A Quiet Neighbor

by Harper Kim

  From where she was perched, Loral could watch the pools of water evaporate before her eyes on the sun-drenched concrete. The sounds of laughter, giggles, and the occasional cannonball rippled through the lazy air and settled into the densely-vegetated canyon below, among the drone of Japanese beetles and the chirping of warblers. And somewhere in the distance, a leaf-blower seemed to hum endlessly.

  Empty vessel, sinking deep.

  Loral Holmes:

  2:00 P.M.

  There are days I think to myself that I shouldn’t exist; that the world would be better if I wasn’t here. I shouldn’t even be here. Why am I? What purpose do I have? Then I look at Tory and Bella and I wonder all over again.

  I feel hollow. It is like the world is moving all around me and I’m thinning in the shadows, or looking from above. My thoughts and actions have no purpose, no real meaning. I’m just here, breathing, not alive, yet not quite dead; lost.

  At seventeen years old, a month into my senior year of high school, I’m supposed to be having the time of my life, dreaming and wishing and seeking mischief—and yet, what am I doing? I’m perched on the roof, bored out of my mind, watching my half-sisters have all the fun. I can actually see excitement ripple from their goose-bumped flesh as they splash and play in the heavily chlorinated water. Am I actually jealous of a six- and five-year-old?

  “Bella, no!” In a blink of an eye, I watch as my five-year-old sister trips over one of the loose shingles on the roof and teeters back to center. How did she get on the roof so fast? Bella has always been the fearless one, ever since she came kicking and screaming into this world, while Tory has been the reserved and well-behaved one.

  Luckily there is time to grab Bella before she foolishly tries to repeat my idiotic stunt from a couple months back. How could I have been so stupid? Of course, at the time, I wasn’t thinking. All I wanted was to feel.

  It was one of the hottest days of summer and I was on the roof mad about something Tess said or did and I got this crazy idea to jump off the roof and into the sparkling pool below. The pool was beckoning me to jump in. In all honesty, I was having one of my pity-me thought parties and my curiosity got the better of me, plus it was really hot. Isn’t there a saying, “curiosity killed the cat?” Well, I was secretly hoping I was that cat and I was on my ninth life.

  How was I supposed to know that the time I decided to hedge my bets on life, Bella was looking out the kitchen window, ready and eager to copy my actions? Yes, I know children are impressionable—well, so are young adults for that matter. But, it’s not like I was an older sister all my life. I just got thrown into the role.

  Besides having to watch what I say and do, I also have no privacy. Sharing a room with two sisters who are at widely different stages in their lives than I am is difficult. They’re just learning the alphabet and how to tell time, while I’m about to start diving into the real world as an adult. At least I have the roof as my sanctuary. It is where I come to write, think, and be.

  “Bella, how many times do I have to tell you, that you have to be at least my age before you are allowed on the roof?”

  Bella pushes out her lips into a heavy pout. “But, it’s too far away. I wanna jump now.”

  Frustration overwhelms me as I try grasping for composure. “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because it’s dangerous.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it’s too high up and you can break a bone or die.”

  “Why?”

  Fuck! “Because I said so.”

  “Bella, let’s play mermaids and Loral can be our mermaid-mommy and make us special treats.”

  God bless Tory’s quick thinking and Bella’s love for snacks. I guide Bella down the ladder and bring her over to Tory. Dressed in the same flowery one-piece with neon greens, blues, and pinks, Tory giggles before jumping into the pool, hand in hand, with her sister. I watch in relief as Bella forgets about her frown and follows Tory’s lead, swimming around like a lopsided fish.

  Was I ever that easy to please? No, I was always too old for my age. There was a time I felt like I was aging at warp speed internally while my physical appearance stayed the same. I might have been five and looked five, but I felt like I was thirty going on forty.

  I don’t think I was ever allowed to be young and happy; I came into the world with one eye open.

  I blame my dad, or the man that should be my dad, biologically. The section on my birth certificate that reads Father was left blank. Tess didn’t even bother to write in his name. She claims she didn’t know, but there has always been speculation and talk of what kind of man he was.

