by Rachel Hanna
“Even if that’s what’s best for Harper?” he asks.
“How do we know that? The schools where I live are top notch. Peach Valley is a small town with no opportunities…”
“Indy, come on. Surely you’ve noticed that Peach Valley isn’t the same as it was twenty years ago?”
To me, it seems exactly the same which feels like a blessing and a curse.
I sigh. “I need some time, Ethan. This is all a little… much.”
I stand and start walking toward the door. “When would you like to meet your niece?” he asks.
“I’ll call you,” I say before shutting the door behind me.
June 1987
“Are you sure your mother isn’t going to get mad?” I ask as we walk down the mile stretch of road toward the shopping center.
“If she found out, then yeah,” he says, kicking a rock in front of his beat up white Reebok hightops. We’ve spent practically every day together since we met. It’s nice to have a new friend who lives so close to me.
The plan today is to walk to the store, buy as much rock candy as we can eat and play games at the traveling carnival that’s in town. Dawson’s mother told him to stay home, so if she finds out he went to the store, she’s going to get mad.
“But won’t she see us walking down the street?”
“Nope. She’s probably making out with her new boyfriend at his apartment.”
The thought gives me the heebie jeebies. “But it’s going to be dinnertime soon. Won’t she need to come home and cook you dinner?”
He sighs. “My mom doesn’t cook, Indy. She’s barely a mother.”
I feel an unfamiliar pang in my chest where my health teacher told me my heart was located. My mom cooks me dinner. We always have a full meal every night. Why doesn’t Dawson’s mom do that, I wonder.
“So what will you eat tonight?”
“Probably peanut butter and jelly. Or maybe a can of ravioli if I can find one. I love ravioli.”
We’re having fried chicken with mashed potatoes and green beans tonight. And homemade biscuits. But Dawson might not even get ravioli? He’s a twelve year old boy who needs to eat, or at least that’s what my mother would say.
“You wanna eat dinner at my house?”
“Nah. I’d get in trouble for that.”
We keep walking for awhile without talking. “Do you like having so many different dads?”
I know it’s a dumb question, but I’m really wondering. Maybe he gets to have Christmases and birthdays with a huge extended family. At least I hope so.
“No. Some of them aren’t very nice people.”
“What did they do?”
He stops and stares at his shoes for a moment. “If I show you something, do you promise not to tell anyone?” I nod.
My heart clenches again as he takes my hand and pulls me toward the woods, out of the view of passing cars. Without a word, he pulls up the back of his t-shirt and shows me a long scar that stretches from one side of his back to the other.
I reach out and touch it, and he jumps a little at my touch but allows me to run my index finger across the length of it. It’s still pink and not at all like the scar on my knee from three years ago when I fell off my bike. It’s raised and still has this angry redness around it.
“Does it hurt?” I ask as he pulls his shirt back down.
“Not as much anymore,” he looks down at his feet.
“Who did that, Dawson?” I feel something brewing deep inside of me, like angry butterflies in my stomach.
“The last step dad. Apparently, I didn’t say thank you to my mother fast enough after she cooked me dinner for once.” He leans against a tree, resting his lower back and crossing his arms. He’s my age, but he looks so much older than his years.
I have no idea what to say. I’ve never even gotten a spanking. “What did he hit you with?”
“A belt.” I wait for him to elaborate, but he doesn’t. And I don’t think I want to know anymore.
“You didn’t deserve that, Dawson. No one does.”
He finally looks at me, and I swear tears are welling up in his big brown eyes. I always want to cry when I see someone else about to cry, and I definitely don’t want him to see my ugly cry. My sister says I look like a rabid walrus when I cry. She’s so nice.
“I used to think I couldn’t trust anyone,” he says softly.
“Used to?”
“Yeah.” He looks back up at me, and the smallest of smiles appears on his face. “Until I met you.”
I return his smile, and feel my heart skip a beat for the first time, like in one of those Harlequin romance novels my mom tries to hide under her mattress.
“Race you the rest of the way?” I say, talking big since my asthma would stop me in about twenty feet.
“Nah. Let’s just walk,” he says, taking my hand and walking back up to the road. As we walk to the store, he never lets go of my hand, and for some reason I don’t want him to.
I sit on the porch of my old house, hoping the neighbors don’t call the police on me. I shouldn’t be here again. I don’t know what draws me here.
I do have some fond memories of my home. Big Christmas dinners. Easter egg hunts in the backyard. The huge fig tree that almost covered our entire front yard. Even after my father cut it to the ground and burned the stump, the thing grew back twice as big. It was even on the front page of the local newspaper once.
“Indy? Is that you?” I hear a female voice say from the street. I look up and see someone who looks familiar, but I can’t remember her name or how I know her.
“Hi. Yes, I’m Indy.”
The woman laughs. “Did you buy your old house back?”
I look at the real estate sign still standing in the yard. “Oh. No. I’m just… reminiscing.” I walk toward her when I realize she isn’t going away and she meets me in the middle of the driveway.
