It had been almost ten months since my father had died, and school had just let out for the summer. I was sitting on the edge of my desk chair Sunday morning, poised to stand up but not quite willing to. I knew that sometimes soon, though, I had to go downstairs. Surrendering, I trotted down to the kitchen, plastering what I hoped looked like a believable smile on my face. I saw my mother, Linda Banks, slouched on the couch, coffee mug held firmly in her hand. The steam rising from it was like ribbons climbing to the damp sky outside.
I cleared my throat, hoping this would get my mother's attention. She quickly looked over with a short little gasp and sat up straighter.
"Good morning, sweetie," my mother said in monotone, yet somehow kindly, as if she felt pity for me.
"Hi," I said, looking down. I could sense something was troubling her.
"Why don't you sit down and we can talk?" She patted the worn cushion beside her.
I silently sat down next to her. Her sorrowful eyes stared down at me, the shallow wrinkles at the corners accentuated. I looked from one eye to the other, trying to figure out what she was about to tell me, but all I could see was my rounded reflection in her light blue iris.
"I've been thinking. This house, it's so . . ." She seemed unable to finish her sentence. Her tired hand ran through her thin light brown hair, the loose sleeve of her peach bathrobe brushing against her high cheekbone. We both knew something bad was coming. "And, ever since your father died - " she paused and swallowed. I looked away from her eyes. "You just haven't . . . you just haven't been the same."
"Mhm," was all I could manage.
"So I think it's time we moved." She let out a heavy sigh.
"Moved?" It was the last thing I had expected. I looked around our house. I saw the fading wall paint, the oriental carpets, and the welcoming archway leading into the dining room. My mother had always been inseparable from this house. But I knew why we were leaving. Our house held sadness, and the thickness of it in the air was suffocating. "Sure," I said. I hadn't meant it. I hadn't even been aware that I was saying it. But I had spoken, and it was done. Using my arms to push me up from the couch, I walked away and back up to my bedroom.
The last week in my house flew by. Saying goodbye to my friends wasn't too difficult. Truthfully, I had shut them out a long time ago. At exactly six thirteen p.m. on my last day in my house, I sat on the cool stone of my front steps, drumming my fingers with one hand and resting my chin on the other. I was watching two tall muscular men heaving the last of the cardboard boxes into the large white moving truck. My mother had obviously expected me to say yes to the move; all the plans had been set in stone months ago, yet my mother had only found the courage to tell me about it a week earlier.
We were moving to South Carolina. Warm, sunny, South Carolina, to a town called Freeport. My mom had shown me pictures of the house. It was a medium size, on the water. It had no paint, but instead bleach white wood. There was a screened in porch out back with stairs leading down to the beach. Tall grass and sand surrounded it. It was beautiful. I would have loved it, if only it were just a summerhouse.
The men were lifting the last box into the truck, which was labeled 'Lucy's keepsakes'.
My thoughts were interrupted when I felt the corner of the screen door jab into my back. I gasped.
My mother winced. "Sorry," she apologized. "I didn't realize you were sitting there. It's time for dinner." I stretched my frail legs in front of me, my purple converse scraping against the concrete. I followed my mother inside the house, letting the screen door slam behind me. The house was full to the brim with the smell of Chinese food. All of our plates had been packed, so tonight we had ordered food.
