I nod. I am, and sore. I consider myself a fairly experienced hiker, but today I forgot my trekking pole and my knees are particularly inflamed. However, I only shrug, glancing in time to see him grin at me.
The rest of the short ride is quiet, and when we finally pull into the driveway next to a garage, I’m grateful Noah suggested dinner. After Noah shuts the truck off, we both get out, and I search for the house. Only, there isn’t one.
“Ready for one last hike today?” Noah asks, face weakly illuminated by the two barn lights hanging off the garage. He gestures to the stone pavers that ascend into the night void. As I follow them up, there’s the faint glow of light. Perfect. The house must sit up the hill, a hundred steps up.
Noah pauses, waiting for me to go first, but I shake my head. The corner of his mouth lifts and he moves first, while I follow.
A gentle, playful breeze kicks up around me as I walk. The crisp air carrying with it the scent of petrichor that honestly makes me want to write. This transitional period between seasons is one of my favorites, like fall is nearing its end and winter is beginning.
The pleasant smell is disrupted by the jarring smell of trampled grass and hay mixed with traces of manure. I make a face.
At the top, the pathway of steppingstones leads into a thigh-high fence separating the hillside from the overgrown front lawn. From what I can see, which isn’t much, the grass sprawls in wild disarray. Clumps of dandelions are scattered throughout the yard, and the raised wooden flowerbeds are now overrun with wayward weeds and foxtail grasses, spilling over the sides and into the grass.
I can imagine it, though, what it looked like when properly maintained.
Noah unlocks the gate, and we step through, following what used to be another stone pathway that’s now sunken into the ground where grass has claimed it. Three steps lead to the porch, which wraps snugly around the small house, and I realize it’s elevated on thick stilts, perched on the hillside and overlooking below. I can’t see the rolling expanse.
I shuffle my backpack to my left shoulder, uneasy as Noah opens the weathered front door and pokes his head in. “Mom?” he says, continuing inside and then holding it open for me.
The kitchen meets me to the left as we enter, the older cabinets a cardboard brown color, and the countertops in desperate need of updating. A petite window looks out over the front lawn from the sink, and directly across from that is the refrigerator. A circular table with four chipped Windsor chairstucked around it sits off to the side, a plastic tablecloth full of sunflowers spread over the top.
“Mom?” Noah says again. He props a hand on one of the chairs and kicks his boots off, placing them on a black weathered mat near the front door. I follow suit, lining mine next to his as the squeaky wheel of Ms. Sullivan’s oxygen tank comes around the corner.
“Damn it, Noah. Was starting to get worried about you. Are you okay?” she asks, shuffling over to offer him a weak slap to his biceps. Her expression falters when she notices me beside him.
Her dark circles are even more apparent this evening, the purple sagging over her cheekbones. She has on a plain white T-shirt, the hem hanging past her thighs, and baggy jeans swallowing her thin legs. What surprises me, and makes me internally grin, are the fuzzy yellow socks on her feet with the repeating image of a middle finger.
“I’m sorry. Morgan called and needed a ride home. We ran into Lily on the way at the gas station. Luckily, we were there because her car wouldn’t start.” Noah doesn’t mention his newly acquired knowledge about me not having a place to stay, or the fact I’m living out of my car.
I step forward, as if this may be my cue to say something, but I don’t know what I should say—it’s rather awkward. Of course, Ms. Sullivan doesn’t even hesitate before she grabs for my hand to usher me into the living room.
It’s a smaller space with shaggy carpet and a rickety recliner. An old TV with antennas sits on top of a peeling console. Plus, the loveseat has a floral pattern that screams,I was designed in the ’80s!
This entire house is the opposite my parents’. They’d renovated an old plantation in Ruin, Mississippi, before I was born and kept updating a room every year. The property mimics an estate with lush gardens and giant magnolias. Columns,planters filled with ferns, and potted flowers spill out onto the front porch, woven between composite rockers. It’s grand, opulent even.
I know how it looks to the outside world, to my parents’ friends back home. Spoiled daughter runs away from a life full of bonfires, farmer’s markets, charming Southern parties, and droves of friends. My mother mentioned in one of her famous emails that she and my father were the subject of nefarious rumors. Why would the youngest Parker run away from such a good life?
What my mother can’t comprehend is that it wasn’t about her at all. That it’s not about the wealth or treasure you can collect. Those things can’t shield you from the darkness lurking at the edge of your soul. You cannot buy your way out when evil stirs—money doesn’t thwart the shadows that thrive in quiet corners. In fact, I’d argue it’s a beacon for it.
This house hasn’t been updated or blanketed with outlandish wallpaper of twigs or birds. Its simple cream walls and modest furniture are friendly and inviting, and I wonder if Noah grew up here, or if this was where his mother downsized to when she was diagnosed.
My thoughts get interrupted when Ms. Sullivan dips her head toward the tacky couch, and I sit, examining the pattern on either side of me.
“It looks like shit,” Ms. Sullivan says. “But it’s comfortable and was cheap. Noah took his first steps toward that couch when he was only thirteen months old. I don’t have the heart to part with it.”
“I get it,” I say.
She shuffles over toward the recliner, a Minky Blanket spread over the headrest, and turns slowly, careful not to twist her oxygen tubing before she bends to sit.
Her movement reminds me of my great grandparents in their nineties when they were alive. She’s clearly not that old, but she’s weak, fragile.
My eyes soften as she struggles into the seat, and I’m not sure if it would come across condescending if I offered to help her or not, so I remain quiet. Although, I can’t help the down-turned corner of my mouth watching her discomfort.
“Now don’t you go giving me that look. I’ve had one too many people look at me with pity. Those silent unspoken sympathy looks, like they feel bad for my unfortunate circumstances. I don’t need that from you, too.” Her tone is stern and snippy, and I quickly wipe the expression off my face.
Instead, I follow her wrinkled blue jeans down to her socks, and smile. “What are you talking about? I was just admiring your socks.”
She grins.