She’s definitely older than me, and her face looks so familiar. “You may not remember me. I’m Lisa, Agnes Watkins’ daughter.”
Then it hits me. She’s the oldest daughter of our neighbors from across the street. She was a few years ahead of me in school, so I’m surprised she remembers me.
“Oh yes, Lisa. I remember you! You drove that cool little red sports car, right?” For some reason, that memory makes me smile. I remember watching her zip up and down the streets, and I think I also remember my brother flirting with her.
“Yes, that was a good car.”
“So, you still live in the neighborhood?” I ask, surprise evident in my voice. She cocks her head and smiles.
“Of course. Why would I leave?” It occurs to me that she’s just as surprised that anyone would choose to leave Peach Valley as I am that anyone would willingly stay there forever.
“Right. How’s your mother?”
“Oh, honey, she passed away almost ten years ago now.” I feel a weird loss, like I should have known. Agnes was a kind woman, and she baked the best oatmeal raisin cookies on the planet. Every Halloween, she made brownies with extra fudge baked into them, and there was a line on her front stoop as we all waited our turn to get one dropped into our buckets and bags.
“I’m so sorry for your loss.”
“And I was so sorry to hear about Danny. Terrible accident, I heard.”
“Yes. Terrible.” I don’t know what to say. I didn’t even ask Ethan what kind of accident it was because what does it matter? He’s gone, and I’m left with an impossible situation.
“His little girl is just a peach. Spitting image of her Daddy, isn’t she?”
I swallow hard and bite my lip. “I wouldn’t know, Lisa. I’ve never met her.”
Again, she looks confused and her eyebrows knit together like someone is pulling strings behind her head. “You’ve never met your niece?”
“No. To be honest, Danny and I hadn’t spoken in many years. We had a lot of… history. Actually, I just found out that he even had a daughter.”
She smiles sympathet
ically, but I can feel her judgment. The problem with keeping family secrets is that decisions based on those secrets look very selfish in the end. I look like the world’s worst sister, but I have my reasons for breaking ties with my brother. Sometimes, you have to save yourself.
“Well, I don’t want to pry about that, but let me tell you that Harper is just a delight. A sweet, sweet girl. Fiery, to be sure. But smart as a whip.”
“How do you know Harper?”
“She was in my class last year. I’m a teacher over at the elementary school now.” The pride on her face is apparent.
“Oh. Well, good for you. I mean, teaching the kids and all,” I say, suddenly sounding like a babbling idiot. “So she’s a good kid?”
I don’t know why visions of a miniature version of my brother are invading my head. Thoughts of going through what my mother went through with him are all I can think about. The rehabs. The arguments. The calls from police. The irony of a siren in the distance breaks my chain of memories.
“Yes, she is. I haven’t seen her since Danny… well, you know. But I hear she’s struggling, Indy. They were very close.”
I feel like a knife is digging into my heart. Above all else, I’m a human being. I’m a freaking therapist. I can’t leave this kid - part of my brother or not - hanging out in the wind.
“Listen, I hate to cut this short, Lisa, but I have a phone call to make. Do you mind if we chat later?”
She nods and smiles before returning to her afternoon walk as I sit back down on the front steps, pulling my cell phone from my pocket.
“Hi, Eileen. This is Indigo Sanders. You showed the house on Oakdale… I think I’d like to make an offer.”
Chapter 3
I can’t recall ever feeling so nervous. Closing on my old house had been tough, knowing that I was buying back all of the memories I had there, good and bad. But getting ready to meet my niece - my new daughter - is even tougher.
Ethan handled all of the paperwork days ago, but I wanted to have the house ready for her. The small three bedroom house will be plenty for us. I claimed the master bedroom with its own tiny bathroom, and I’m putting Harper in my sister’s old room. My old bedroom will be my office, mainly because it feels much like a shrine and I just can’t give it up to anyone else.
I found the decision to leave my life in Charleston behind to be easier than I thought it would. Sure, the news Ethan delivered about having a niece who was now my responsibility had rocked me to the core at first. But then something else took over. Protectiveness. She’s my family, and I can’t leave her to the wolves. Sometimes, you have to make decisions based on what’s right and not what you want to do.
The last few days have also been full of calling clients in Charleston and explaining that I’m not coming back, at least not for the foreseeable future. Most understood, but some were upset. I helped them connect with other therapists that I trust, hoping that my life change doesn’t throw their lives off the rails. I also called my friend, Pam, who is a real estate agent in Charleston to handle the renting of my current home on the water.
I’ll miss that place. It was an oasis after listening to everyone’s problems all day. And now, here I stand in the house that both built me and broke me down.
But now I’m just waiting. Nothing between me and sudden parenthood. I stand at the window of my old bedroom and stare at the rental house where Dawson lived all those years ago, and memories flood me yet again.
July 1987
I haven’t heard from Dawson today. Normally, I hear from him by now, but I don’t think he’s come outside at all.