  There was a time I wished he was important, like the President of the United States; a man too busy to come home to take care of me because he had so many other people counting on him. But then I grew up. At least the girls have a dad who loves them and tries to take care of them.

  Tory wasn’t far off when she gave me the imaginary role of mermaid-mommy. Most of the time I do feel more like their mother than their older sister. With Tess gone most of the day selling houses, working the bottle, or if history repeats itself—which it was prone to do—coaxing a man to bed, and Mr.-oblivious-stay-at-home-stepdad staying boxed in the house to brood during the day and sulk at night, it is no wonder that I took on the brunt of the domestic and child-rearing duties. It isn’t like there is anything better to do around here anyways.

  And with me being a social outcast who daydreams in class, shows no interest in the plethora of after school clubs and activities, and—besides my so-called boyfriend—has no friends to speak of, I am a self-proclaimed loner. Taking care of my baby sisters at least provides me with some life purpose, or at least, did.

  Being uprooted every few years, I learned at a young age that it was easier to stay numb and distant than to get involved and attached. Friends were difficult to keep since I changed schools every time Tess found a new guy or got tired of one. Good-byes were always tearful and depressing, but what was harder were the trailing calls, lost letters, broken promises, and the understanding that I was replaceable. My friends eventually forgot about me, while the girls at the new school were entering their impressionable years, making the new girl the outsider.

  It wasn’t like I expected any of my classmates to include me in their already formed circles of friends. I was constantly dropping in and out from somewhere, and I never knew how long I would be staying at one school or another because I didn’t know how long Tess’s new relationship would last.

  I was completely alone. And once puberty hit, I felt the wrath of every girl that got cursed with the underdeveloped, ugly stick. I became viewed as a threat and that lovely title was not going to help me make friends, so I retreated further into my writing.

  I really could not care less if I was thought of as pretty. I mean, it’s not like being pretty has done Tess any favors. Tess is the quintessential alcoholic that prides herself on knowing when she’s reached her limit. As a successful real estate agent, she brags about her clairvoyance and people skills when it is well known that her striking good looks, pouty lips, and easy smile land her the big-money sales.

  Our tagline reads: Beauty, effortless and striking.

  While Tess takes advantage of what men deem riveting, I feel it is completely useless. We have what women consider the trademark look: long, lean curves with trusting lake-blue eyes that sparkle against a smooth ivory complexion, hair soft and playful. Where Tess’s hair is a thick sea of salon-pampered wheat-blond waves, mine is a ruler straight mass of unadulterated rich brown. And while Tess makes a conscious effort to conceal the fine lines and dark circles of a woman nearing forty with a penchant for vodka tonics in smoky bars, I tend to keep my skin naked and clear of chemicals, powders, and creams.

  For eleven years it had been just Tess and Loral, Loral and Tess, the stunning duo. Men came in waves and some lingered longer than others. Few actually made it into the house, and even fewer got to meet me, for which I’m gra
teful. Those that crossed the barrier to a woman’s heart knew that meeting the children was a crucial step toward “putting a ring on it” and made a valiant attempt to impress—all, that is, except for Brett.

  Brett wasn’t like the other guys that came and went. He didn’t try winning my affection with plastic dolls and pretty hair clips. He didn’t try telling lavish stories about the places he’d supposedly traveled and the outlandish adventures he’d undertaken. And most importantly, he never laid a hand on me, raised his voice, or inappropriately touched me. Brett did and does none of those things. What he does instead is avoid me like the plague. He freezes and runs the other way.

  One can’t fault a guy for being strange, but can I fault myself for being the cause? I have no idea what it is that causes his strangeness. He’s a handsome guy that loves cars and sports, meaning he’s a normal guys-guy. Tess doesn’t pick pansies—well, maybe she did once, but that’s beside the point.

  The last guy Tess was seeing turned out to be a jerk who made me feel slimy every time he came over, and in the bitter end, was caught canoodling with Tess’s younger and more voluptuous receptionist. The break-up was explosive, the doe-eyed slut was fired, and a young male receptionist hired to console.

