Heather in Small Heath

Familiar Familiarity

Author's Quick Note About This Chapter:

Go to the bathroom, and get something to eat or drink. It's a long one tonight, folks. 

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"Every time I see you,

I still have that feeling from the first time we met." ~ Jayson Engay

July 2006. Tremblay Household. Pennsylvania.

The yellow walls shone like melted gold as the sun entered inside through the laced curtains. The smell of the fresh, homemade mint tea permeated throughout the small ranch house, mixing with the scent of freshly cut flowers in a vase nearby. Heather watched as Yvonne, her step-mother, methodically cut up a plump watermelon.

Some of Yvonne's light-blonde curls escaped from their pinned prison, and they made their freedom known by getting into the woman's face. Heather bit back a chuckle at the sight.

Huffing out a frustrated breath of air, Yvonne slid the cut pieces of watermelon to the side and called Heather over, her southern twang strong in her slight frustration. "Buttercup, can ya come over here real quick?"

Leaving the kitchen table, Heather walked over without hesitation.

"Here, darlin', Yvonne commanded gently, gesturing at the watermelon slices. "Place these on a tray, and take them outside for me, yeah? I will cut up the rest in a second."

Nodding, Heather turned to get a tray from one of the cabinets. When she turned back around, she watched as Yvonne wiped her hands on the floral apron she had adorned earlier. After she wiped her hands, Yvonne unpinned her hair, and Heather watched the golden, curled tresses cascade down her step-mother's back like a golden waterfall. The younger Tremblay gave a soft smile as she walked back towards the counter.

When Heather was much younger, Yvonne had always sung lullabies to her at night. She used to gather Heather up into her arms, and the soft, southern tilt and soft curls had caused Heather to be lulled into a peaceful slumber with the sound of crickets as the background orchestra.

Coming back to herself, Heather picked up the freshly cut watermelon slices. The juice ran down her hands and wrists, but she did not mind. Summer meant watermelon; summer meant sticky fingers.

And summer meant Amos.

"And when ya get out there," began Yvonne, tying her hair back in a ponytail. "Tell that boy to get in here and help me with the dishes. He got two workin' hands, and I know they can do more besides buildin' houses, ya hear?"

Giving her step-mom a salute with the hand not carrying the tray, Heather pulled the glass sliding door open and walked out onto the back porch. The heat and humidity of the July day immediately engulfed her and made her start to sweat only after a few seconds of being outside. Heather was suddenly very glad that she wore her purple tank top and no shoes, as she didn't think she could have endured it for that long with anything more on.

Walking over to the folding table on the right side of the porch and placing the watermelon on it, Heather turned towards her step-brother.

Amos Leedsdale was the spitting image of his mother, with his long, blonde curls just brushing his shoulders and his dark blue eyes. The twenty-three year old sat, peacefully leaning back in his chair, with his worn hands holding a cigar. Heather watched as he brought it to his lips and took a drag, his sharp cheekbones hollowing out as he did so. Amos' old boots were propped up on the chair in front of him, and his beat-up cowboy hat was placed on his strong chest. Heather fondly took in his cut-off blue flannel, his ripped jeans, and his slightly sunburnt shoulders.