October Darlings

by Wendolyn Baird

  “Addie, darling, what happened?”

  My dad follows her in, weary, alarmed, and pale in the lesser darkness. I open and shut my mouth several times, trying to compartmentalize the impossible and keep my cool.

  “Nothing,” I sigh in relief as my words come out with the intended volume. “I just tripped. It’s a little dark in here, I wasn’t watching where I was going.”

  Delia narrows her eyes at me, but I can’t focus enough to distract her. There’s a definite cool spot just by my left shoulder, and something about my peripheral is shifting more than my nerves. Delia hated those cars, and she’s the one who took them away. What would she say if I brought them up now?

  “So, we should get going, right?” I scoot away while pretending to straighten the table and take the long way around the room. The sooner we leave, the better.

  “Yeah, let’s get going. It’s been a while since I’ve had a decent burger.”

  Dad leads the way out, and I bite my lip as I scurry after him. Being back here is painful for too many reasons, the least of which are the memories I’ve fought so hard to bury.

  My childhood ended with the loss of a mother I can scarcely recall, and the removal of all magic from my life. Some fairy tales are too dark to revisit, and some deaths are too tragic to face. And the worst of it all, is as long as I'm here, I can’t pretend they never happened.

  Chapter Two

  IF IT WAS POSSIBLE for any two people to act any more at odds, watching Dad and Delia mumble at each other is even worse in public than it was back at the house. The high-backed booths effectively stifle conversations from one table to the next, but not one of the many passersby miss an opportunity to stare at us.

  “Do y’all ever get along?” I grumble.

  They exchange glances and talk over each other, so I tune them out. The harsh light of the neon sign above our table distracts me as it glares onto the black and white photos at the walls, and there are half a dozen Fourth of July fliers plastered between the frames for me to pretend to read.

  Beyond us, in the cooler sections of the restaurant, a large group meanders back and forth between two booths. The occupants are around my age but are obviously much happier with their dining arrangements. Laughing and taunting one another, I watch them idly for several minutes before anyone notices.

  I’m wrapped up in the way the girl languishes on the outskirts of her group with ease, her glasses halfway down her nose and her pointed ears rimmed with flashing studs as she perches at the edge of their table. Surveying the restaurant with a milkshake in her hand and having the poor luck of a straight view at our booth, she meets my gaze with open curiosity and a hint of suspicion. Knocking her elbow into the guy at her side, she nods my way, and I drop my attention to my plate.

  Stuffing a curly fry into my mouth, I pretend to be completely enraptured in Aunt Delia’s plan for my getting settled before school starts up. The starch sticks in my throat on the way down, and the inevitably of spending my senior year here is unbearable. Attempting to wash it down with the float I’d ordered in place of a shake does nothing but turn my stomach, and the longer she talks, the harder it is to breathe.

  “I’ll be back.”

  Sliding out of my seat, I slink through the few tables on the way to the bathroom, and wrench open the heavy door. Clutching the cool sides of a sink, I inhale slowly, willing the burning in my eyes to dissipate.

  Never mind a social life, or a nightmare of a house, the truth is, if my dad really thought he was going to survive his treatment he wouldn’t be leaving me with Delia. Not in a place he hates. Not where memories of her could come back and bring with them the nightmares I should have outgrown.

  No, if he truly had hope, he wouldn’t be abandoning me to the only relative I have left.

  My eyes recover but my throat is still tight, so I change tactics. Blasting cold water from the faucet, I splash it up to my elbows, relying on the temperature change to snap me out of my thoughts. There’s no use crying over things I can't control. It will just leave me with a headache and a swollen face.

  Allowing myself a few seconds glance at the life I'm leaving behind, I scroll through old photos on my phone and let my brain shut off. Focusing only on the nuances of my favorite pictures and ways to improve them, the pressure in my chest lifts enough to continue eating.

  Backing out of the bathroom to avoid touching the door with my just washed hands, I step too quickly and trip over my own feet.

  “Oh, crap!” I stumble to the side, falling against a soft hoodie, and some very sturdy arms.

