The distance from luxurious Manhattan to the tiny town of Fort Sangrey in middle-of-nowhere Montana was 2,377.6 miles. Suffice it to say, after driving for that amount of time, I’d grown a new appreciation for people who walked or cycled from point A to B. At least those modes of transportation didn’t leave you with several cramps and a numb rear end.
I pulled the little Starlet down a long winding driveway; the driveway of our new residence, and one I calculated as being one and a half miles long. Good lord, it was practically the equivalent of driving halfway across Manhattan. Well, okay, slight exaggeration. But really, the expanse of untamed wilderness surrounding me in every direction was mind boggling.
A week ago, in my native Upper East Side of Manhattan, I couldn’t walk more than thirty feet without bumping into one of the neighbours. Here, I’d have to run a marathon every time I wanted to reassure myself that civilization was still out there. I doubted I’d be able to spot the nearest neighbour’s house with a pair of military grade binoculars.
There was a hitch in Annabel’s snores as I ran over a small pothole. Beside me, Mom didn’t so much as twitch. She’d had a brief period of consciousness on the last leg of our journey but other than that, stress, exhaustion and quite possibly the prospect of entering a new, lower middleclass lifestyle kept her snoozing obliviously.
Annabel and I had taken driving in shifts, deciding amongst ourselves to forego another night in a motel and just forge on ahead to our destination. It meant we’d arrived a whole thirteen hours ahead of schedule. Dawn was beginning to break over the horizon in an array of breathtaking colours - a mix of blood red, fiery orange, deep indigo, with hues of blue and yellow threaded throughout. I’d never seen anything like it.
Back home such exquisite beauty couldn’t be witnessed for the skyscrapers and towering apartment complexes. Not to mention the city lights remained on until the sun had fully risen, the artificial light bleeding a harsh glow over the city limits almost like it was preventing nature from exposing itself in all its glory.
Brakes screeched as I pulled the car to a stop outside of an old white Victorian style house, complete with a wraparound porch and ten foot high pillars flanking a wide staircase that lead to the front door. Cutting the engine, I gave the dash in front of me a dubious stare. The poor thing gave off the vibe that it had just sucked in it’s last breath and that resurrecting it was nigh impossible. I hoped not. Mom had bought the car last week with the intention of it being our primary vehicle for the foreseeable future.
Yawning, I opened my door to a symphony of groaning hinges and clambered to my feet. Yep, the old butt felt like it was no longer attached to the rest of me, and it took a few minutes of furious pacing to get the blood flowing back into it. Massaging my lower back, I headed in the direction of the imposing house for a closer look.
Stairs creaked and shifted under my weight, my shoes kicking up a flurry of chipped paint and clouds of dust. The second one from the top was missing entirely, forcing me to hop over it and onto the porch. When Mom had announced her victory on the house searching front, she had mentioned the place she’d secured was in need of a little love and work. Wasn’t that the understatement of the year.
Paint peeled off the pillars, porch, and all sides of the house in great big strips to expose the bare wood beneath. The portion of porch edging the left side of the house had been sectioned off, inaccessible due to the gaping hole in the centre of it. A cursory walk around the remaining three sides revealed two cracked windows, a few missing planks of wood I had to navigate around, and guttering that was broken with one end resting on the porch railing. I assumed this was to allow water to flow down onto the ground below.
If this summed up the outside, I was more than a little wary of venturing inside. Knowing my luck there’d be a loose hanging beam just waiting to take me out the second I opened the front door. I circled back around to the car to find Annabel standing beside it, stretching vigorously and groaning in satisfaction.
When she caught sight of me, she grinned. “The next time Vivien announces she’s moving all the way across the country, I’ll book a flight and meet you guys there.”
I held up two fingers. “Two. Two tickets, because I am never doing this again.”
The only reason I’d done it this time was because one, I didn’t know any better, and two, Mom was not a flyer. The first and last time she’d got on a plane she’d harassed the flight attendant, asking where the parachutes were and how to use them, and after being told there were no parachutes she’d gone and drunk herself into such a stupor they’d had to ask the air marshal to carry her off.
Annabel joined me at the top of the stairs, whistling at the missing one and openly scrutinizing as much of the house as she could see. Her expression was a mixture of dismay and disgust.
