Fly Away Home

Chapter 2

Why is it so hot in here? I suspect stress plays a role, alongside effects from the alcohol I shouldn't be drinking. I'm hypocritical for partaking in libations at this moment, but I have no one here to chastise me.

Staring at the ceiling, silence surrounds me. I push aside the despondent memories of voiceless pleas from years ago. Instead, I focus on a problem that's fixable: a lack of airflow coming from the overhead vent.

The entryway door to the attic is easier to reach as a grown woman. My bedroom chair isn't necessary. I am at ease climbing the stairs, concealing the creaks with each footstep out of habit. This was my shelter, a hiding place my mother never discovered because I used it with such discreet care. My destination today is the fuse box, to resolve one problem and hide from many others.

The red flashlight rests in the same spot. Turning it on, I watch a familiar stream of amber light spill from it. After allowing the dust particles floating before me to settle, my emotions do the same. I navigate the maze of boxes and furniture pieces with surprising ease. Swinging open the metal door, I trace my finger along the column of switches, each flipped to the left, save for one. Kicking the offending switch back in line with the others, I hear the air handler come to life outside.

There is so much awaiting me downstairs, but a growing curiosity beckons me. I'm sure it's no longer there, but I still need to check. I round the pile of cardboard boxes stacked three high. Once an indestructible fortress to my younger self, I scoff at the naivety of youth. Now they're nothing more than tattered containers. They hold useless relics from a mother who never loved me.

I catch sight of what I hoped to find. All the negativity inside me melts away, replaced by a warm smile I can't suppress. I run my hand over the shoebox that used to hold my favorite Converse shoes. Opening the lid, I see familiar slips of different colored paper. On autopilot, I walk to the only window and place a sequence of post-it notes in the frame, for old time's sake. It was a secret language, spoken in hues, not words. Each pattern held a unique message. Only one other individual understood that code, the boy in the house across the yard.

***

Over time, Dillon had become my best friend. At first, it was born out of necessity and convenience. I needed someone to lean on when consumed by feelings of abuse and rejection. He was the closest person willing to meet my needs. In return, he benefited from my ability to understand classic literature.

Dillon had three older sisters, so he possessed a natural comfort around girls. As for me? I escaped to one of two places when I had the opportunity—my attic or the library. There were always plenty of books in both locations. As a voracious reader, I consumed the titles on our school's assigned reading list before anyone else. It was a symbiotic relationship. We both had something valuable to offer the other and were both eager to share it.

Near the end of each summer, we'd find ourselves seated in the back corner of Peppi's with a pepperoni pizza between us. We discussed the merits of Steinbeck, Austen, Twain, and Fitzgerald. In the beginning, it was a chore for Dillon to complete the assignments. By senior year, though, our time together had developed into something more. I remember it with such clarity. And poignancy.

"Come over here. Look at this." I slid over and motioned for him to sit beside me in the booth.

Pushing our greasy pizza plates to the side, he sidled up next to me as I creased the book's spine. I began reciting Robert Frost's poem, "Two roads diverged in a yellow wood..."

After each line, I glanced up at him, deepening emotion etched into his facial features. Something was different. We started communicating through unspoken words nestled between each breath. We were writing a story together, filled with excitement, uncertainty, joy, and travel. On roads forsaken by others in my life.