by Shana Norris
I jumped back, blinking at the sudden change in his demeanor. The truck sputtered to life and the tires squealed as he pulled back onto the road, the spinning tires kicking up dirt and rocks toward me. I coughed, watching as he disappeared down the dip in the road.
Maybe Natalie was right about hillbillies.
I tossed my checkbook onto the passenger seat of my car as I got back in. I would probably never see the guy again, so it didn’t matter if I hadn’t settled the debt.
Leaning over the console, I shoved my hand into the tiny space next to the seat and managed to fish out my phone. I drove until a signal bar finally appeared on the screen, and then I called a number I hadn’t used in years.
“Aunt Lydia?” I said, feeling butterflies erupt in my stomach. “It’s Hannah. I think I’m lost.”
Chapter Two
Aunt Lydia had downsized over the last four years. The beautiful Victorian home she had owned in Willowbrook had been replaced with a small, single story, red brick home. It was nestled at the edge of the steep hill that rose behind it. Pine trees stood over the house, providing privacy from the neighbors.
I slowly pulled onto the driveway. Aunt Lydia was sitting in a swing on the front porch, her feet propped up on the cracked wooden railing. I cut the engine off, but didn’t move from the car. I studied her through my windshield. She was older than my mom, but something about her looked younger. Her blonde hair was pulled back into a ponytail, with strands escaping from the sides. She wore a pink tank top and old jeans, but no shoes on her dirty feet.
This wasn’t the Aunt Lydia I remembered in the stylish business suits she wore to run the museum.
She stepped toward the edge of the porch, giving me a hesitant smile, and I climbed out of the car, smoothing my hands over my denim skirt before making my way across the yard. A layer of pine needles crunched underfoot.
“Hannah,” Aunt Lydia said, smiling warmly at me. She opened her arms and I stepped into them for a hug. I closed my eyes and inhaled the familiar scent of cocoa butter lotion. At least one thing hadn’t changed.
“Do you have a lot of bags?”
I followed Aunt Lydia to my car and she opened the back door to retrieve two red suitcases, stitched with my initials in white.
“Let me guess,” Aunt Lydia said as she looked at the bags. “Your mother bought these.”
I grinned. “Of course.”
Inside, the house looked even smaller than it did from the outside. The living room was tiny, and I bumped into a table as I tried to maneuver past the couch. The walls were a soothing sage green, with paintings of mountain scenery hung on them.
“Sorry, it’s smaller than what you’re used to,” Aunt Lydia said as she carried my bags toward the hallway. “It’s definitely not a big house in a gated community.”
My parents and I used to live in a smaller house, but then my dad’s bank went national and he was named the corporate president and CEO. My parents decided our new lives in the upper class required a new house that reflected our status, with a tall iron gate to keep out the people who didn’t fit in.
“It’s fine,” I told Aunt Lydia. She led me to a tiny bedroom in the back corner of the house. The room contained just a small bedside table and a narrow white bed, with a pink and green striped blanket on it, and a door that opened to reveal the tiniest closet I had ever seen.
“I haven’t gotten around to decorating this room,” Aunt Lydia said as she looked at the empty white walls. “No one ever uses it, so . . .” She shrugged and set my bags on the bed.
“You hungry?” she asked as she turned back to me.
I shook my head. “I’m fine. Just a little tired from the drive.” It was about five hours from Willowbrook to Asheville, and I had gotten stuck in a traffic jam near Raleigh, which added another 45 minutes.
“Take a nap,” Aunt Lydia said. She backed toward the door, looking around as if the reunion was as awkward for her as it was for me. Things had changed over the last four years, and the close relationship we’d once had was long gone. What did she think when she looked at me? Did she think I was too much like my mother, too prim and put together? Was she disappointed in how I had turned out?
“We can go out for dinner later. I know a great local place you’ll love.”
“Okay,” I agreed.
Aunt Lydia gave me a smile before she stepped into the hall and shut the door.
