The dreams were always the same. I was standing on a gravel, pine tree lined road. There was always a huge blue sky, dotted with clouds. Most impressive was the water that rushed past the pine trees. It was blue—spectacularly blue. The color seemed like the blue of the ocean and yet it had a striking difference as it tumbled over an assortment of rocks. It was the most intense color of blue I had ever seen. My mind somehow knew it was a wide and deep river. The dream was so vivid near the end, I could almost actually smell pine and river water—I didn’t even know what river water smelled like. I had never lived anywhere near a river so I had no words to describe the scent. It was the tangy salt water I loved so the dream constantly confused me. Despite the confusion, I always felt calm while slumbering in the wide, open space and each time I experienced this dream, it was serene and comforting.
I had spent months wondering why this dream found me each night. When my parents announced our move to Montana, the meaning of my pine tree lined dream came into focus, like when I adjust the lens on my camera before taking what I hope will be the perfect picture. But there was no way this picture would be perfect. I didn’t hold the tiniest ray of hope for a picture perfect life in Montana.
I snapped from my reverie as we approached our final destination—Blue River, Montana, population 2,984. As quickly as flipping a switch, I knew I was about to start a life of complete misery. Why must I share in Aaron’s imprisonment? Preparation must have been the message of the dream, and I just didn’t see it or maybe I just didn’t understand. Dang it! I cursed myself for not being able to decode the dream because if I could have, I would have had the chance to run away.
Blue River was a town of two stop lights, two cafés, a post office, three schools—elementary, middle, and high school—a small grocery store, and a whole bunch of bars. I snickered to myself. I bet they call them saloons in these here parts of the country. I wasn’t even certain this place could even be called a town. It was more like a dot on a map—a place that barely existed. Gag. I felt nauseated at the idea of calling Blue River my home.
The nausea passed and my gift for sarcasm returned. “So is this what they call a one horse town?” I asked.
“One horse town? What’s that mean?” asked Aaron.
Dad replied, “It’s an old expression that means it’s such a small town, with so few people, that one horse is the only means of transportation.”
“And it can also mean it’s so small that everyone is a backwards thinking, weird ass redneck,” I interjected.
“What do you mean by backwards thinking?” asked Aaron.
“Holy shit, Aaron! Read a book!” I exclaimed.
“Addy, watch your language,” chastised Mom. “Aaron, backwards thinking means they are…behind the times…not up to current thought and ways of living. Which is not the case in Blue River.” She emphasized her last words.
Aaron wrinkled his nose as if he regretted asking for definitions.
“But lucky for you, spaz, they’re probably stuck somewhere in the sixties where drugs are everywhere and prohibition is over.”
Mom and Dad ignored what I said while Aaron quickly looked to see if they were watching; they weren’t. He mouthed the words, “I hope so” to me.
I mouthed back, “I hate you.”
He stuck his tongue out at me and right as I decided to return the favor, Mom turned around and saw me.
“Addy, aren’t you a bit too old to be sticking your tongue out at your brother,” she scolded.
I rolled my eyes. It just figures that I would get caught and he wouldn’t.
Dad decided to clarify. “I’d say Blue River is quite a bit bigger than a one horse town.”
“You’re right, it’s a large prison—with one horse and two wardens,” I corrected.
Mom let out a heavy sigh. “Please give this the chance it deserves,” she said in her usual serious tone. She turned around and looked at me, her green eyes searing a hole in me as if that would make me understand the seriousness of the situation. She looked away and rubbed her pale, freckled fingers on her temples to release the tension.
“Quit frowning, Mother. It’ll make you look old someday,” I paused for effect, then added, “By the way, I don’t have to support the Aaron Davis rescue mission or give ANYTHING a chance, got it?”
“Addy, don’t talk to your mother that way,” admonished Dad. His voice was as tired as his body so I knew a long lecture wouldn’t follow.