  “Whoa, you good?” One of the guys from the booth I was watching stares down at me, with curly hair and a wicked smile. With a really great, wicked smile.

  Speechless for probably the hundredth time today, I smile broadly and nod. Patting his arm, I regain my composure, and step around him. “Sure, yeah, I’m good. Sorry, I didn’t see you there.”

  “Nah, no need to apologize. Happens all the time, they put the door in a really weird spot.”

  There’s about a six-foot berth between the ladies room and any other door, and another four feet to the nearest wall. Clearly not an awkward spot.

  “Yeah,” I agree. “That must be it.”

  He nods with a teasing glint in his eye and hooks his thumbs through his empty belt loops.

  I slip my phone into my back pocket and flick my hair away from my face. “I’m Addie.”

  “Nicholas. But if you call me that I’ll never hear the end of it. So... just Nick.” His grin softens as he speaks, as unsure and out of place as I feel.

  “Adeline Sable, did you have even the faintest intention to come back to the booth?” Aunt Delia strides over, her shoulders squared and a look of stress on her face. Even the laugh lines by her mouth droop in worried disapproval. “I can’t believe you left me at the table with him,” she whispers. As she moves closer, she eyes Nick’s hands hanging limply at his sides and the red flush on my face, but it’s clear her need for me back at the table is more important. Lowering her voice even more, she hisses into my ear, “another moment and I swear he’ll start throwing ketchup packets.”

  I duck my head, chagrined, and shrug at Nick. “I got to go.”

  The burning in my eyes threatens to come back, but I blink it away with a last glance back at Nick. It would have been nice to get to know him on my own terms, but it’s a small town and soon he’ll figure out that I’m the girl with a dead mom, and a dad who refuses to admit he’s dying.

  How we get through the rest of the meal, I’m not sure, but the next thing I know, I’m cramped in the backseat, bumping down the gravel road that shoots off the highway. The houses fly by as Delia ignores the speed limit, and the jolting keeps me clinging for dear life as we careen down the pothole-stricken street.

  “The one thing I hate about the drive into town,” she complains, “is that any time I order anything online, I have to drive to the post office to pick it up. Means going down this awful road more than I ought to have to, if you ask me.”

  “I won’t be able to get any mail out here?” I lean forward, the seat belt cutting into my collarbone as I peer around Dad's head to see out the windshield.

  “Letters, sure. Anything larger than our mailbox, no. You’ll have to drive in.”

  From down the street, Nix House appears as old fashioned and cozy as any other in the small neighborhood. It isn’t until we’re pulling right up on it that the glint off the jet-black shingles makes the roof glitter ominously beneath the early evening sky.

  Framed in sage, and sheltered by the blossoming crepe myrtle out front, it’s difficult to believe I once found the porch inviting. Now the wrought iron railings and heavy door knocker speak to ages that are better forgotten. The swing, rocking in the wind under the eaves is just big enough for two, and the emptiness of its seat causes my heart to race in the still of the car.

  Long, dark legs should be pushing off of the floor, rattling the chains while we swing. The old shutters s
hould be comforting, welcoming me home. But Nix House hasn’t felt like home in years.

  “Ad, you coming?”

  Dad opens my door and ducks his head in to check on my progress out of the backseat. Aunt Delia is already halfway up the steps, house key in hand and a cat winding around her ankles.

  Blinking, I process the growing grey at his temples and the tired way he holds himself. But still, his first thought is to check on me.

  I don’t think I could be a parent. Too much worry, too much sacrifice. It’s hard enough just being someone’s kid.

  “Yeah. I’m fine. Just zoned out, I guess.”

  “Right. Well let’s get you in, I’d like to rest a minute before saying goodbye.”

  “I don’t want to say goodbye.” It’s more of a grumble than an admission, but I know he hears me anyway.

  Drawing me into a hug, his shoulders jerk for half a second before he speaks, his words coming out in an awful, strangled whisper. “I know Ad, it’s not fair. None of this is fair to you. But I promise, I promise you’ll be back home by Christmas.”

