes all the time. So we did that. And it was awkward—for me—because I don't like them frozen. Not anymore, I guess. But I didn't tell Noah that and now..." I feel like a coward for being too embarrassed to admit that my taste buds have changed.
Mom delivers my glass of water, nervously blinking her eyes.
"What?" I ask.
"You didn't particularly care for them that way before your accident."
"Really? Are you sure?"
"Yes, honey."
"But I let Noah think I did? Isn't that...like...a lie?"
"It is," Mom says. "We had this conversation almost two years ago. You didn't want to hurt Noah's feeling because he and his grandfather are very close. But sometimes little lies grow up to become big problems."
The front door opens—speaking of lies and problems—and my sister calls out a greeting as she jogs up the stairs, escaping to the privacy of her bedroom where she can finish coming down from her high.
I get that full-body leaden feeling again: like I've been awake for a hundred years. But I can't sleep. I need to finish reading those conversations. "Can I take this to my room?" I ask, gesturing to the water glass. "I think I should probably go lie down."
"Of course, honey. You must be exhausted."
Now the empathy in Mom's tone makes me feel weak. Like maybe I'm not strong enough to carry the burden of the horrible secret I promised my little sister I'd keep. But I'm not sure if sharing it with Mom is the right thing to do—my brain is total mush and I don't trust myself to make that decision. I don't want to take a chance that I might make everything worse.
"Do you need help settling in?" Mom asks.
"No, I'm fine."
I keep my eyes away from hers as I stuff the wallet back into the purse, loop the long strap over my shoulder and head for the stairs. The shower in the upstairs bathroom is running, and I'm so relieved because I can't handle another encounter with Lindsay.
By the time I get to the yellow room, it's all I can do to hoist myself up onto the antique bed. I really do want to sleep, but it would be stupid for me to even try—not with that app, logged in and waiting to feed me information.