“No problem.”
Sylvie got to her feet and looked like she wanted to hug me, too, but if she did, I’d surely cry. So, I retreated and went back to the room I was making before. There, by the window facing the lawn, I let a single sob out, took a deep breath, gave free rein to a few tears to run down my cheeks before I wiped them, rearranged my big-girl pants, and went to pack my suitcase.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“No, Mom, everything is fine. Really.” I must have slurred the words because I wasn’t paying attention to the phone at that moment. I had reached Oliver’s street in Wayford and was driving my car slowly toward the house, trying to gauge if there was anyone there.
I didn’t mean to be here, but with my suitcase in Pretty’s trunk and a free morning to move, I thought I might just drive by and decide then, postponing the decision by an hour. I had called my mom, promising myself I’d tell her the truth and ask her if she thought there was room for me at Tammy’s. I didn’t want to call June unless I had to. Didn’t want to give her one more reason to silently crown me as a failure. My older sister and I were complete opposites. Where my life fell apart time and again, hers was managed as if she had an instruction manual.
Hearing my mom’s voice, as well as the noise of Tammy’s household in the background, told me that I couldn’t dump this concern on my mom and that there was no way I could ask Tammy to live with them. Oh, she’d let me, but I’d feel terrible crowding an already overly crowded house. My mom would probably insist on giving me her modest pension, which I had fought for her to have, and there was no way I was going to take it.
I stopped Pretty by the mailbox that faced the large, ornamented front door. The full mailbox was one sign that there was no one there. The other sign was the palpable desolate energy that empty houses emitted.
I hated what I was about to do but felt like I had no other choice, promising myself that even if I did go for it, I would clear out in a few days. All I needed was time and space to think, to come up with a solution, or muster the courage to call June.
I parked at the back and climbed out. The sand and waves of the beach beyond the house smiled under the early spring cold sun and blue skies.
Feeling like a thief, I edged toward the back door, unable to bring myself to go in through the front like an invited guest. It felt less official if I came in through the back. It felt familiar. Like going to work there, as I had done a few days ago. As I had done in the past in other houses.
I knew it was all a smokescreen I was putting up for myself, but I needed to protect my pride and conscience somehow.
Once inside, I disarmed the alarm with Oliver’s birthdate then crossed the kitchen to the main hall. Grave silence welcomed me.
When my mom had entered all those big houses to clean, she would immediately open all the windows, even in winter, and turn on the radio to cheer up the place. In later years, she had worked with earphones, listening to music as she mopped floors and scrubbed toilets.
I went upstairs, feeling like an intruder, despite Oliver’s insistence that I’d come.
The second story was just as vast and beautiful.
“Don’t be too impressed with all this,” my mom used to tell us. “Money is great, but it doesn’t necessarily mean happiness. And it has a stench. Those who have it will always recognize each other by it and know that you don’t have it and will look down on you.” She had upgraded us to study in Wayford but kept reminding us with her philosophies that we didn’t really belong. As if we could forget with the kids always reminding us.
A few rooms looked like no one had ever occupied them, even though they were fully furnished. The only room that seemed like someone had used it was the master bedroom.
I walked in. Stupidly, I took a deep breath, as if I were trying to trace Oliver in here.
I drifted toward the large floor-to-ceiling French window that opened to a balcony. I stepped outside. The ocean lay so close that it felt as if it were at my feet. A downward path led from the garden gate toward the beach.
Behind me, the décor looked foreign. European maybe? I thought of Oliver’s life that had always been split between countries and continents.
After the duck incident, the next time I had seen Oliver was in junior high. My mother had told me that he had lived with his aunt on and off for years.
In junior high, my mother had used her work connections to get us into Wayford schools. She had thought we’d get better education there and wanted us to make friends but warned us from getting too involved. Not that she had to worry about it—both June and I were considered outsiders, and the friendships we had made were utilitarian, at best. We couldn’t reciprocate invitations and have these kids visit us at home without fear of being ridiculed. We didn’t have the same clothes, and we didn’t have stories about ski vacations or summer retreats. Besides, our mom cleaned a few of the kids’ homes and was part of the school’s cleaning staff. She worked twelve hours a day most days, keeping us above qualifying for Social Services help.
When Oliver returned for the eighth grade, he looked different, all grown up. A tall, beautiful boy who at first spoke with a little, indistinct accent.
We didn’t have the same classes. When we spotted each other for the first time, it was obvious we recognized one another, and then whenever we passed by each other in the halls, we exchanged a private little smile of recognition. Neither one of us revealed where we knew the other from.
“You’re here now?” he had addressed me in a whisper when we found ourselves seated next to each other in a school play one day.
“Yes, my mom got us in. Were you in Sweden all this time?”
“Not all the time, but the last couple of years, yes,” he whispered.
“Must be cool.”
“Sweden is, Swedes are, my aunt isn’t,” he replied, gazing ahead at the production ofCharlotte’s Webon the stage.
“Stockholm?” I whispered, proud of my geography knowledge.
