Blue Read online

  I lingered at the edge of the property until he was out of sight, and I was alone with my thoughts. Those days, it was a scary place if I couldn’t focus elsewhere. It was quiet. Too quiet. My ears tried to pick up on the most minute noises, but the wind was suddenly absent and the sound of booming waves in the distance was non-existent. There was nothing. Steele Falls was as shocked as I was with my arrival. The town hushed in anticipation of my next move.

  So much time had gone by since I’d walked up the narrow porch of my childhood. Past moments tried to suffocate me as I fought to tread water, their invisible weight crashing against my chest like massive waves, pushing and pulling. It all culminated so fast in that moment. I felt myself sinking, drowning.

  A seagull flew overhead and screeched out its signature high-pitched sound. For some unknown reason, that one stupid cry was enough to push me over the edge. It was all too much. Fast Eddie. Beanbag. The house. A fucking bird. I spun around and headed toward the sidewalk, ready to never look back. Ever. Coming to Steele Falls was a dumb decision. Going back home to Sacramento was the safer option, even if I had to figure out how to get to California without any money. Hitchhiking was a more harmless bet than sticking around. I couldn’t be convinced otherwise…until three seconds later.

  The front door creaked, causing the hinges to squeal. I’d always thought it sounded like a tinny version of “Shave and a Haircut”. Two years had gone by, and no one had sprayed the damn thing with WD40 still. The flimsy metal screen door flew open and then slapped shut. I froze in my tracks, turning around slowly. But I was too late. There was no running away.

  “Mommy, I think I heard your mailman! This is the latest he’s been yet,” a female voice said. “It’s nearly seven o’clock. Maybe he’s afraid of the neighbor. I mean, I know he said he improved the post both of your guys’ mailboxes are on, but he assured me he didn’t booby trap it again. I’m not sure if I was relieved or concerned when he told me.”

  My grip tightened on the suitcase handle. I didn’t have to look to know my knuckles were white. It had been so long since I’d seen my sister. There it was, all coming to a head and outside of my control, speeding toward me like a freight train. I stood on the proverbial tracks and could do nothing but stare at the bright, oncoming light.

  A young woman appeared on the porch. She was barely into her early twenties. Daveigh was thinner than I remembered, almost skeletal. Her wealth of dark hair hung down to the middle of her back and was styled in a sloppy braid. I couldn’t remember a time when I’d seen it that long. Loose waves framed her dainty face, wisps dancing in the breeze. She wore faded blue jeans with frayed holes in the knees and an oversized sweatshirt that said, “Fries Before Guys” on it. The soles of her flip flops smacked against her feet as she walked down the top few stairs before pausing to look out at the ocean.

  I watched in silence. She wasn’t the sister I was used to seeing in form-fitting tops, mini-skirts, and expensive high heels. The fashionista and trendy sister had been replaced by someone far more subdued. After being gone, I guess I expected her to not change either, similar to the scenery around me. Like I assumed time had stopped when I left.

  “Hey, ‘Veigh,” I said quietly, announcing my presence.

  She froze. Her puffy-eyed gaze panned over to me slowly and her jaw fell. A wad of tissue was balled in her left hand. It fell to the ground, quickly forgotten. “Shit. Blue? You…you came?” She continued down the steps and fumbled for the railing while not taking her eyes off me. The little bit of color in her cheeks drained, making her complexion whiten further.

  I remained still, afraid to move, unsure of how my visit would be received by anyone. Would they hate me? Would they welcome me? Would they even recognize me?

  She stopped a couple of feet away from where I stood. “I’m afraid to blink. What if you disappear?”

  Her point was valid, but I tried to soften the blow with humor. “Pretty sure I don’t know a magic trick for that.” Although I secretly wished I did.

  She reached out with her right hand and pulled back, her chest hitching. A combination of fear and tears filled her eyes. With a deep breath, she touched my face, the pads of her fingers tracing my cheek down to my chin. “God, it sounds like you, looks like you, and feels like you.” A faint smile crept across her face as the childish giggle I remembered so well escaped her. “It’s really true.” With brute force, she leapt forward and hugged me.

