Over the past few years, I’ve perfected the art of stripping and running, tossing clothes in trash cans, a solid distance from my house so bedbugs are not tempted to make their way inside. Standing in my underwear on the back porch, in a new town, makes me realize this might not be so normal. But I don’t care. A thorough skin inspection is critical.
I rub a hand over my arms, picking at beauty marks I’ve seen a million times, taking deep breaths to keep myself from fainting.
You’re okay, you’re okay, you’re okay.
Nothing out of the ordinary. But bites could pop up later. I need a hot shower immediately.
Sammy, sitting on the sofa watching TV, covers his eyes as I enter. “Dude, why are you naked!”
“Long story.”
He waves one arm out. “GAH! I may never see again!”
“So dramatic,” I laugh, running upstairs and find Piper standing at my desk.
“Hey! What are you doing?”
Piper flinches, then spins around, hiding something behind her back, struggling to come up with an excuse.
I bum-rush her, grabbing her arm and pinning it back.
“Ow!” she screeches. “Let go of me!”
It takes nothing to pry her little hands open. The incense I brought from home is snapped in pieces. Below the desk, my sage is crumbled up in the trash.
“You little shit!”
Piper yanks away, rubbing her wrist, tears swelling in her eyes. “I told you, Ms. Suga doesn’t like that smell!”
Here I am standing half naked while bedbug eggs could be burrowing in my arm hairs, and Piper is busy vandalizing my things.
“Well, tell Ms. Suga to suck a dick!” I snap. “This isn’t her house. It’s not even your house. This is my mom’s house. She won that residency, not Alec. If it wasn’t for my mom, you two would be homeless! So maybe you can get your daddy to leave, since he does whatever you want anyways. And then you and Ms. Suga could live happily ever after.”
Piper reels back, lip trembling. “I . . . I . . . you’ll be sorry!” she sobs, then runs out of the room.
“And when you plant your seeds, you will start seeing miraculous deliverance. Thousands of dollars transfer into your account, cure from disease and sickness . . . those who cannot walk, will walk again once more!”
My eyes fly open at the sound of his voice, clear as day through my open door.
Three nineteen a.m. Again.
“Fuck,” I grumble, throwing back the sheets.
I slump down the steps, yawning, and am almost used to the scene—lights on in the kitchen, same glass cup on the counter—except for one huge change that stops me dead in my tracks.
The basement door is wide open.
“You will always harvest what you plant if the Lord wills. As you sow, so shall you reap. Those who do not follow the Lord’s will, will reap what they sow and burn in a fiery hell.”
Something wedges itself inside my throat, mind going blank. The door leans against the wall like it’s always been accessible, easy to open, as if I was just imagining yanking at it the other day. But seeing it from the inside, its rusted doorknob plate dented, its warped ancient wood with a hectic pattern of scratches that could’ve only come from fingernails . . . chills me to the bone.
“Hello?” I call out, like an idiot. Because honestly, who could be down there in the pitch-black dark? Then again, who opened it in the first place?
That smell, reeking of rotting fruit and spoiled meat, answers in the form of a fog drifting up the stairs. I reel back, eyes watering, preparing to slam the door shut when it slowly dawns on me: Buddy isn’t by my side. He wasn’t in my room when I woke up, and he’s not in the kitchen or the living room. Which could only mean one thing. . . .
Oh God.
“That’s why with your seeds, you will be working in God’s favor. The seeds that blossom will bring anointing to your life and you will experience great abundance in areas you pray for. All you have to do is call the number below, place your order . . .”
Hands trembling, I gape down into the black abyss, a never-ending hole, a bottomless well.
“Buddy?” I croak, bending slightly. “Here, Buddy. Come on, boy.”
Oh no oh no oh no. I can’t go down there I can’t—
He whimpers. But it sounds a million miles away. Or maybe I can’t hear him over Scott Clark’s ranting. I race across to the sofa to switch off the TV.