Despite Aaron’s lethargy, he managed to pay attention to my words and chimed in with, “Dude, that’s tight—Aaron Davis Rescue Mission. I like it.”
I immediately reacted by punching him in the arm.
“Ow!” Aaron whined like a three-year-old boy. “Stop it. That hurt.” He didn’t bother attempting a return punch as he didn’t have the energy to finish something he started.
“Addy.” My dad’s voice was soft, but his tone sent the message loud and clear. I had finally exhausted his last nerve and he was usually the sensible, sensitive one but not when it came to this move. He was throwing it all away to follow Mom’s commands.
I peered over at Dad as he drove. I wondered as I examined him why he wasn’t my hero today. Perhaps it was because he was my dad and I loved him, but I considered him to be a handsome man. His dark hair had begun to gray at the temples, making him look distinguished. His glasses made him look intelligent which was in all actuality the truth. He usually wore a friendly smile, but Aaron’s antics had begun to slowly make Dad’s smile fade and he now wore worry creases around his eyes. In fact, when I really took the time to examine my parents, they both seemed to have aged a great deal over the last year. I made a mental note to hate Aaron for that as well.
After we picked up some groceries at Brody’s Supermarket, the smallest, most pathetic excuse of a grocery store I had ever seen, we passed back through town. We then took a right, went about three miles, then turned right onto what I deemed a very long driveway with each side lined in huge, mature pine trees. My mouth fell open in disbelief. It was jarring how much this image matched my dream. The only part missing in my dream was the two story, white, farm-style house sitting at the end of the driveway that now lay before me.
When I recovered from what felt like déjá vu, I asked, “Is this it? Is this seriously where you plan to force your children to live?” It was a shack compared to our home in California and there sure wasn’t a swimming pool in the backyard or a nearby beach party.
My dad seemed to be looking at a completely different house because he was absolutely beaming. He was suddenly uplifted and overflowing with joy. Aaron needed professional help and they thought moving him here was a brilliant way to avoid that fact, but that was only part of the story.
The other part of the story was my dad’s desire to live in the Northwest. He had wanted to move to Montana for years. In all honesty, I thought he was being opportunistic using Aaron’s addiction as a reason to leave California. “We should have wide open spaces, a garden, maybe raise some animals. It would be good for us,” Dad would say. Ugh. It all sounded dirty and disgusting to me. Not only that, I’m sure Mom came up with this idea as some new form of therapy that she would later write a book about.
I looked back on why all of this was happening. A few years ago, Aaron started to drink beer. A while after I knew he was drinking, I saw him taking shots of tequila at a party, but who am I to rat him out? I didn’t think much of it, but then he started to drink every night. Shortly afterwards he started to experiment with pot, and I could’ve sworn I overheard something about crack. His friends started to just dump him on the front yard, passed out. He wouldn’t be found until he missed his curfew and Dad would go looking for him. When Mom found a mini-pot farm in his closet, I knew Aaron was both intelligent and stupid all at the same time because he had the brains to create a whole system that kept ten plants alive and growing yet was dumb enough to do it in our home.
My parent’s ability to deal with Aaron went downhill from there. T
heir plot was devised behind my back and without even asking me what I thought. It all seemed incredibly unfair. For all the preaching my mom did about family togetherness, this move seemed altogether wrong. It was wrong since it was not a united family decision and it didn’t make any sense. My mom was a trained psychologist who knew better than to deal with Aaron’s problem by running away. She was normally so logical, almost to a fault. I feel like there are other reasons behind this move and I want to know what they are!
“We’re home!” declared Dad, as he placed the SUV into park.
Mom reached over and patted Dad on the back. I rolled my eyes and exited the car. I tried to take pictures but it was difficult to even want these pictures since the images were so undesirable. Tears began to form in my eyes so I turned my back, not wanting to give Aaron the satisfaction of seeing me cry. I wiped away a tear and regained my composure. I flicked the switch on my anger button, sniffed back a tear then punched Aaron in the arm. “Well, brat, we’ve arrived at the prison. Good job.” My entire statement was thick with sarcasm.