I sat down on the edge of my bed, folding my hands in my lap. I tried to remember what Mark had said. This trip would be a good opportunity for me to get away from everything that held me back. A chance to forget about all the things my parents expected of me, like the Yale college application that I still hadn’t filled out, despite my mom’s insistence on early admission.
In that moment, I made a resolution to myself: over the summer, I was going to be anyone but the Hannah Cohen whom everyone back home expected me to be.
#
“You like Italian food, right?” Aunt Lydia sat close to the steering wheel of her old Land Rover, which rumbled and vibrated so much, I could feel it through the seat. The car sputtered a bit as it pulled itself up the hill, away from her neighborhood.
“Yes,” I said. “We went to Florence last summer.”
Aunt Lydia smirked. “I’m not talking quite that Italian. This is a little mom and pop place. Spaghetti mostly, but they do have really good ravioli. It’s not even from a can!”
She laughed, glancing over at me, and I made myself laugh, too. I had changed into a white sundress and red espadrilles and pulled my hair back with a white headband. Aunt Lydia had raised her eyebrows at my outfit when I came into the living room just before we left. She’d looked down at her ratty jeans and old tank top, then said, “Oh, I guess I’ll change.”
“No, you don’t have to,” I’d told Aunt Lydia, feeling suddenly embarrassed to be so overdressed. Mom always insisted we look nice for dinner. Even before Dad’s bank went big, it was one of Mom’s rules (Rule #17, in fact).
I’d tried to change back into something more casual, but she wouldn’t let me. And so we’d ended up leaving just as we were: me looking like I was going on a date, and Aunt Lydia looking like she was ready to garden.
I rested my head against the cool glass of the passenger window, watching as we slowly drove through Aunt Lydia’s neighborhood. Most of the houses looked the same: red brick and small, with grass that was drying out under the summer sun.
A bright flash of red caught my eye as we turned a corner. A huge oak tree stood on the corner of a yard with piles of old tires leaning against the house, and a bright red plaid shirt hung from one of the lowest tree branches. The shirt swayed back and forth in the breeze, the sleeves flapping like an invisible man waving his arms.
I could only imagine what my mother would say if she was there. Some people don’t care about the image they project to the rest of the world. Aren’t you glad we know better?
We didn’t go all the way into Asheville. The restaurant Aunt Lydia had picked was on the outskirts of town, closer to her house. Tall trees half-hid the little brown building, and a bright green neon sign read: Papa Gino’s.
The restaurant was Italian in the way that people who have never been to Italy think it is. Red-and-white gingham tablecloths covered the little tables, and a pizza buffet was set up along one wall.
“Lydia!” A woman’s voice boomed as we entered the dimly lit room. A tiny, gray-haired woman rushed over to hug Aunt Lydia, and she looked too small for the commanding voice that came out of her. “You haven’t been to see us in ages, Capretta!”
“I’m sorry,” Aunt Lydia said. “I haven’t gotten out much. But my niece is staying with me, so I brought her to meet you.” She gestured toward me. “This is Hannah. Hannah, this is Rita Lagasse.”
The old woman scowled at Aunt Lydia. “Don’t be so formal. Everyone calls me Mama Rita,” she told me, before enveloping me in a tight hug that locked my arms at my sides. For such a small old woman, she was prett
y strong.
Mama Rita led us to a table near one of the few windows in the place. “Best seat in the house,” she said proudly.
“Thank you, Mama,” Lydia said. Mama Rita took our drink order and then hurried away, disappearing through a wooden door.
“So,” Aunt Lydia said, resting her arms on the table and leaning forward, “what are your plans?”
I raised my eyebrows. “Plans?”
“For your visit. Did you have something you wanted to do or see while you’re here?”
I shrugged. “I just came to visit.” I hadn’t really thought about what I’d do in Asheville. My sole focus had been to get away from Willowbrook.
“Okay,” Aunt Lydia said. She furrowed her brow and tapped her fingers on the table. “Hey, you’re a good student, right? There are a lot of museums you can visit around here.”
Visiting museums sounded exactly like something the Hannah I wasn’t supposed to be would do. She would waste away her summer learning while other seventeen-year-olds were out doing whatever it was that normal seventeen-year-olds did. Steal beer? Watch R-rated movies?