“Trust in the Lord or perish in his wrath. He is coming for us all soon! Are you ready for salva—”
The sudden silence is relieving until something to the left catches my eye—outside, a figure ducks out of sight.
Was someone just peeping in? Or was that my reflection?
My head is swimming. A cup of caffeine would help me think straight, strategize how to extract my beloved dog from the depths of hell.
“This is my house,” a voice echoes up from the basement. A woman’s voice, raspy and distinct.
My jaw drops.
What the fuck was that!
The room is silent again. Maybe I was hearing things, in my groggy state. Or maybe this is another dream? ’Cause there’s no way in hell I just—
CREEEEAK
The sound floats up from the basement, the sound of weight on wood, like someone taking a first step on the staircase. But that’s impossible. This is just an old house. Old house, old-house noises. But . . . old houses can’t form real words.
CREEEEAK
Another step.
Somebody is down there. And she has Buddy!
Soaking in dread, I grip the remote to my chest, heart thrashing, unable to tear my eyes away from the open door. I’m too far from the kitchen to grab a weapon. But I can make a run for it, past the basement, and scream for help.
CREEEEAK
“My house,” the voice whispers. “Myhousemyhousemyhouse.”
“Mom?” I whimper. “I—”
Suddenly, a blast of music cuts through the walls, flooding the house, and I drop to my knees. Music? Coming from upstairs. I glance at the open basement door one last time and bolt for the stairs.
“MOM! MOM!”
“Mari! Mari?” Mom shouts over the music as she runs out of her bedroom. “What’s wrong? What are you doing?”
Alec stumbles after her. “What’s going on?”
Piper is already in the hallway, seemingly unbothered. She takes one look at me and covers her ears. “Daddy! It’s too loud!”
Sammy tumbles out of his room . . . with Buddy.
“Buddy!” I gasp, diving on the floor for him, overcome with relief. Sammy, covering his ears, slips into my room and turns off the speaker.
“Dude, what the hell?”
“Someone’s downstairs!” I sob. “Someone’s in the basement!”
Mom gathers me up in her arms and looks at Alec.
He nods. “You guys stay here.”
Piper clutches him. “Daddy, no.”
“Stay here. I’ll be right back.”
Alec descends the stairs slowly, peering over the banister, then disappears out of sight. Piper fidgets on the balls of her feet, staring. We wait three long excruciating minutes before he reappears at the bottom step.
“Can you guys come here for a sec?”
Cautiously, we all march down and gather in the kitchen. Alec stands at the now-closed basement door and yanks it.
“It’s locked,” he says flatly.
Mom frowns, looking to me for answers.
“I swear, it was open! I swear!” My voice hits a hysterical peak.
Alec shakes his head. “I’m taking Piper back to bed. Come on, sweetheart.”
Piper gives me a knowing smirk before taking Alec’s hand.
“Mari,” Mom starts, twisting her hands together. “Have you been—”
“Don’t!” I snap. “Just say you don’t believe me, but don’t accuse me of anything else!”
Mom and Sammy exchange worried glances.
“Forget it,” I groan
, heading for bed, taking a quick second to peek outside, seeing that truck parked across the street and watching the house.
Again.
Ten
“BEFORE WE WALK in here,” Alec says from the driver’s seat in his suit and tacky tie, “let’s just go over the rules again, shall we?”
I roll my eyes. “What’s there to go over?”
“Well, we . . . just want to make sure we don’t have an incident like last time with Mr. Sterling,” Mom says delicately.
“I said, I won’t say anything. And if you were so worried about it, you could’ve left me home.”
“It’d look strange if the whole family came tonight and you weren’t with us,” Mom counters. “Might seem like you have a problem with Mr. Sterling.”
“Which you don’t, right?” Alec warns, glaring at me through the rearview mirror.
“Guess you should’ve brought Buddy instead.”
“I don’t have a problem with him, Daddy,” Piper chimes in with a smile, her hair in bouncy pigtails.