“What the…?” He stopped short, finding no words to complete his sentence. With the way Aaron gaped at the house, it may as well had been an actual prison with bars and barbed wire fencing.
The house was about 80 years old and the outside desperately needed to be painted. It was so dilapidated I was certain years of work would be required to turn it into a livable dwelling. A second floor window shutter literally dangled by one nail, creaking as it swayed back and forth in the wind. Part of the front porch railing was disconnected and leaning forward. There wasn’t one part of the house or the property that didn’t need work; everything looked like it needed a magic wand waved over it. I need a fairy godmother! The only part that looked somewhat attractive was the room on the east end of the house with bay windows. I envisioned it as becoming my parent’s home office. They always had to have an office.
The property was about five acres, or so I had overheard Dad say, with one acre near the house landscaped, and very poorly at that. I had to admit I could imagine that at one time this home had been loved and taken care of, but right now, it looked like a complete disaster. It fit the moment. There was also an apple orchard that had been neglected. It all needed to be brought back to life—much like myself. There were two outbuildings also in need of work; they didn’t seem functional—much like Aaron.
The door creaked as Dad opened it, and with one step into the house, I knew this would be a very long summer. My parents had already talked about all the work that needed to be done and that keeping Aaron’s hands busy meant keeping his mind off his wayward choices. Now that I think of it, those were Dad’s words not Mom’s. Despite how sometimes my dreams had actually come to fruition, no amount of dreaming could have prepared me for this moment. The carpet was avocado green and the curtains burnt orange. I walked from room-to-room, feeling like I was trapped in a Spielberg novel and something was about to climb out of the floor and kill me. The kitchen walls were pink with yellow tea cup wallpaper and if that wasn’t bad enough, for some reason the previous owner had chosen gold linoleum flooring. On top of everything else, there was an incredibly disgusting odor. I gagged. The house smelled of an array of cat piss, dust, and some other unidentifiable scent. I bet there’s a dead body in here somewhere.
I climbed the wooden stairs, hearing various creaks along the way, finding what would become my bedroom on the second floor. The ceiling was the type of architecture I would have pictured in an attic—low points that ascended to a vaulted ceiling with large wooden beams; unlike a dark, dingy, attic, this room was actually very open and white. I hated admitting to myself that I liked the wood floor and the ceiling. Surprisingly, the room had potential and since it would be my hideaway until I left for college next year, I began to visualize the changes I could make.
As I considered my options, I caught a glimpse of the outside view. I walked to the large window and pulled back the dusty, white sheer curtain. I coughed. I think I just inhaled a hairball. The room faced west, just like my California bedroom, but unlike my California bedroom, this Montana bedroom had a view of a sunset like I’d never before seen. I had found yet another point I hated to admit—the view of the mountains was breathtaking. My mouth fell open at the beautiful sight. I tried to pull the window up to lean out, but due to a lot of warping and not being opened in years, the window was stuck. It didn’t budge an inch. It was an easy thought to dismiss; I would worry about the window tomorrow.
I left to find my luggage, shared a glare with Aaron before he entered his room, and then pounded down the stairs. With great reluctance, I offered my help. We unloaded our luggage, and when I handled baggage that belonged to Aaron, I tossed it to the ground a little bit harder than I ordinarily would have, pretending it was actually his body I was throwing around.
As we picnicked on the floor with the “chicken meal deal” we got from Brody’s, I noticed despite my mom’s best efforts to improve the floor, the stench remained. The smell of this decrepit house is slowly destroying my lungs! Since we would be spending the night in sleeping bags on the avocado green floor, I was grateful exhaustion would probably claim my body and my senses. Right before sleep found me, I thought of the moving truck arriving in the morning with the remainder of our possessions, especially my dad’s beloved car. In all honesty, I loved that car more than he did and he knew it. We each took a sleeping bag, claimed a spot on the floor, and tried to relax into a blissful slumber. Nope! I was wrong. I couldn’t ignore the odor and now that I was on the floor, I picked up a new scent, Ben-Gay. Between the house and its odor, I couldn’t help but picture the previous owner must have been a blue-haired lady, rocking in a chair while knitting a cap. My endurance no longer held up. I was too exhausted to cry, which meant a complete meltdown was in my future, but thankfully tonight, Mr. Sandman found me first.
