Something of a Kind - By Miranda Wheeler Page 0,2
a good start.” She ribbed, offering a playful shove.
“Doors, molding, ceiling… dark and brown, I reckon. White walls and rooms. Alyson’s going to want to do her own, no doubt. I’m leaving it green. She can change it herself later, anyway.”
Despite having lived with her aunt’s family for the past six months, it was almost painful for Aly to think of Lauren now. With cream skin and a mass of chocolate hair, her aunt could pass as her mother’s twin. Every time Aly stumbled over their similarities, it was like stepping on another thumbtack.
Her grief was raw. Even before her mother’s passing, Aly had never quite adapted to the climate of the home. Between Aunt Lauren, Uncle Vincent, and her cousins, Giovanni and Francesca, the house was in a constant state of unruly animation.
Where Aly’s condo was colorful and modern, the eggplant Victorian was filled with deep maroons and hardwood. Vanessa’s fondness for culinarypop art and urban photography wouldn’t be found amongst religious icons, scenic mountain tapestries, and animal memorabilia. Aly collected classic literature, while her aunt and uncle harbored a tongue in cheek fondness for Big Mouth Billy Bass plaques.
Aly was loved but ill-fitting, lost and motherless in the place her eccentric extended family called home. She didn’t belong there.
Maybe not even here.
Disappointment was swelling. She harbored hopes of waking up to a day when something was easier. Each morning, she convinced herself the time wasn’t right.
Relief, hope, strength… it would happen.
The pain still came at night.
Thoughts of unearthing her new bedroom and unpacking were tempting and disinteresting at once. There was weariness in every inch of mind and body.
For tonight, locating the last door on the left was enough.
The chipper promise of frosty mint paint was quickly abolished. Dark accents absorbed the lights. Drapes cloaked the largest wall, hiding a massive window fixed above a stretch of trees. The shadows curled into the private bathroom and beneath the furniture, filling the walk-in closet and flooding the hardwood floor.
Dropping her bags at her feet, Aly moved to the bedside. The intricately carved headboard had been in a storage unit since she abandoned her childhood bedroom. The other furnishings were wrapped in plastic, basic replacements made long before her arrival.
Few containers had been delivered to the space. She remembered labeling each one with specifics, yet the tape had been severed. Her possessions sprayed from the boxes. They had been sifted through, as if someone felt it necessary to confirm the contents.
Invasive, much?
A flash of fabric caught her eye. Closer inspection revealed a blouse, rather than a corner of her beloved duvet. Unable to muster the energy to embark on a search, she settled with the discovery of cotton sheets. With a glance towards the closed door, she shed her clothes.
Cocooned on the crumpled plastic, Aly curled into fetal position. She hated the alien sterility. It was a haunting reminder of the ICU.
She didn’t want to think about it. The concept of beginning where her mother ended was sickening.
Abandoned and worthless, she felt her strength fading. The affliction was tangible, the mourning all encompassing. The convulsing hole in her core yearned for what had been taken. As pain thrashed against her rib cage, tears crumpled her resolve. Her mother was dead. There was no going back.
CHAPTER 2 | NOAH
Like most things at Yazzie’s, the f luorescents were in extreme need of replacement. Though hardly noticeable in daylight, the predawn flicker was a severe contrast to the black sky splashed across the windows.
Akin to the high pitched squeal of his sister’s sneakers, the disturbance was forgotten amongst the fluid routine of clearing each table. Work moved fast, and Noah had grown accustomed to maneuvering around Sarah’s clumsy quest to refill napkins and tend to empty shakers.
At eighteen, he knew working the family business was a light task compared to manning his father’s fishery or dealing with the man’s temper. Easy peace of mind usually gave way to the music, anyway.
Noah lost himself in the muffled pounding of kitchen speakers. He followed the throaty howls as they drifted between the radiating partnership of guitar and bass. Even with electrics, he could almost catch the cords by ear before getting caught up in the song again.
Catching motion in his peripheral, he grinned. Despite Sarah insisting she was only dedicated to country-pop, her ponytail flailed with a vicious head bang as her fingers curled into an attempt at ‘Rock On’devil horns.
“Nice moves, Sar’.” He laughed, unable to contain the amusement slipping through his smile.
“You never