“Can we just get this over with?” Sammy asks. “Some of us gave up a gaming tournament to be here tonight.”
As usual, I can always count on Sammy to have my back.
Alec and Mom share an exhausted look before opening the car doors, and we all pile out.
Tonight is the Sterling Foundation’s first open house at their new office on the Riverwalk. The glass building is filled with historic Cedarville memorabilia: old black-and-white photos blown up poster size, an interactive timeline that borders the lobby, digital installations, art made by locals . . . even a 1920s car, apparently built in one of the shut-down factories.
“Wow,” Sammy says as we make our way around the room.
Alec grabs two glasses of wine from one of the waiters carrying around a tray. “Pretty fancy, right?”
“Ooooh! Hello! There you are!” Irma waves from a distance, clapping her hands as she heads toward us.
“Hey, Irma,” Mom says.
“Great to see you all! Raquel, can I steal you away for a moment? I’d like to introduce you to a few of our board members before the big speech.”
“Yes, of course.”
Mom raises an eyebrow at me before walking off. Another warning to behave myself. I don’t know why she’s acting all coy around these people. She’s the one who raised me to ask questions, be curious, and speak my mind. So really, my keen observation skills and comprehension is her fault.
Alec parades Piper around the room, showing off his prize possession to . . . well, I actually don’t know who any of these people are. Only person I recognize is Ms. Fern, but no else from our side of town. A bunch of white people dressed up in fine threads and heels, the most I’ve seen since the house fire.
Hiding in the corner, I fidget in the dress Mom insisted I wear, stuffing my mouth with spinach quiches, while Sammy plays with one of the touch-screen setups, giving us a digital overview of Cedarville’s history. On the opposite side of the room is a giant screen behind a large stage, I suppose to project a film or something during the presentation Irma mentioned.
This is fancy. Almost too fancy considering everything we’ve seen in this city. The budget for this event alone could’ve cleaned up a block or two.
I spot Mr. Sterling by the stage with Mom, talking to a group of people. Tonight’s suit is crisp black, which brings out his dark eyes. Mom nods with a plastered-on smile, shaking hands. Despite looking a little unsettled, it’s good to see so many people praise her.
“Hey, check this out,” Sammy says, nudging me. “They have all the old schematics of the neighborhoods in Cedarville. Look, here’s Maplewood.”
I lean in and identify Maple Street, a line driving right into the park. Sometimes it pays to be the daughter of an architect. Dad had Sammy and me studying blueprints since we could walk.
“Look at all the old buildings that used to be there,” Sammy adds. “This big one . . . I think that’s that empty lot in front of the library.”
“Huh. You’re right,” I mumble. “Wonder what that was?”
A squealing mic brings the room to attention.
“Hello, everyone, welcome,” Irma sings from center stage. “Thank you all so much for coming. And special thanks to a few of our board members in attendance tonight: Eden Kruger, Richard Cummings, and Linda Russo. Let’s give them all a round of applause.”
The group standing next to Mom gently waves and nods, with glistening white smiles.
“Now I am pleased to introduce our founder and CEO of the Sterling Foundation, Mr. Robert Sterling.”
The room erupts as Mr. Sterling takes the stage. He hits up both corners, waving like he’s a rock star, which, judging by how hard everyone is cheering, he may just be.
“Thank you all for coming,” he says, taking the mic from Irma. “When my father first moved to Cedarville, he was thirteen, alone, with barely a dollar to his name.”
On the screen, a sepia-toned photo of a man who must be his father slides in.
“But he came here with hope,” he continues. “And made a life for himself, later providing for his wife and six children. Our family’s legacy is proof that any man can make a name for himself in Cedarville. We were once a booming industrial city, ripe with opportunities. Of course, things changed. Things that were . . . out of our control.”
More photos of the changing landscape, pictures of homeless people and crime statistics. The audience shifts uncomfortably as something occurs to me: I haven’t seen one homeless person since we moved here. Not on our block or walks to school. No panhandling at streetlights or outside grocery stores. The houses that they swore were filled with squatters all seem empty.