********
The next morning the moving truck arrived. I couldn’t believe they found us in the boon-docks of Montana. It seemed to take forever, but by that night we had given the house some semblance of order. It smelled much better, too. The pantry and refrigerator were full and our possessions slowly took over each room. Surreal faded away as reality set in so, I did the only thing I could think would matter to me. I started to plaster my bedroom walls with photos of California—the beach, the ocean, palm trees, my friends—and after making my bed, I flopped myself onto it and the meltdown began. I was certain the sweet release of death would have been better.
That night I had a dream. I kept hearing the honk of a car horn and then I felt the rush of excitement. I was in a parking lot that I didn’t recognize. I would turn around and around until I felt dizzy. All I could identify were the cars passing by and when I stopped spinning, everything turned brown.
3. Encounters
“Now, you’re sure you remember where the store is right?” asked Dad.
I turned to face him and threw my hands on my hips. “I’m pretty sure I can find it, Dad—one horse town, remember?” I sarcastically replied.
“Okay, but take your cell phone just in case. I’m not sure you’ll get service. Blue River doesn’t have a cell tower yet, but you just never know.”
“What do you mean they don’t have a cell tower?”
“I mean, they have one, but it’s down and they have no idea when service will be up again.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“Sorry, princess.”
“I’m so over this nightmare,” I muttered.
As I walked away I heard a final, “and please be careful with my car.”
I shook my head in disgust. When will I ever be considered an adult? I can’t wait to be eighteen!
I slowly slid into the driver’s seat of Dad’s Aston Martin as if it were made of fine crystal. Once I settled into the seat, I caressed the steering wheel like it was the face of a newborn baby. “I missed you,” I whispered, then laughed at myself for talking to a car.
I loved this car
and right now, it was my only true friend. It was the only relationship that wasn’t going to disappoint me. The red Aston Martin Vantage Roadster convertible called to me. I needed to drive it at least once a week to feel complete. I knew it was silly to love an object so much, but I couldn’t help myself.
I felt another twinge of excitement that I couldn’t identify. Maybe it was the dream and now I was over analyzing it out of desperation. It felt like something exhilarating would happen today, but that hardly seemed possible. What can happen in a dumpy little town in, of all places, Montana? There was definitely an excited feeling in my stomach. I had been stuck at the “new” house for days so maybe the mere fact I was escaping the confines of Aaron’s prison gave me the butterflies in my belly.
I tried to go slow, but once I was away from the house, I tore down the gravel, pine tree lined driveway in the Aston Martin. I was on my way to Brody’s Supermarket. It was hardly “super” and barely a “market,” but it was the only grocery store in town. I put the top down on the car, a decision I immediately regretted when I got my first whiff of the fresh country air. The scent was a mixture of alfalfa fields and cow crap, forming a not-so-pleasant bouquet of “ew.” I officially decided that fresh air was highly overrated. But I endured the painful tingle in my nostrils because I wanted to feel my long, blond hair flying in the wind as I pretended I was driving down the California coastline. For just a fraction of a second, I closed my eyes to get a mental image, took a deep breath but was pulled back from my reverie as the scent of Montana touched my nostrils again. The smell of this so-called fresh Montana air is going to make it extremely difficult to fantasize that I am living in California! Just as I was getting comfortable with the smell, a monster-sized fly buzzed by my ear. I kept smacking it away and it kept coming back for more. Man, these Montana bugs are tenacious little bastards!
My Blue River Page 2