The Day(s) I Died {Book 1 - Completed}

20

oenomel

(n.) something combining strength with sweetness

***

As often as I think about all my bad experiences in the orphanage and foster care systems, I forget that there were, on occasion, happy times as well.

(Not nearly as many, of course; perhaps it is the lack of prevalence that has me thinking about the good homes far less than the bad ones.)

One such happy time occurred before my first death, when I was fifteen.

I was staying with a younger couple, both in their early thirties, and both with kind hearts and soothing smiles. The husband was often working, since he was a surgeon, but the wife had her own interior design company, so she made sure to be home with the other two foster kids and me when we were out of school.

The wife, Eleanor, was the nicest woman I'd ever met up to that point.

She was quick to smile but slow to anger, and I was practically latched to her side from the start.

"Would you like to come with me on a house call?" She would ask me on the weekends, after ensuring I'd finished my homework. None of the other kids ever wanted to go with her when she went to scope out a house and decide on its design and décor, but I always said yes.

(It wasn't so much that I loved interior design—I was pretty horrible at it, in fact—but I loved being around Eleanor; I would have followed her just about anywhere, so long as she let me.)

She would chatter on about the plans she had for the house as she led me to her SUV, opening up the passenger door for me before climbing in on her side. Then, she'd drive to the nearest Starbucks, pick up lemonade for me and an espresso for her, and finally take us to the house. Her clients were all relatively wealthy, as one has to be to afford an interior designer, but she never seemed to care about the money.

All she cared about was the design, coming together and, as she put it, "making this house a home, Vivian, don't you see?"

At the time, all I saw was her excited brown eyes and a bunch of different colors and patterns that somehow ended up looking amazing when she was done with them.

And then, when she and her husband had to move several months later for his job and couldn't keep any of us kids, I couldn't see anything through my teary eyes.

I never bothered to design any of my own living spaces, since I was rarely in one place for long, but now . . .

Well, now I think I understand what Eleanor meant when she told me about a house becoming a home.

The furniture surrounding us in our new home is all cheap and bought either on clearance from a warehouse club or the nearby Goodwill. The wall décor is a mismatch of Selah's favorite artwork (including, of course, the abstract piece we created together) and some motivational cat posters I found in the bargain bin at Walmart that make Selah grin and giggle whenever she sees them.

Even with lackluster design and no consistency of brands—details that would have sent Eleanor's heart racing with panic, I'm sure—this is no longer a house.

This is a home.

I set down a box of still-packed kitchenware, straightening and placing my hands on my hips as I look around the bare kitchen. It is rather hideous, with white cabinets, white linoleum counters, and checkered tile straight from the seventies, but it is twice the size of the one in Abel's old apartment, and Selah nearly fainted from joy when she saw it.