“Is it two much to hope for that we have the wrong address, and that there’s a nice mansion or something next door with our names on it?”
I snorted at her delusions. “Yeah, sure. Well, you go and walk the six or so miles to find out. Because I’m pretty sure that’s how far away our nearest neighbour is.”
“You are kidding,” Annabel gasped, cranking her head around and sending her curls flying. She scanned the area in all directions. “What if an axe murderer breaks into our home. Who’s going to hear us scream for help?”
“The murderer?” I supplied, biting back a laugh at the unimpressed look on her face.
She dug her phone out of her pocket, blanching as she glanced at the screen. “There’s no cell service out here. We really will die without anyone being the wiser.”
I rolled my eyes at her dramatics. “You really should stop watching those stupid horror movies. They’re messing with your common sense.”
“No, they’re teaching me valuable lessons,” she insisted, jerking her arm in the air and waving her phone about to see if it improved her signal. “Like never to listen to your stupid friends who think going to stay in a cabin in the woods is a fantastic idea. And never to take pit stops in the middle of nowhere. Drive with your doors locked at all times. And…”
I left her to her misguided survival tips and went back to the car to retrieve Mom’s keys. Mom was still sound asleep, and I repositioned her head to help her avoid giving herself a kink. Annabel was still cursing the lack of cell service when I put the house key in the lock and turned it. The door swung inwards, and I was immediately assaulted with the smell of stale, musty air that rushed through the open door in a bid for freedom.
Screwing my nose up, I let myself in, with Annabel hot on my heels. In the sparse light I detected various pieces of furniture and cardboard boxes that littered a large room off to my right I suspected was the living room. The movers had arrived three days before us on Wednesday to put all of our belongings into the house. The landlord had let them in.
Directly in front of me was a hallway that I presumed led to a bathroom and bedrooms. And to my left was a kitchen. From this angle I could see a fine coat of dust covering the counter, and more boxes on the ground labelled KITCHEN.
“I call first dibs on a room,” Annabel said, brushing past me and down the hall.
I followed after her and we peeked into the first room on the left. A single bed with a wrought iron frame took up most of the room. A dresser sat against the opposite wall, the only other piece of furniture. The second door on the left revealed a double bedroom, complete with a sizeable double bed, a closet, and a rocking chair. On the right of the hallway was a bathroom that looked like it hadn’t been cleaned at all this century, and the lone door at the end of the hall opened up into the master bedroom.
It was a far cry from the luxury and comfort we were used to, but I reminded myself it was definitely a few steps up from being homeless which had been where we were headed. I closed the door to the bedroom behind me and headed back to the entryway.
Annabel stopped at the threshold of the smallest room. “I now proclaim this Annabel Territory. Authorised personnel only. Which would be me, me, oh and me.”
My eyebrows sot up in surprise over her generosity. I’d actually expected her to bolt into the master and claim it.
“Right. Well, I’ll remember that when the axe murderer comes in through your window to kill you. And while you’re screaming for help I’ll be thinking, if only I had access to Annabel Territory.”
“Fine!” Annabel cried as I ventured into the living room. She rushed in after me. “I grant you eternal access, Kitty Kat!”
I cringed at the most God awful nickname in existence. “I’m definitely not saving you if you keep calling me that.” A smirk animated my lips as I thought back to another cringe-worthy nickname. “Bitty Bell.”
She gasped in horror, then quickly conceded defeat. “Okay, okay, okay. Truce. I still haven’t forgive your mother for the abuse she put me through by calling me that all throughout my childhood.”
I couldn’t agree more. Mom had thought both of our pet names were the cutest thing ever.
Navigating the living room proved rather tricky. There were boxes upon boxes, stacked chest high and so precariously a few of them looked ready to crash land around me. Or on me. I was looking for one box in particular, and anxiety began to set in when I couldn’t immediately locate it. I’d made sure it would be easily visible by sticking FRAGILE stickers all over it.
“What are you looking for?” Annabel asked as she unearthed some of her Louis Vuitton luggage.