  “It’s me,” I croaked as she crushed me against her.

  “I can’t believe it. You’re really here.”

  I nodded, which was all I could muster with my internal organs and ribs being smashed into the same space.

  She pulled back and her tone morphed from loving to reprimanding. “Where the hell have you been?” She flicked me on the ear. Hard.

  “Ouch!” I instinctively moved my hand to protect myself. “Jeez, ‘Veigh. We’re not eleven anymore.”

  “Yeah, well you sure know how to piss me off.”

  “Noted.” I glared at her.

  “I don’t know whether I should be happy you’re here or if I should yell at you for what you did to me, to us.”

  “I—”

  She crossed her arms. “Where are you staying? Why is your car not in the driveway? Did you get a cab? I’ve asked for your address. Why don’t I ever get a response? You’ve changed your phone number, but it’s like an act of Congress getting a hold of you. Why? Give me some answers to work with here.”

  I closed my eyes. “Can we not do this right now?”

  “Sure. I mean, it’s only been two years. What’s another hour or three?”

  A welcome distraction caught my ear. The spotlight was taken off me for a moment, and I could breathe again. Classical music intensified that I hadn’t noticed moments ago. The robust song was punctuated with repeated crashing of cymbals. I looked around to determine where it came from. No people and no orchestra were in sight. “What’s that?”

  “That?” She nodded toward the neighbor’s house. “It’s just Ralph.” Daveigh shook her head.

  “Ralph is still alive?” My eyes widened as my jaw went slack. “Isn’t he like ninety now?”

  “I think he’s in his seventies, Blue. I know some time has passed since you’ve been gone, but let’s not get carried away.”

  “And he’s still the same? Like wandering-down-the-street-in-his-brown-bathrobe-type same?”

  “Same old. Same old.”

  Old was right.

  I looked across the street. Ralph’s home was heavily distressed from the sea air, and it hadn’t gotten any better since I’d left. To put it politely, he wasn’t Mr. DIY. At all. Once lemony yellow, the paint had turned to a deep shade of Dijon with a hint of mossy green around the edges. A solid layer of the same avocado hue coated the roof. The once-white trim had died off to a sickly gray. The patchy grass tainted to a pale tan. It was similar to a box of sad crayons that needed anti-depressants. The color-challenged setting was masked with thorny bushes that’d taken over his front porch, half-covering his front door from view. I’d once joked it was the old man’s security system.

  There was one detail I remembered about Ralph that stood out above all others. He was some kind of weird animal whisperer. Well, there was that and the black layer of dirt residing inside his ears. I never did figure out how it got there or why it didn’t disappear when he showered. More so, the animal thing though. Personally, I’d thought he’d found a way to channel Snow White. Ralph was well-known for letting small creatures into his garage, or house, to snack on bags of birdseed or peanuts. It backfired more often than not by inviting unwanted wildlife into the entire neighborhood. Deer. Frogs. Skunks Mice. Rats. Squirrels. Even a rogue coyote showed up once. There was a series of gunshots that day. I didn’t ask what happened, and he didn’t tell.

  The trees at the edge of hi
s property were overgrown, weighted branches looming like massive jungle vines over the drive. It was his own private fortress though, and he was good at keeping to himself most of the time. Through the ropy veil of creepers, you could still make out what happened in the background. On the left, a faded tarp half-covered a few hundred birdhouses he’d spend his days building throughout the year. That whole idle hands, idle mind thing. On that particular day, the doors of his little, blue sports car and the trunk were open wide. Another classical tune commenced from a small boom box on a sawhorse.

  “What’s he doing this time?” I whispered.

  She took a step toward me and quieted. “Rumor was going around town there’d been a string of robberies between here and Ocean Shores. All residential. Ralph is convinced he can catch the guy. Everyone’s already explained to him they arrested the dude three days ago. But Ralph thinks it’s some kind of conspiracy theory and doesn’t believe it.”

