CHAPTER 1
"This is it." My dad swoops his car into the long, gravel driveway of our new house and shuts off the ignition. "This is home."
"It's purple," I comment, staring up at the building. Lavender, to be precise.
"Yeah, I forgot to mention that."
We've been in the car for hours, making the trek from Indiana to Illinois. I undo my seatbelt and step out beneath the shade of a nearby tree. Our new house is a timeworn Victorian that's forgotten its better days. The lavender paint is peeling away and the gray shutters are crooked. A tall, red privacy fence runs around the property, hiding us away from the neighbors. My car is already parked in front of the garage, from when he drove it up to complete the sale. It looks strange parked here instead of at home. This is home, I remind myself.
I follow my dad up the walk to the covered porch, and he digs his keys out, fiddling with the lock.
"I promise you'll like it here, Ash," he says as the door unlocks. "This house reminds me of you."
This dusty old place? I think but don't say. I glance up, and a huge window on the top floor glares down at me like a suspicious eye.
Shadows fill the space inside the house, but Dad flicks on a switch and a round globe light hanging from a stalk comes on above.
He turns around and rubs his hands nervously as he starts to explain. "The Realtor took care of the grass and gave everything a good polish, but it still needs a lot of love." He adjusts his glasses. More and more, he looks as though the world is slowly compressing him. His shirt and tie seem looser and his bald spot has expanded.
"My new office is only a few streets over," he continues. "It has a lot of possibility, doesn't it? We could really make it our own."
What it probably has is a lot of termites. But I return his weak smile. He rushes into the living room and yanks the curtains back from all the windows, which cast rain-filtered light in. There's a fireplace and built-in bookshelves along the wall. My footsteps echo as I follow him.
"There, not so bad," he says, and stops to put his hands on his hips.
"Mom would have hated having to clean all this wood." I glance up at the peaked, dusty ceiling. The smell of wood polish hangs heavy in the air. When I look back, I see my dad has the look of a little boy who has just been scolded and my stomach twists.
The moving van rolls up out front, honking its horn, and the doors spring open.
"Head upstairs, you can take your pick of the bedrooms." Dad hurries outside to supervise.
The banister wobbles under my hand as I jog up the creaky wooden stairs. Two doors line either side of the upstairs hallway.
I step into the first bedroom. The floor is covered in plush, bright blue carpet, and little yellow sailboats float across the pale blue wallpaper. A bumpy, plain blue square of paint marks a spot that was once repaired. I run my fingers over the hasty plaster.
The second bedroom has a brand new, big window, but the walls are painted in bright, Pepto Bismol pink. I grimace and yank the door shut. The master bedroom is bigger, but nothing special.
At the end of the hall, I glance to my right and notice another door concealed in an alcove. I reach out and tug on the brass knob, but it's stuck. I put my hand on the wall for leverage and yank harder, and the door cracks open. A puff of dust swirls up like it's upset I disturbed its final resting place.
At the top is a long, narrow attic. An empty wooden bed frame sits next to a dresser on the back wall. The large window I saw from outside casts a misty blue glow on the room. Double doors lead to a decent closet. Black, delicate trees have been painted on the right wall, the carefully stroked branches almost touching the ceiling.
The window looks out over the side yard, and the tree line is identical to the one painted up here. Autumn leaves cling to stark branches below. On the window seat, words are carved into the wood. I trace my finger into the grooves. Sorrow is
"This is it." My dad swoops his car into the long, gravel driveway of our new house and shuts off the ignition. "This is home."
"It's purple," I comment, staring up at the building. Lavender, to be precise.
"Yeah, I forgot to mention that."
We've been in the car for hours, making the trek from Indiana to Illinois. I undo my seatbelt and step out beneath the shade of a nearby tree. Our new house is a timeworn Victorian that's forgotten its better days. The lavender paint is peeling away and the gray shutters are crooked. A tall, red privacy fence runs around the property, hiding us away from the neighbors. My car is already parked in front of the garage, from when he drove it up to complete the sale. It looks strange parked here instead of at home. This is home, I remind myself.
I follow my dad up the walk to the covered porch, and he digs his keys out, fiddling with the lock.
"I promise you'll like it here, Ash," he says as the door unlocks. "This house reminds me of you."
This dusty old place? I think but don't say. I glance up, and a huge window on the top floor glares down at me like a suspicious eye.
Shadows fill the space inside the house, but Dad flicks on a switch and a round globe light hanging from a stalk comes on above.
He turns around and rubs his hands nervously as he starts to explain. "The Realtor took care of the grass and gave everything a good polish, but it still needs a lot of love." He adjusts his glasses. More and more, he looks as though the world is slowly compressing him. His shirt and tie seem looser and his bald spot has expanded.
"My new office is only a few streets over," he continues. "It has a lot of possibility, doesn't it? We could really make it our own."
What it probably has is a lot of termites. But I return his weak smile. He rushes into the living room and yanks the curtains back from all the windows, which cast rain-filtered light in. There's a fireplace and built-in bookshelves along the wall. My footsteps echo as I follow him.
"There, not so bad," he says, and stops to put his hands on his hips.
"Mom would have hated having to clean all this wood." I glance up at the peaked, dusty ceiling. The smell of wood polish hangs heavy in the air. When I look back, I see my dad has the look of a little boy who has just been scolded and my stomach twists.
The moving van rolls up out front, honking its horn, and the doors spring open.
"Head upstairs, you can take your pick of the bedrooms." Dad hurries outside to supervise.
The banister wobbles under my hand as I jog up the creaky wooden stairs. Two doors line either side of the upstairs hallway.
I step into the first bedroom. The floor is covered in plush, bright blue carpet, and little yellow sailboats float across the pale blue wallpaper. A bumpy, plain blue square of paint marks a spot that was once repaired. I run my fingers over the hasty plaster.
The second bedroom has a brand new, big window, but the walls are painted in bright, Pepto Bismol pink. I grimace and yank the door shut. The master bedroom is bigger, but nothing special.
At the end of the hall, I glance to my right and notice another door concealed in an alcove. I reach out and tug on the brass knob, but it's stuck. I put my hand on the wall for leverage and yank harder, and the door cracks open. A puff of dust swirls up like it's upset I disturbed its final resting place.
At the top is a long, narrow attic. An empty wooden bed frame sits next to a dresser on the back wall. The large window I saw from outside casts a misty blue glow on the room. Double doors lead to a decent closet. Black, delicate trees have been painted on the right wall, the carefully stroked branches almost touching the ceiling.
The window looks out over the side yard, and the tree line is identical to the one painted up here. Autumn leaves cling to stark branches below. On the window seat, words are carved into the wood. I trace my finger into the grooves. Sorrow is
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