The car slowly rolls to a stop and I take my earbuds out of my ears. I lean up to look out of the car window, careful not to hit my arm on anything. My eyes widen at the size and beauty of their house located towards the end of Stafford Lane. The street name itself tells you everything you need to know about the houses situated along it. Their house is Victorian style, complete with three stories and an unfinished basement, many windows to let natural light inside, and a large wrap-around porch. The house is a combination of jade green wood siding and ivory stone, modernized but including Second Empire or Romanesque influences. It was built in 1907, so I have heard, but they have done quite a bit of updating while still keeping the antique styles throughout the house. The neighborhood is quaint and composed of similar styles of houses with older couples as their residents, either retired or absent of children. Their yards are well-maintained and I suspected that there were professional gardening and landscaping services that visit quite often.
I jump as a figure appears by my door and opens it for me. "Oh. Sorry," my uncle apologizes when he notices me flinch, suppressing a laugh under his breath. The afternoon air brushes a dark hair across my cheek and I use my fingertips to pull it away. It was a cool breeze and the sky is a mixture of hues of grey and blue, a sign that rain was close to creeping in.
"It's fine," I tell him as I wave it off stupidly and grab my cracked phone I had dropped onto the seat between my thighs. "Nice house," I compliment shyly as he helps me out of the seat. My eyes linger to the sidewalk that leads to the wooden stairs connected to the porch, and I can’t help but appreciate the collection of plants and perennial flowers that my aunt had placed in the front flower beds over this past spring that were beginning to wilt and shrink, ready to hibernate until next year.
"Thank you," I say as he pulls my crutches out of the backseat of the car and hands them to me. I scan my surroundings as he heads toward the back of the car to get my bags out of the trunk. Unlike home, it's lacking a peep of traffic. No road ragers flipping the bird at someone stealing their parking spot. No semis blaring their horns at oblivious drivers cutting them off. No children kicking a ball in their yard or arguing about cheating in their fun game of hide and seek. Nothing.
"It is amazing, isn't it?" my aunt’s voice chimes over the silence as she grabs her peach Kate Spade purse from the passenger seat and lifts its strap onto her shoulder. "We bought it about three years ago. It wasn't cheap and the work we had to put into it was exhausting, but it was well worth it." I nod uncomfortably and wrap my arms around myself, my cardigan barely keeping me warm from the October breeze, as she walks past me to help my uncle with my bags.
My uncle closes the lid to the trunk and gestures toward the house. "Shall we?"
I place my crutches under my armpits and follow them to the front door, my underarms sore from using them so much. My leg is healing little by little, but I cannot bear weight on it just yet. The only two people that had signed my cast were my aunt and uncle, insisting that the gesture was to bring me good luck. I don’t consider myself lucky.
A slight movement catches my eye and I turn my head to see the neighbor trimming his hedges by the six foot wrought iron fence that separates their yards.
"Hello, George," my aunt hollers to him and waves as she catches my gaze. The man stands up straight, smiles, and waves back with his hand that is still gripping his shears. He's an elderly man, pretty tall and seemingly wise, and looks as if his entire life had been dedicated to hard labor.
“Good afternoon, Sherry,” he calls to my aunt and tips his navy blue baseball cap towards her. Although he is working outside on his shrubs, he is dressed neatly in a buttoned up collared blue shirt and a pair of jeans that do not have a stain visible on the fabric. “Who is this young lady?”
“This is my niece, Kristen. She’s going to be staying with us for awhile. Kristen, this is Mr. George Baker,” Sherry informs him and turns to me, waiting for me to greet him.
I remove a hand away from a crutch and wave back to him kindly while shyly muttering, “Nice to meet you,” but my aunt’s words replay like the chorus of a song that gets stuck in your head. She’s going to be staying with us for awhile. It's an understatement, but I know my aunt refrains from speaking about the situation in my presence in fear that it would upset me.
Mr. Baker’s voice cuts through my daze and I snap my head towards him as he speaks again. “What happened to your leg?” he asks innocently, his hand gesturing towards my white cast that conceals the surgical incisions lining my tibia.
There is an awkward silence as I glance down at my leg, shifting my weight on my crutches to support my balance. Sherry stares in my direction, seemingly unsure if she should answer for me or debating whether to let me answer for myself. I fake a smile and tilt my chin upward to find Mr. Baker staring at me expectantly. “Car accident. Broke my leg,” I answer him quickly. I see my aunt and uncle nod in agreement, content with whatever answer I provide.
Mr. Baker flashes me a sad grin and nods as well. “Must have been a bad wreck,” he confirms. “I hope it heals quickly for you, though.”
Sherry and Mark echo my response as I thank him, and Mr. Baker leans down and gets back to work. Smiling slightly to dismiss my thoughts running through my mind, I turn back around to my aunt and uncle and follow them to the front steps of their house.