  “Sooo…he set a trap? He’s luring said non-existent burglar to burgle him?” It took me a minute to replay the words in my head to determine if what I said made sense. “Does he remember he’s not a cop? Someone’s going to get hurt.”

  She shrugged and glanced up at a nearby tree where leaves rustled. The heel of a brown loafer and an argyle sock was in view as Ralph lost footing on the branch and then regained it quickly on a nub of the trunk. “Some things never change.”

  “How long’s he been up there?” I looked upward.

  “Since around lunchtime. So, six hours? Maybe seven.”

  I sighed. “And let me guess, he’s got his .45, waiting for the chance to shoot?”

  “It’s like you never left,” she said sarcastically. “Last week, I caught him in the backyard eating those weird winter berries off the bushes while wearing that yellow rain suit of his.”

  “The one that makes him look like the guy on the fish stick box?”

  “That’s the one,” she replied. “And he ate all of them. He must’ve had the shits for days.”

  “Did anyone say anything to him?” I asked.

  “Come on. It’s Ralph. You know damn well no one’s gonna stop him.” She rolled her eyes. “I watched through the window and ducked when I thought he saw me.”

  Ralph had been our neighbor for as long as I could remember and then longer. He was one of few who’d made a permanent fixture of himself in Steele Falls. If I had to describe him, I’d say he was full of piss and vinegar. Oh! And bison grass vodka. I should know. He brought me a bottle as a gift when I was fourteen. A couple of shots had been consumed, but he’d taken careful measure to use a piece of electrical tape, affixing the lid shut again before gifting it to me. Totally thoughtful, considering he’d given alcohol to a minor. He meant well; he truly did. When I sprained my ankle? He brought his old spider web-infested walking boot from the bowels of his garage that would’ve gone up to my hip. When the basement flooded while my parents were out of town? He showed up with sandbags to help clean up the mess. It was just so difficult defending most of his actions to anyone else while sounding sane.

  “I’m not sure I want to see how this one ends,” I said. “Where’s the momster?”

  “I really wish you wouldn’t call her that anymore.”

  “Old habits die hard. ‘Mom’ and ‘monster’ is a perfect combination for her.” I adjusted my tote bag up higher on my shoulder. “You know it’s true, ‘Veigh.”

  “I’m not getting in the middle of your squabbles.”

  “We’re talking about the woman who threw me a birthday party when I was four.”

  “That bitch!” Daveigh’s tone was laced with mockery.

  “You were too young to remember, but I had strep throat. Rather than disappoint all the other kids, she let her own spawn down and had the party. But she confined me to my room like a prisoner. Momster assured me she’d at least save me a cupcake.” I paused. “Later that night, I snuck downstairs and caught her and Tom eating the last two. The next day, she told me some cookie monster broke in and ate them. So, momster was born.”

  “We’ll find you a good therapist while you’re here.” She sighed. “Mommy’s in the house. Let’s go. I can’t guarantee how warm your welcome will be though. I mean, you’ve been gone almost two years. A phone call, postcard, or a holiday fruitcake would’ve been nice. Something. Anything.”

  I didn’t respond to her chastising words. Being a diary and spilling the details about everything that’d happened wasn’t up for discussion. Talking about the time I’d been gone would have to wait, maybe for eternity. I’d been standing on the driveway for five minutes, and my baby sister had already served me with a round of twenty questions. In return, I’d lobbed back zero answers. It made me wonder if she’d held any topics back for later.

  I walked up the porch with my luggage in tow, the wheels of my suitcase methodically clunking against the edge of each concrete step as I ascended. Flakes of paint from the railing broke free under my touch. The welcome mat was as uninviting as ever, not making me feel any more at home. Shit was about to get real. I grabbed the handle of the screen door with clammy hands, hesitating.

  “Go on,” Daveigh said quietly. “She’s not gonna bite.”

  “Says you. You’re the golden child who can do no wrong,” I muttered.

  “Yeah, well I’m not the one who went MIA. Remember?”