  The point, dramatic as it may have been, had been made and left me guarded and hostile toward Tess’s future interests with the opposite sex.

  With all the previous examples, I figured it best to keep my distance and not get attached. There was no point in getting attached anyways, when there was a ninety-nine percent chance he was primarily being used as eye-candy, like the others that came before him, and would soon be reduced to a tiny puddle of sugared syrup within the next few months. How was I to know that Brett would be in the one percent?

  Months turned into years and years turned into a house and two adorable half-sisters. A large part of me aches to be included in this new family dynamic, but with years of rejection, that part has hardened into a gnawed peach pit.

  What is so wrong with me that my stepfather jumps at the chance to run in the other direction? Why can’t he treat me like a normal person? Do I produce a foul odor? Do I speak out of turn or raise my voice? Do I arouse unhealthy desires in him? Ugh, what am I thinking; I’m not my mother.

  All I wanted was to belong. Have friends. Be a part of something bigger than myself. But once I knew I wasn’t going to get that, I retreated into myself and my unspoken words. I wrote and wrote feverishly. So now instead of attending birthday parties and sleepovers, I sit perched on the roof and write poems and short stories, slowly waiting for my eighteenth birthday when I can start a completely new life. A life with more substance. A life with a clear beginning, middle, and end. A life I can finally call my own.

  “Mermaid-Mommy, aren’t you hungry? I think Mermaid-Mommy wants snack’ms.”

  Down below, Bella tries desperately to keep up with Tory, but her orange arm floats make it impossible for her to maneuver in the water. Already tired of the game, Bella’s wide smile is both innocent and mischievous. If I didn’t have five years of experience and a couple weak moments tucked under my belt, I might have fallen for those twinkling, melt-your-heart-like-butter eyes. But I know better, and am no longer fazed by their preened innocence.

  “Actually, I’m fine. Thanks, Bella for thinking about me, but I can stay out for hours without delicious-lick-my-lips snacks.”

  Bella frowns, her eyes welling on cue. The first time she accomplished that, I was proud. The second, not so much. “Maybe, can you bring us a snack? Huh, Loral? Pu-leaz?”

  I sigh. How can I say no to that face? “If you two play quietly in the shallow end and don’t try anything dangerous, I’ll bring you both a glass of lemonade and some crackers.”

  Bella pouts at the word crackers. To her chubby ears, crackers equal healthy, which equals not delicious. Before she can complain and explain in her five-year-old vocabulary how cookies are better for you than crackers, Tory interrupts and responds excitedly on their behalf. “Thanks, Mermaid-Mommy. We can do that.”

  “Good. I’ll be right back. Remember, I’ll know if you don’t keep your word. Mermaid-mommies have heightened sight and hearing.” I give each of them one last commanding look before climbing down the ladder and quickly entering the house. All I hear is muffled giggles and light splashing. I estimate I have about ten minutes before Bella gets antsy and makes a move.

  I am halfway to the fridge to retrieve the pitcher of lemonade I made earlier when I notice Brett casually hunched over the white-tiled countertop making a sloppy sandwich. Unaware of my presence, he takes a swig of beer and lets out a single belch.

  Straddling the frayed living room carpet and kitchen linoleum, I contemplate whether to leave and come back once he returns to his bedroom hideout or brave the awkward silence that will ensue. Letting out a straggled breath I step onto the linoleum, yellowed with age and lifting at the corners. My palms grow clammy and my pulse quickens. I tuck my fingers into the tiny pockets of my jeans to steady them. There is no reason to be nervous, but I am. It’s been six years and yet we still feel like strangers.

  The afternoon light filters in from the window above the sink and glints off his dark hair. His black hair is slicked back, framing the sharp angles of his stern face with photographic precision. And with his brooding blue eyes weighed down by thick dark lashes, he could make any woman weak in the knees. But why does it have to be my mother?