We’ve grown a lot closer since he showed me his scar. He tells me all the time that he can trust me, and it feels good to know that he does. I’ve never had a friend like him, not even Tabitha, and I know we’ll be friends forever.
Or maybe we’ll even get married someday.
Nah, Dawson says he’ll never get married. I guess maybe it’s because his mother has ruined that for him. Sometimes I try to imagine what it’s like to have divorced parents and then all of these new dads coming in and out. I just can’t imagine.
“Indy, I’m going to the store,” my mother says through my closed door.
“Okay. What time is Dad getting home?” I call back. There’s a weird pause before she answers, and then her voice is flat.
“I don’t know.”
I watch her leave out the window, and then I decide to go investigate where Dawson is. I’m worried about him. His mother’s new boyfriend has been coming to the house a lot lately, and I don’t like the looks of that man. He’s scraggly, as my mother would call it.
I throw on my Michael Jackson Thriller t-shirt and neon pink high top sneakers before heading outside, locking the front door behind me. Dawson and I are both obsessed with Michael Jackson. I think I’ve almost mastered the moonwalk, but Dawson just laughs at me every time I try to do it.
As I get close to his house, suddenly fire trucks run screaming to his driveway. Several firemen jump out and go to the door, and I start backing up, watching from a safe distance. I have no idea what’s going on, but my heart is pounding against my rib cage like a jackhammer.
After a few minutes of loud, inaudible talking inside the house, the firemen come out, get into their truck and drive away. How weird. I decide to risk his mother getting mad at my immediate arrival and knock on the door.
When she swings the door open, she’s pursing her lips and her face is red with anger. I can see Dawson sitting on the tiny floral love seat in his living room with his head in his hands.
“What do you want?” she asks.
“I… um… saw the firetrucks…”
“Yes, my genius son thought it would be funny to prank call the fire department!” she yells over her shoulder.
Dawson looks up and shakes his head. “I didn’t do it, Mama. I swear!” Tears are running down his face, and it makes me sad. I’ve never seen Dawson cry before.
“Don’t you lie to me, Dawson!” she says. For some reason, she opens the door and allows me inside. I sit down next to Dawson, hoping my presence gives him some kind of support.
“Dawson, did you do that?” I whisper. He looks at me with pain in his eyes.
“Of course not, Indy.”
“You’re not leaving this house until you tell the truth,” his mother says, walking into the kitchen. She’s slamming pots and pans around so loudly that I can barely talk to him. I see her pull a bottle from behind one of the canisters on the kitchen counter and take a long sip of the amber colored liquid before putting it back in its hiding place.
“You promise? You didn’t do that? Because it would be horrible if you did. The fire department has real emergencies to deal with…”
He looks at me pleadingly. “I didn’t do it, Indy. Why don’t you believe me?”
“Well, why did they show up then?” I whisper.
“I have no idea.” He hangs his head again. Maybe someone prank called and gave his address. Maybe they misunderstood someone’s address. I have no idea how these things work.
I walk to the kitchen where his mother is bracing herself against the counter and hanging her head. I summon every ounce of courage in my body. “Ma’am, with all due respect, I don’t think Dawson did this. He’s a good kid, and he would never lie to me.”
She turns and looks at me. “You don’t know how my son really is. He lies. He’s been lying since he knew how to talk. He lies just like his worthless father did.” Images of the scar across his back flash through my mind. He sure didn’t lie about that.
I turn to see that Dawson isn’t on the sofa anymore. He went to his room, apparently, and his mother walks out of the kitchen and down the hall. I don’t know what to do with myself, so I just sit back down on the sofa.
A few minutes later, his mother reappears from the bedroom, closing the door behind her. She takes a deep breath and looks at me.
“He confessed.”
My breath catches in my throat.
“What?”
“I told you he did it. That kid can’t tell the truth for nothing. I don’t know what I’m going to do with him,” she says, shaking her head as she walks into the kitchen and pours a glass of wine right in the middle of the afternoon. I take that as my cue to leave.
I run to look out the front window for the tenth time, but no one is in the driveway yet. The timer dings on the stove, so I jog back to check on the spaghetti sauce that’s simmering in a pot. The chocolate chip cookies have just finished, so I put them on top of the stove and then run back to the window.
I’m now positive I’ve never been so nervous.
Ethan offered to bring Harper to the house so that our first meeting can be in a “safe” place for both of us, although my childhood home doesn’t always bring back warm and cozy memories. I am determined to change my memories by making it a home for the both of us.
I wonder if she’ll call me Aunt Indy or Mom. Neither sounds right. I have nieces and a nephew in Seattle, but they don’t know me and don’t really call me anything.
Sometimes it makes me feel like a bad person that I don’t have a close bond with my sister and her family, but then I remember that I’ve never been invited to visit. Maybe Amy is waiting for me to make the first move, but I highly doubt it.
I run back to the stove and turn the sauce down just as I hear a car door slam. Instead of standing in the window like some kind of nut job, I stand behind the solid front door, waiting for the inevitable bell. When it rings, I wait for a few moments, not wanting to appear too eager, before I open it.