  “Trust me. I recall more than I’d like.”

  She sat down on the porch swing and kicked off her flip flops, crossing her ankles.

  I did a double take. “Wait. Aren’t you coming inside?”

  “I think I’ll wait out here for a few minutes to see how everything goes first.”

  “Chicken.”

  Like ripping off a bandage, I gave the door a swift tug and walked through the doorway. It amazed me how much I’d forgotten, and how quickly it came rushing back. The smell was first to sock me in the stomach, sending a wave of nostalgia through my gut to contend with the brick wall from earlier in the day. It was a spicy combination of cinnamon and cloves that burned your sinuses if you weren’t accustomed to it. Anyone who visited, a rarity, joked it was year ‘round autumn at the Meyer’s house.

  I made my way through the darkened living room. Nothing had moved. The same hideous afghan was laid out over the back of the couch. It was a horrible mess of olive green and beige displayed atop the protective slip cover. A wooden cuckoo clock I hated, complete with pine cone pendulum, still swung from side-to-side. Pictures adorned the mantle and end tables, mostly of my mother at various ribbon-cutting ceremonies and political rallies. A few of the smaller frames displayed images of Daveigh and my brother, Finn. As I scanned the room, I didn’t see a single picture of me. Anywhere.

  A voice from the kitchen stopped me from taking additional inventory of the living room. It was stern, forceful, and full of authority. But it was clear the words weren’t directed at me. With wobbly steps, I made my way to the rounded entryway and stopped.

  Across the room, I saw my mother. She stood, facing a wall calendar with a pen in one hand, the other gesturing wildly while she spoke on a corded phone pinned between her neck and shoulder. The few strands of gray hair I’d remembered her pulling had turned to prominent streaks. I recalled how she’d vowed to never become a “silver vixen” as she’d deemed it. Times had changed. She paced a few feet, back and forth. The red cord circled her body with her movements as she fought to constantly unwind it.

  “I don’t care what it costs or if the other one is discounted. Besides, it’s the coffin we both decided on. Stop trying to talk me out of it, Harold. I’m not going to budge.”

  A pause.

  “Yes, I understand it’s for a dead body.”

  A second pause.

  “Yes, I also understand he won’t know the difference, but I will.”

  A third pause.
<
br />   “There’s no alternative on the table for discussion. Zero. Got it?”

  The voice on the other end of the phone sounded frazzled as he stuttered, and I could sense his nervousness even from where I stood across the room.

  “No, we decided on calla lilies for Wednesday. It’s a funeral staple and symbolic.”

  This time, I was unable to hear his reply.

  “I don’t know why it’s symbolic. It just is. Some crap about the soul departing and innocence being restored. Go Google it.”

  A fourth pause.

  “I don’t care how much it’ll cost to get the death flowers to Steele Falls mid-October. Make it happen!”

  Harold’s garbled response was meek.

  “Do you not listen to a word I say? Clean out your ears. Look, I don’t have time for—” She spun around and saw me.

  Terror set in.

  The phone fell a few inches away from her ear as she assessed my face. “I’ve got to go.” She ended the call without looking down at the receiver, fumbling to place it back on the wall cradle.

  We stared at one another for what felt like minutes.

  “Hi, Mom,” I finally said.

  The ticking of that horrid cuckoo clock and my breathing were the only sounds in the room, both resounding.

  “Blue.” She pursed her lips in a thin, straight line as she let a deep breath out through her nose. There was no emotion in her voice. There was no softening behind her eyes when she saw me, her own daughter. There was no adjustment in her posture. Utter stillness. She’d dealt me her signature poker face, and it was the game she’d taught me to play so damn well.

  I really wasn’t sure what I’d expected. In my head, the scenario played out a thousand different ways. My exit stunt sealed the deal that a warm welcome wasn’t in the cards for me. There was no one to blame but myself. The day that woman gave me a warm hug, offered me a cup of hot chocolate while we talked in front of the fire, or even a two-second smile would be the same day hell froze over.