“My life coach says I should expand my experiences and try new things,” I said. “So I think museums are out. I’ve been to plenty of those.”
Aunt Lydia stared at me as if I’d grown another head. “What the heck is a life coach?”
I stared down at my hands as a burning sensation crept up my neck. Apparently, Mom had never bothered to tell Aunt Lydia about Mark. “Oh, um . . .” I said, stammering for an explanation that wouldn’t reveal too much. “He’s someone who helps me when I’m confused about something or having a problem. He listens and helps me figure it out.”
“So, like a therapist?”
I glanced around the room quickly to see if anyone had overheard her. “No, he’s a life coach. It’s different.”
“How exactly?” Aunt Lydia asked.
I was saved from answering her question by the return of Mama Rita, who placed two glasses of iced sweet tea on the table between us. “Here you go, girls,” she boomed. “Now, have you decided what to eat yet?”
I looked down at the unopened menu in my hands. I hadn’t even looked at it since we sat down.
Aunt Lydia must have noticed my look of panic because she said, “How about if I pick something out for both of us?”
I nodded and set the menu on the table. “Okay.”
Aunt Lydia ordered two plates of ravioli, Caesar salads, and mozzarella sticks. After Mama Rita left, we sat at the table in silence. A long time ago, Aunt Lydia and I had been so close that I used to pretend she was my older sister. No matter how structured and ordered to perfection things were at my house, Aunt Lydia would always let me be a kid when I was around her.
But now I didn’t know what to say to her. The silence stretched on, becoming more and more uncomfortable. I sipped my tea, then carefully set the glass down, wiping away the beads of condensation on the glass. I reached over to adjust the little silk rose in the glass vase on the center of the table so that the leaves were aligned evenly on each side.
Then I realized this was something my mother would do. I let my hand drop back to my lap.
Aunt Lydia had been watching me without speaking. She sipped her own drink, then said, “Do you drink?”
My gaze snapped up to meet her blue eyes. “Drink?” I asked.
Aunt Lydia nodded. “You know. Alcohol.”
I wrinkled my forehead as I stared back at her, wondering where this question had come from. “No, I don’t drink.”
She raised her eyebrows, but didn’t say anything as she studied me for a moment. At last, she said, “Okay. Alcoholism can be genetic, Hannah. Just keep that in mind.”
“My dad has a problem with prescription drugs, not alcohol,” I whispered.
Aunt Lydia wiped her lips with a napkin. “I wasn’t talking about your dad.”
“Who then?” I asked.
“You know who.”
My mouth dropped open. “Mom?” My voice came out high and squeaky, and an older couple at a nearby table glanced my way. I leaned forward, lowering my voice. “You think Mom is an alcoholic?”
Aunt Lydia crossed her arms, but she didn’t say anything.
The idea bounced around in my head, leaving me buzzing.
“Mom is a social drinker,” I said. “She has a few cocktails at parties. She doesn’t sit in front of the TV binging on six-packs every night.”
“Alcoholism has a lot of different faces, Hannah,” Aunt Lydia said with a shrug. “I just want you to be careful.”
I couldn’t think of a response to this. My mom wasn’t an alcoholic—that would mean she wasn’t perfect in public. It was impossible.
Aunt Lydia cleared her throat. “How is your father?”
My jaw clenched as an icy chill raced down my spine. “Fine. Mom says he’s enjoying himself at the . . . the center.”
Even though I couldn’t say the word rehab, I refused to call it a resort like Mom did.
Aunt Lydia nodded. “That’s good. I hope he can get the help he needs there.”
I shrugged. “I’m sure he’ll come back refreshed and ready to get back to work.”
“Do you think that’s a good idea?” Aunt Lydia asked. “Him going back to work so quickly? He almost died, after all. Maybe all the stress of his job is what caused him to start taking the—”
“I’d really rather not talk about this at dinner,” I said. Rule #6: No unpleasant discussions at dinner. It ruins digestion.