  “Fair to me? What about fair to you? Nothing in any of our lives has been fair since I was six! And you can’t promise me!” I hang onto his arm as I cling to the hug, hoping to god this isn’t the last one I’ll get. “You can’t promise me,” I whimper. “Dad, you don’t know what’s going to happen.”

  “Hey.” His voice deepens with intent and solemnity. “No matter what happens, I know I’m not going to leave you alone. Okay? I’m not going to do that to you.”

  His eyes meet mine unflinchingly, and I nod hopelessly, trying to memorize the slight discrepancies in his irises while I still can. One eye green, the other more hazel. I can’t imagine life without both of my parents. I can’t imagine life without him.

  Every drive to school. Every awards assembly. Every nightmare and anxiety attack I've gone through... he’s been there. And that's why I know he’s wrong.

  Because I never imagined my mother would leave my life either, but she did.

  The difference between that loss and this one, is that this time I know it’s coming. I’ve already learned that death is inescapable, and it changes everything. And above all, I know that death gives no mercy.

  “ADDIE, DARLING, YOU’RE going to have to come out sooner or later.”

  “It’s been four days and the world seems just fine without me.” Huddled under my blanket and using the pillow to shut out the sun from my eyes, I fumble around until my hand hits my phone.

  The blue light of the screen stings as I squint at the time, and groan. “Not to mention it’s seven-thirty in the morning!”

  Surfacing from my nest, I meet Delia’s expectant stare with bleary eyes and a headache so strong, her silhouette sways in front of the backdrop of my window.

  “Aunt Delia, it’s summer. Why would you choose now to be all parent-like? It couldn’t have waited until after ten? It’s not like I’m going anywhere!”

  “Exactly my point!” She jabs a finger at me, and then bustles around to the vanity. “I took a whole week off to help you settle in, but all I’ve been able to do is watch you sleep! Now tell me, how is that good for either of us?”

  “It isn’t.”

  “No, you’re right, it isn’t.” As adamant as she is, there’s an understanding frown wrinkling her forehead as she speaks. “And the rest of The House isn’t going to be so thrilled with that either,” she continues. “So up and at ‘em, you’re settling in today.”

  “What does that even mean?”

  I’ve unpacked my clothes, hung up my favorite photos, and hidden under my covers since Dad left. No more slamming doors or sounds I can’t explain, no phone calls from friends who conveniently fell off the face of the earth because ‘they don’t want to bother me during such a hard time.’ Nothing but quiet silence and long dozing hours. There’s nothing else for me to do to settle in.

  But now, Delia’s quirkiness is impinging on my sleeping patterns, and her ever so vague references to ‘The House’ are getting increasingly worrisome. She actually tried sitting me down that first evening and told me I ought to announce myself before walking in or out of any of the rooms. Announce myself to who? The thousands of dust bunnies currently plaguing my allergies?

  “I mean,” she explains placidly. “It’s time for you to get reacquainted with the property and learn the best ways to come and go.”

  She fixes me with a beady eyed stare that makes her appear far older than her late thirties. Suddenly, perched on my bed as I am, disgruntled and wearing the same clothes as yesterday, doesn’t feel like the proper way to adjust to my new life here. Even if I am upset.

  “I know your dad likes to pretend that I’m all smoke and mirrors and nonsense, but I know as well as you do that you did not trip the other day before he left.”

  Prickles of fear drop on me like cobwebs clinging to my shoulders. Clenching my jaw, I draw my arms around me to keep from shaking, and glance around the room for literally any other subject.

  “So, what do you think happened? A ghost tripped me?” I shrug, feigning scorn.

  “Is that what you think happened?” A triumphant gleam sparkles in Delia’s eyes as she tosses a pair of shorts at me and heads to the door. “If you really don’t believe in ghosts, I’ll be waiting for you out back. You know where to find me.”

  She winks and takes off, sandals slapping down the hall as she proceeds without a second's hesitation.