Mark struggles with inserting the key to the front door, jiggling it around impatiently as Sherry holds back the itch to tap her foot on the wood boards of the porch. Finally, we hear the door locks click and Mark turns the knob before pushing on the door, letting it swing open carelessly as he returns to my bags and carries them inside. My aunt gestures for me to go ahead and I follow him inside, and I pause to watch my aunt carry the last purple duffel bag into the foyer. The heavy door closes behind her and I gaze around the foyer.
Surprisingly, the house looks newer on the inside than the outside. The presumed old, wood walls look to have been replaced with a couple coats of a light blue color, almost white. A chandelier hangs overhead, lighting up the windowless room. The hardwood floors seem to be refinished. The foyer goes straight back into a hallway, probably leading to the kitchen. About mid-hallway is a staircase with a wooden banister attached to the side leading up to the second floor. I look off to my right to see a magnificent living room. The walls are an off-white shade, almost a light and airy yellow. A white stone fireplace sits on the other side of the room with a wooden coffee table and a cream colored couch in front. The chair sitting by the adjacent wall is a light blue with bumblebee yellow, white, and baby blue paisley patterned decorative pillows. The floors are dark, same as the foyer, but covered with a less vibrant patterned area rug. Three large bookshelves cover the back wall, longing for me to read their many books. I turn to my aunt and uncle who look as if their lives depend on whether I like their house or not. I give them a slight smile and my eager aunt claps her hands in delight.
"Would you like to see the kitchen and dining room?" she asks me. I nod as an answer. This feels so strange. I just met them a couple days ago and now I have to live with them. Granted, I did know them up until like five years old, but who could remember that at five years old? They're nice people, thankfully, but this can't be completely normal and I can't just admit that everything is fine. I try to convince myself that for the sake of my own sanity.
"And this is the kitchen," my aunt announces with her arms wide open and I snap out of my thoughts. I hadn't even paid attention enough to realize we had walked here from the living room. I look around at the light green walls that were similar in shade to the exterior of the house, the ivory white cabinets, and the granite countertops that were white with specks of brown to match the wooden floors. In the middle was an island with white wood bar stools against it. I, again, nodded my head, not knowing what to say.
My aunt's smile slowly diminishes and I feel guilty until she speaks with much kindness. "Oh, honey. I'm sorry. You probably want to get settled in and rest awhile, don't you? Here, let's take you up to your room," she says and I smile and agree with her.
I watch as she adjusts the strap of my duffel bag across her right shoulder and places her purse on the island in the kitchen. "Yeah, sorry. It was a long car ride and I really just want to lie down and relax for a little bit," I lie. All I did was "rest" in the hospital, but I can't anymore. It's impossible.
Mark makes the 'pfft' sound and pushes his glasses higher on his nose. "No need to apologize. We perfectly understand, given what has happened-"
My aunt nudges his arm with her elbow, and he immediately freezes. They try to avoid mentioning it as if it's some kind of secret, but I know that may only make moving on harder for me. "It's fine," I tell them once again and shake my head. My uncle changes the subject instantly and leads us to the staircase in the hallway after grabbing my bags that he had set down in the foyer. I insist on carrying at least one, which happens to be my black leather bag with shoulder straps attached that holds my sketchbook and other items. I don't like to go anywhere without it. My friends back at home knew how much my sketches meant to me, and it had become part of my identity.
To be honest, the stairs are definitely difficult to hobble up, so I have a feeling I will be staying upstairs for the majority of the time I have my cast on. "This house has four bathrooms. One of which will be your own," my uncle continues as we lug the bags up the stairs. My aunt stays behind me at all times, and I catch glimpses of her keeping her hands up in front of her near my back, even though I know I won’t fall. "There are three bedrooms. One for us, one for guests, and one for you." I notice that he doesn't refer to me as a guest but rather as someone who truly lives here, and it seems surreal. I'd like to think I will only be here for about a year, just until I turn eighteen, but it really depends if I'm able to make it on my own. We had agreed that I would go to the Maryland Institute College of Art, but if I can't make the money on my own to go and stay back at home, that dream may be crushed. Although it’s appreciated, I don't want to depend on these people who I barely know to give me all of that.
We reach the top of the stairs and I look around to see that many of the doors to different rooms are closed. The hallway is narrow and decorated with wood paneling on the bottom half and the same light blue eggshell paint from the first floor on the top half. There were three framed paintings amongst the decor hanging on the tunnel of a hallway, and I stop to analyze the first one. It’s a mixture of beautiful colors that complement one another, a bridge between abstract buildings, a canal flowing underneath, and lavish trees surrounding the twinkling water. “Artis Brugge,” I comment simply, my eyes still observing the array of colors.
A smile appears on my aunt’s face and she meets up next to me to look at the painting. “Yes,” she confirms, “Mark and I visited Belgium three years ago and when I saw these prints being sold, I knew I instantly had to buy them. You really have an eye for art, don’t you?”
I clutch the strap of my bag that holds my sketchbook and nod. “I love art,” I tell her. “I used to win a bunch of awards back at my school during the art fairs.”