I was about to tell her when I spotted it, and instead let out a sigh of relief. At the bottom of a stack of five, I rushed to dig it free and rip it open. A black case greeted me, and I hauled it out. Unclipping the latch, I threw it open and ran my fingertips over the neat rows of reading glasses sitting snug and cosy inside. None of them were prescription; they were all fake lenses.
My vision was twenty-twenty, but that didn’t stop me from wearing glasses every chance I got - which was basically whenever I wasn’t sleeping. I’d thought about taking a few pairs with me in the car only I hadn’t wanted to risk losing them or breaking them. They weren’t overly expensive; some hadn’t cost more than ten dollars a pair, however building up a sizeable collection of fake spectacles had taken me years.
Pulling a rectangular purple pair free, I slipped them onto the bridge of my nose and immediately felt ten times more at ease. Like a window had gone up between me and the rest of the world, securing my place as the perfect observer rather than the unwilling participant.
“You know, a psychiatrist would have a field day with you,” Annabel muttered, eyeing my precious case with an air of distaste.
I ignored her dig, picking my collection up and toting it to the double bedroom to stake my claim. Mom would no doubt protest about being given the nicest room in the house. After everything she’d endured these last couple of months though, she more than deserved what little luxury we could still afford.
Mom managed to rouse herself long enough to trudge down the hall and into the master bedroom where she face planted and was out like a light before I even shut the door behind her. Leaving her to her slumber, I got busy unpacking the kitchen while Annabel took the car into town for supplies. The last thing any of us wanted was to be stuck without toilet paper.
Two hours into my task I was ready to give up and instead plan an existence in which we didn’t have to use our kitchen. There was dust everywhere, on every surface. At one point I was convinced I was about to lose a lung hacking up the cloud I accidentally inhaled after a feeble attempt at swiping it out the kitchen window.
Progress did not come easily. I’d grown up in a house that had never produced a speck of dust or dirt. Well, not that I’d ever seen. That was what we employed two cleaners for who came in twice a week to make everything shine like they day it was bought. I’d never touched a vacuum cleaner or duster before in my life, and my extensive knowledge of efficient cleaning came by way of old episodes of The Nanny.
“Well, I never saw Fran get dust in her eyes,” I muttered sullenly, dropping my rag in favour of rubbing vigorously at stinging eyes. My glasses were perched on top of my head; a fine layer of grime was preventing me from wearing them for the moment.
“Or up her nose,” I continued to grouse, pinching my tingling nose.
This was just all kinds of not good, and I was seriously contemplating digging out a phone book to see just how much a professional cleaner would cost in Fort Sangrey, Montana. I was willing to sell Annabel’s iPod if it meant I no longer had to endure this torture.
Sniffling and blinking away tears, I pulled myself together long enough to get the kitchen counter and sink spotless. I had a neat pile of dust and fluff in one corner of ready to be swept up into the bin, and I was making slow progress with the overhead kitchen cupboards, some of which squealed on hinges that probably hadn’t been opened anytime this century.
A nameless tune took up residence in my head, prompting me to hum out loud. I got so carried away with myself as I started dancing around the kitchen, humming louder and using the dish brush I’d unearthed as an impromptu microphone. I was so engrossed entertaining my delusions of grandeur (we could all be famous singers in our dreams) that I failed to notice a spider the size of Texas was crawling the length of my arm.
One second I was belting out made up lyrics to a made up song, my right arm held high flourishing my lime green dual purpose microphone, the next I was screaming like an axe murderer really had just invaded our house to kill me. If Annabel couldn’t hear me from forty-seven miles away in the township, then we were going to have to get her damn ears checked. As it was, panic seized me so suddenly it robbed me of all common sense.
Instead of brushing the spider off my arm like any sane person would do, I bolted. Yep, I actually tried to run from myself. With the spider still firmly latched onto my right forearm. The results weren’t desirable. In my haste to outrun my own arm I kicked a bucket of soapy water I’d been using to wipe down the cupboards. Liquid flooded the kitchen, and it was so sudsy I nearly lost my footing and went down in an ungainly heap.
The only thing that saved me was snapping my left arm out to grab onto the nearest object, which happened to be a navy blue t-shirt. My fingers clenched in the fabric and I jerked myself upright, right into the arms of a complete stranger.