  Clutching the shorts to my chest, I remain frozen on the bed, one bare foot dangling uncomfortably over the edge as I work up the nerve to follow. I know where to find her, alright, and it’s a low blow for her to call me out there.

  I used to love the family cemetery. So much so, that my kindergarten teacher despaired over the fact to my mother. She hated the way my print was thick and spiky, embossing each sheet with the smooth graphite. It wasn’t like the other children’s, with their crooked, round shapes or sloping characters. I loved to blow the excess dust from the pages, pretending I was etching my words as deeply as the names carved in the tilted stones outside my window.

  I’d spent hours out there, tracing my chubby finger in the warm grooves of the marble; I marveled at the difference between those names and my own. Tangible, intangible, six feet apart, and the presence or absence of one vital thing— life.

  Delia loved it too.

  “This is our family, darling,” she’d tell me, pressing me to her side as she waved to the tombstones. Rows and rows of them were perpetually covered comfortably in wild mint and framed with a large iron gate and fresh rosemary.

  Kissing the side of my temple, her coarse hair would always swing in front of my face, obscuring my view of all the generations before me. “This is our family,” she’d sigh. “And someday, it will all be yours.”

  In the few times I’ve thought of it since, I’ve never been able to remember it any other time except summer, and I don’t remember anyone but Delia trekking out there to watch me.

  Then again, I’ve all but locked my memories of this place in a teeny tiny box I’d rather not unlock.

  The hallway, once again, gapes at me like the maw of a beast waiting to swallow me whole. I’m back to running from one end to the other, just in case, but so far, the worst I’ve experienced is my own debilitating anxiety. No phantom cars, no extra voices, just me and my nerves.

  The unavoidable trip to the bathroom and back again for some clean clothes is enough for me, and the longer I stall, the more proof in her silly convictions Aunt Delia will claim. But there’s no other way across the house unless... unless...

  I turn the latches on my window, phone in my back pocket, camera swinging from a lanyard around my neck, and my sturdiest pair of shoes on my feet. Thank god, I’ve got a penchant for Doc Martens.

  Swinging one leg out, I hold fast to the edge of the window and ease my head under, praying none of the neighbors see me and call the cops. No burglars here, I’d tell them, just trying to avoid the creepy ho
use I live in.

  I’m lucky the sage beneath my window is situated a couple of inches in front of the house, because as laid back as Aunt Delia usually is, I doubt she’d like me trampling the plants. Tiptoeing my way through what few branches I can’t avoid, I fight my way into the front yard and fall flat on my butt in the middle of the lawn.

  Graceful, Addie. Real graceful.

  Sighing, I check for damage, and hurry on. Choosing to sidle around the side of the drive, I’m counting on the angle of the house to disguise the way I got out here, and Delia’s constant preoccupation to take care of the rest. Shouldn’t be hard; last night after dinner I could have sworn I heard her talking to herself about the dish soap being on sale at the supermarket. The worst part was in the way she paused, as if expecting someone to answer back.

  I snort and stomp down the backyard, angling my feet against the slope and keeping a sharp eye out for the errant mounds of fire ants that pop up every June without fail. Oh, the joys of living in the country!

  By the time I reach the cemetery gate at the base of the yard, Delia’s sprawled out on a lawn chair between my grandparents’ graves. With her wide sunglasses and face turned up to the sun, she might as well be relaxing at the beach instead of sitting in a graveyard.

  “You know normal people have barbecue pits or pools in their backyards. Out here, maybe even a chicken coop or two. I’m pretty sure we’re the only ones in the county with a full-on yard of bones.”

  “The Nix family has never been normal, darling. Besides, I’m sure we’re not the only ones with graves in their yard— we’re just the only ones with peaceful, legal, and marked graves in our yard.”

  When she frames it that way, I’m not sure if I should be grateful for that fact or freaked out by the idea of a serial killer possibly existing somewhere nearby.

  “Oh, darling, I didn’t mean to scare you.” Delia lowers her glasses and sits up. “I only meant there are lots of old family homesteads. I’m sure there’s plenty of others out there who just haven’t gotten their yards blessed and sanctioned by the law.”