  Brett is thirty-four years old, five years Tess’s junior. At six-foot-three, he towers over me, adding to the discomfort. As always, Tess chose her significant other with a discerning eye, trained to spot out the genuine leather from the faux-imitation. But somewhere behind that strong handsome face is a darkness that lingers. A secret, hidden beneath a cool exterior. Sometimes the unknown is to be feared more than the known.

  I fear the unknown inside of Brett.

  Drawing in a few deep breaths, I coax a smile. “Making a sammy?”

  Upon hearing my voice, Brett stubs his foot against the metal stool that is precariously placed under the counter and turns. Wincing from the pain, he clumsily picks up his plate that holds a turkey and cheddar sandwich on two slices of wheat bread. Hummus oozes out the middle where he had taken a cursory bite. His brooding eyes flicker momentarily to mine before settling on his plate. Hunger seems to ebb from his mind. Hesitating, he picks up his half-finished plate and mumbles, “Oh, hey Loral, help yourself.”

  I am about to inform him that there is lemonade in the fridge when he shuts me out.

  Without lifting his eyes, Brett quickly sidles behind the kitchen table, brushing against the plastic blinds, to cross over to the living room. The blinds rattle nosily, the bottom plastic scraping roughly against the windowsill. I flinch from the sound. Brett avoids taking the direct route—straight across the linoleum floor, between the marker-scribbled oak table and fridge—on the off chance we’ll touch.

  I watch Brett in silence as he makes a beeline up the stairs. Before I know it, I am swallowing a large lump in the back of my throat. Willing away the stinging tears that fill my eyes, I turn toward the fridge. Gripping the handle with clenched fists I tug open the door with enough strength to rock the bottles and jars inside. The cool burst of air alleviates some of the sting, but not all.

  When Brett appeared in my life six years ago and married Tess a few months after Tory was born, I thought his awkward behavior was due to his new surroundings and the fact that he was intruding on a somewhat dysfunctional mother-daughter family. Sure, we had our quirks, but I was positive that every family had their share of antics and what most psychologists would peg as “dysfunctional tendencies.” Then there was the added stress of being a new father, husband, and stepfather. Surely, he needed time to adjust, but six years was more than enough time, and he still seems stuck and unwilling to let go of whatever he is holding back.

  Once, awhile back when the awkwardness raked at my troubled thoughts, I invaded Brett’s space and tried asking him point blank what
it was about me that he couldn’t stand.

  It was a Monday night. Tess was still at work and the girls were sleeping. After showering and changing into my drawstring shorts and nightshirt, I headed downstairs for a glass of water. Brett was on the couch with a cold beer in his hand watching a Lakers game. His legs were kicked up comfortably on the low glass table and his free hand was tucked behind his head. He didn’t notice me standing awkwardly by the foot of the stairs, hair dripping, because if he did, I’m sure he would have high-tailed it out of there.

  When the game reached a commercial break—the one with the idiotic Doublemint Twins riding on a tandem bike—I slipped out of the shadows and took a seat on the scratchy upholstered loveseat opposite the leather couch. His body tensed immediately. The beer can crackled under his tightened grasp. His eyes searched for an escape, but alas, he remained sitting, face dark and unmoving in the shifting, bluish glow of the television screen.

  Just as with any other difficult conversation, it started off with me clearing my throat and the obvious question, “Brett, can we talk?”

  The basketball game came back on but neither one of us watched. Brett’s eyes were fixed on the screen but they weren’t moving with excitement; they remained rigid and cold. His voice, almost inaudible, came out in airy puffs. “Sure Loral. What’s this about?”

  For a moment, I lost confidence and my voice wavered. My brow creased trying to formulate the words into educated sentences. This was an adult conversation and I wasn’t about to get tossed aside like a nagging child. Fidgeting with my shirt, I said, “Why do you avoid me?”

  Brett jerked in alarm by my bluntness. Cold sweat beaded along his hairline. His hands were shaking as he set the beer down on the table. Condensation rimmed under the can. Rubbing his agitated hands roughly against his jeans he shifted in his seat. “I’m not.”

  “Do you not like me?”

  “I like you.”