Sherry touches my shoulder and gently squeezes it, but I keep my eyes on the framework around the piece of art. “Maybe your new school will have an art class you can join. Won’t that be fun?”
I nod slightly and fake a twitch in my lips, but I mentally sigh as the words “new school” roll off of her tongue so easily, a phrase that was impossible for me to say without feeling like I downed a shot of bourbon. I wanted to stay at my old school, but the court thought that it was in my best interest to reside with my closest, yet not so close, family members rather than staying with my friend whose parents were more than willing to let me call their house my new home.
My aunt points to a cherry wood door toward the end of the hallway past the other set of stairs that lead to the third floor. "That one is yours," she states and I turn my head on my shoulders to find where she is pointing. I look back to them for a moment before slowly walking up to the door and grabbing the knob. They both urge me to go in, so I slowly open the door and peek my head into it, revealing a gorgeous room with royal blue walls and a grand bed with a blue and white chevron comforter. There is a desk situated under the large window that provides enough lighting in the room to be free of lamps during the daytime, and I smile to myself, thinking that it would be a great spot to draw in my sketchbook. The dresser and bookcase are both dark wood and a flat screen T.V. sits in the corner on a separate stand with a Playstation 4 connected to it. I don’t play many video games, but I can tell they are trying their best to make me comfortable.
I spin around to my aunt and uncle, noticing Sherry covering her mouth and nose with her hands in anticipation and hiding her beaming smile. "I like it," I tell them and nod while looking around.
"Well, you said you liked blue, so we made some accommodations," my aunt says.
"You didn't have to do that," I state, feeling guilty that they would put this much effort into my room for me.
"Don't be silly," my aunt excuses. "You're going to be staying with us for awhile. Might as well give you a room you actually like." They walk past me and place two of the bags on the cushioned bed and my aunt places the last bag on a grey papasan chair across the room. "Do you need any help unpacking?" she offers, turning to face me.
"I think I can manage," I reply, trying not to sound rude or ungrateful for the offer.
Unexpectedly, my aunt walks up to me, clicking her heels on the hard floor, and wraps me in a hug. My eyes widen at the sudden embrace and I stumble due to my use of crutches out of surprise, but I quickly recover and awkwardly hug her back slowly. I think my uncle notices how awkward this is for me, so he holds off on joining in and places his hands in his pockets.
My aunt releases her grip and she seems as happy as the first time she saw me days ago. "Okay. We will be downstairs most of the evening. I'll come and get you for dinner, but for now, I'll let you be. Our room is right across from yours if you need anything at all." I nod as a response and watch her join her husband by the door. "Oh yeah," she calls, catching my attention as she spins around on one of her heels. She starts off her sentence carefully, but she speeds up her pace with each following word. "Are you willing to go to school on Monday? Because if you don't think you can right away, you don't-"
"I'll go," I interrupt and set my crutches off to the side so they are leaning against the bed, then I begin to take my cardigan off.
"Are you sure?" Mark replies, giving Sherry a scolding glance. I can tell that Mark is less willing to push me to move on, whereas my aunt believes it is best for me to take my mind off of it.
"Positive," I confirm as I throw my cardigan on my bed. I curse at myself silently, wondering if the simple act of tossing my clothes on my own bed would drive my aunt crazy, seeing as how their entire house is immaculately clean and organized. My fingers find themselves reaching for the cardigan across my bed and placing it back onto my lap, but my aunt refrained from drawing attention to it. They soon leave the room after repeating reassurances about how they hope I settle in well and I finally sigh audibly, ready to take a shower for the first time in two days.
Unzipping my maroon suitcase, I retrieve a pink t-shirt and a pair of floral pajama pants before finding my way to the attached full size bathroom, hobbling on one leg. The bathroom is just as beautiful as the rest of the house, decorated with similar colors as the bedroom, but with lighter blues integrated throughout. The shower curtain encompasses an imperial trellis design that fades from grey to light blue, and there is a vase of seashells on the white, marble counter. The towel racks are equipped with matching Egyptian cotton bath towels, and the walls are a simple shark grey shade.
I pull back the curtain with one hand and steady myself on the edge of the bathtub before I switch the water on, occasionally checking the temperature with my bare finger. I change out of my clothes as I sit on the edge of the tub, and I momentarily forget about my cast and bandage, but I end up finding some plastic bags under the sink that are presumably supposed to be used for the small trash can next to the toilet, and I use them to cover my cast and arm. I rip open one end of the white bag and easily pull the bag over my cast, and I tuck the ends into the cast before carefully pulling off the bandage around my arm. I wrap another bag around the arm with the stitches using my other arm. I hold the end of the bag with my bruised hand and slowly step into the shower, letting the steaming water hit my backside first. The warm water begins to relax my muscles as it cascades down my back and I sigh in relief. I look down to examine my stitches over the deep cut that is slowly healing, only to be haunted by my memories.
Later that night, I provide the excuse that I'm feeling sick to avoid coming down for dinner. Instead, I drag myself into bed, the heavy comforter drowning me in comfort, and I cry myself to sleep.
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