Aunt Lydia pressed her lips together, but then she nodded. “If that’s what you want, Hannah. But I’m here if you want to talk about it.”
I would never want to talk about it. I didn’t want to think about my dad, or what he had done.
He almost died, after all.
I hated him for putting us through that, but more than anything, I hated the small part of me that wished he had died. At least then, I would know that I’d never have to make another 911 phone call, or pretend that it was normal for him to spend his summer at rehab.
I spotted Mama Rita walking backward through the swinging kitchen door with a tray balanced on one hand. Our appetizers and salads. Thank goodness.
“I’m starving,” I lied as Mama Rita brought the food over. “I’m really too hungry and tired to talk. Can we just eat?”
Aunt Lydia smiled, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Sure. I promise, you’ll love the food.”
#
After dinner, Aunt Lydia let me drive her car back from the restaurant, saying that I would become more familiar with the area if I spent some time driving through it. As we drove, she told me stories about the city and pointed out a few of her favorite places. I was happy to let her do all the talking while I focused on maneuvering the huge, rumbling vehicle. It was nothing like my tiny car.
“Stop at the end of the driveway and I’ll get the mail,” Aunt Lydia said as I turned carefully into her drive.
The car stopped with a groan and Aunt Lydia hopped out. She slammed the door shut behind her and then waved me on as she headed toward the mailbox. I eased the huge Land Rover forward into the carport next to the house. As I got out of the car, I noticed a huge pile of boxes on the front porch that I hadn’t seen before.
“I couldn’t find the size you wanted,” said a voice behind the boxes. “So I bought the closest I could get. Sorry.”
I stepped back from the porch as a girl popped up from behind the pile. Her overalls were paint-splattered and looked four sizes too big. She wore a fitted white T-shirt that had ridden up to reveal a stretch of brown skin of her lower back.
She looked at me, blowing a lock of dyed orange hair out of her eyes.
“You’re not Lydia,” she said, narrowing her brown eyes.
I shook my head. “No, sorry.”
“Where’s Lydia?”
I pointed back at the driveway, where Aunt Lydia was still at the mailbox, sorting through a stack of mail.
The gi
rl brightened. “She’s actually checking her mail? This is progress.” She waved her arms wide and called out, “Lydia!”
“Hey, Ashton!” Aunt Lydia called back. She started up the driveway toward us, smiling brightly.
“I got the canvases, but not the size you wanted,” the girl, apparently named Ashton, called.
“What?” Aunt Lydia called back.
“I got the canvases!” The girl yelled louder, cupping her hands around her mouth. “But not the right size!”
“Bring them in and I’ll take a look!”
The girl blew her hair out of her eyes again and then looked at me. “Do you think you could help me carry these things to the studio?” she asked.
I shrugged. “Sure.”
I wasn’t sure exactly where we were going. If Aunt Lydia had a studio in the house, I hadn’t yet seen it. Ashton had a key to the house and opened the lock, pushing the front door open.
“I’m Ashton McNeil, by the way,” the girl called over her shoulder.
“Hannah Cohen,” I told her.
“Lydia’s niece?” Ashton asked, raising her eyebrows. “She’s talked about you before, but she didn’t say you were coming.”
I couldn’t help feeling surprised that Aunt Lydia had mentioned me to this girl.
“It was kind of a last minute thing,” I said, shrugging. “I decided not to go to Paris, and to come to Asheville instead.”
Ashton snorted. “Oh, yeah, I decided not to go to Paris last week, too.” She smirked as she hefted the boxes into my arms.
They were heavier than they looked, with paint fumes rising up from the cardboard and stinging my nose. Ashton picked up the stack of canvases and hefted them onto her shoulder as she walked into the house. She seemed to know the house well enough to know exactly where she was going.
In the hall, Ashton reached up to pull at the string to the attic. The wooden ladder unfolded and then she began to climb, expertly keeping the canvases balanced on her shoulder as she went up. My mouth went dry as I looked up at the ladder. I’d always had a fear of heights. Anything more than three feet above ground was enough to make me dizzy.