“But then my brother ran for office,” Mr. Sterling continues as another photo pops up. “He believed in this great city and set out to revitalize it. And we’re here to continue the work that he started.”
The crowd stirs, growing curious.
“We’ve made some significant progress over the years with our endeavors, including our newest program, the Grow Where You’re Planted Residency. In fact, we have our very first resident here with us tonight, Mrs. Raquel Anderson-Green.”
Mom shyly waves as Sammy and I scream, hoot, and holler.
“But here at the Sterling Foundation, we’re ready to pick up the pace. Over the years, we’ve taken it upon ourselves to buy investment properties in the hopes of a better tomorrow. And tomorrow, ladies and gentlemen, is on its way, sooner than you think.”
“Does he mean the future that’s happening in, like, three hours?” Sammy quips, checking his watch, and I bump his shoulder.
“That’s why I am pleased to announce the To the Future Campaign, a venture spearheaded by our foundation in conjunction with our esteemed investors, to bring Cedarville back to its former glory with a brand-new look.”
The giant black screen glows white before the “To the Future” logo pops up.
“Our housing development and newly designed light-rail systems will give our citizens hope for a brighter future.”
The screen zooms and flies into the “new” Cedarville animation rendering, featuring lush trees, deluxe townhomes, and happy animated citizens.
“Cedarville will be the prime location for start-up companies, tech firms, and alternative businesses that will guarantee a job growth rate of up to seventy-five percent. Groundbreaking will commence in three years’ time.”
There are oohs and aahs.
Dad makes these types of renderings for his clients. They’re computer-generated 3D images of the intended construction plans and finished product, which, in this case, is a brand-new mixed-use development, with office buildings, retail spaces, and a giant park.
Wait a minute. . . .
I nudge Sammy out of the way and zoom back in on the schematic, lining up the shape of the park with their proposed rendering, and gasp.
The map takes over the entire area of Maplewood. It means they plan to flatten the neighborhood within a fe
w years. Where do they think all those people are going? Or better question . . . what do they plan to do with them?
Mr. Sterling raises his glass, his eyes meeting mine. “A toast, everyone. To the future!”
“To the future!” the crowd cheers back.
“Who left the lights on?” Mom asks as we pull into the driveway, the entire house glowing like a firefly.
“Don’t you mean, all the lights,” Sammy says curiously.
“Not me,” Piper chimes in.
As we climb the porch steps, Alec stops short, shooting his arm out to block us from moving forward.
“What?” Mom huffs.
He nods at the front door, cracked open. Through the screen, we can see a lamp knocked onto the floor. Mom gasps, throwing Alec a pleading look.
“Stay here,” he whispers, and tiptoes inside.
“Everyone, back in the car,” Mom whispers, shooing us down the stairs. “Now. Go!”
For ten minutes, we watch the front door from the back of the van, Mom standing at the steps, phone in hand.
“What’s Alec doing?” Sammy asks.
“Guess trying to see if anyone is still inside.”
Piper straightens, pressing both hands to the glass, her lips in a tight line.
Finally, Alec emerges and talks to Mom in a hushed voice. They both glance at the car before Mom dials 911.
There’s no other way to describe it: the house had been through a tornado. We gingerly make our way through the rubble, glass crunching under our shoes. I recognize the pattern—Mom’s wedding china blankets the floor leading up to the kitchen. Cookware, pots, and pans scattered about. My last terrarium, an anthill on the rug.
“They didn’t take the TV,” Sammy mumbles.
I’m surprised to see it still hanging unharmed while the rest of the house is in shambles.
“Weird,” I mumble, then hear a sniffle coming out of Mom’s office.
Mom stands on top of a pile of shredded papers, staring at her bashed desktop computer. Framed photos smashed, almost her entire collection of books ripped in pieces.
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