I sense a train wreck. Mom has that grin that suggests she has something bad to tell me, but is intent to sell me the impending trauma as something good.
While you were at summer camp, I accidently forgot to feed your hamster, but wouldn’t you prefer a turtle?
I dropped the leftover spaghetti dishes on your eighth-grade graduation suit you had laid out near the table, but wouldn’t you rather skip the ceremony and spend the evening with me?
Lucy has the stomach flu and I have a huge meeting with clients, and if you stay home with her you don’t have to take that reading test.
I’m slow leaving the truck and slower still as I cross the high grass of the front yard to join Mom on the crumbling front walk.
“You know, most people consider it a privilege to live on Cedar Avenue,” Mom says. “The houses have been in families for generations. Aren’t they gorgeous?”
I glance around, not really understanding the draw. It’s a house. Not a waterfall.
The other towering homes on this street have manicured lawns that suggest the laser-sharp precision of a gardener. But this particular home is overgrown with bushes and wild roses that look like they haven’t seen a sharp pair of shears in years.
Mom grew up in this small town. Until I was eleven, I lived in Louisville. It was weird being a transplant at first, but I’ve learned to fit in.
Removing an elastic band from her wrist, Mom draws her done-by-a-master-stylist blond hair on top of her head into a bun. What Mom does for a living relies heavily on appearances. Her acrylic nails are always perfection, her makeup on point, her body the result of a daily onslaught of forty-five minutes on the treadmill then another thirty minutes of P90X.
Her black yoga pants and tennis shoes are a testament that she meant what she’s said and she’s going to pitch in and work. Sweat beads on her forehead and she brushes it away with the back of her hand as she looks at the monstrosity of a house in front of us.
In typical Mom fashion to save time, she signed a lease without a walk-through. “The house seemed cheerier in the photos.”
“So do psychopaths.”
The yellow house is three stories, was probably built in the eighteen hundreds and has a turret. The color alone should be inviting, but there’s something dark about the house. Like the glass in the windows is a bit too thick, the air surrounding us too heavy, a pressure building that we aren’t welcomed.
It doesn’t help that the house sits at the bottom of a steep, looming knob and near the top of that huge hill is an aging, abandoned TB hospital that everyone in town knows is full of ghosts and demons, and it’s where devil worshipers perform their ceremonies.
“Try being positive.” Mom pushes my shoulder, but I don’t budge.
“I’m positive psychopaths look cheerier in photos than they do in real life.” A side-eye from Mom, and the hurt on her face causes a pinch of guilt. It’s up to me to keep her going when things are hard.
I wink at her to take away the sting of my words. “You did good finding us a place.”
Mom loves a compliment, and she accordingly glows. “I did well.” She emphasizes the last word, a reminder she would like me to focus on my worst subject. There are subjects people get and subjects people don’t. Math, I love. English is a constant struggle.
“We have the entire first floor and three bedrooms,” Mom continues. “One for you, one for Lucy and one for me. There’s a full kitchen and the appliances come with it. We can use the washer and dryer in the basement, we only pay half the utilities, and considering how much houses cost on this street, our rent is practically free. The best news is that we’re only here until December.”
When the contractor promised our house would be done.
“Did you tell your father about the move?” Mom’s light tone is now forced. After all these years, the mere mention of Dad still causes her to flinch.
“Yeah.” I’d begrudgingly sent him a text, but only to get Mom off my back about it.
“What did he say?” She puts on her designer sunglasses that are too big for her face.
There’s no answer that will make her feel better. “Nothing much.” And it’s the truth. Mom glances over at my sister who’s playing with a stick under the shade of the tree.
Where