by Eliza Grace
But I move into the kitchen since I’ve been summoned, ready to see this Matthew with the contradictory voice and vocabulary. When I see his face and the way he is smiling in my direction, I stop rolling forward. He looks a bit like Hoyt, but he has Aaron’s dark brown hair and blue eyes, that are wide-set and fit on either side of his nose perfectly. The smile though is uniquely his own. He’s a dream to look at, the kind of guy that’s just too perfect to be real. And there’s something about him that resonates, that draws me in, but there’s also something about him that repels me. Or, rather, there is some separate force that causes me to be repelled. That makes no sense, dummy.
As I get nearer to him, there is the hint of something wafting toward me that further repels me. It is acrid and decaying, like rotten meat. The smell, or impression of it, is quickly lost within the floral notes of Jen’s perfume and the fruity notes of the aerosol fragrance that automatically sprays into the house every thirty minutes.
And, like I simply “knew” the thing in the forest had called for my mother when she was a child, I know this Matthew somehow. “Your name’s Matthew?”
“And you’re Tilda.” He smiles, but his eyes tighten, like he has made a mistake he hopes no one will notice. But Jen instantly catches what he has said that is out of place. I find it strange that I didn’t realize it first.
“How did you know she liked to be called Tilda? She’s always hated her given name. I think it’s beautiful myself.” She hands Matthew a glass of sweet tea. Strangely, beads of sweat are beginning to congregate on his brow.
The perspiration dries quickly though and Matthew recovers with a smile that is brilliant. “My cousin’s name is Matilda Leigh and, funny enough, she hates it too. We’ve called her Tilda or Tildy since she was old enough to punch us for sayin’ Matilda.”
Jen laughs and motions to the table. “Sounds like my kind of girl. Would you like to sit?”
Matthew puts the glass to his mouth, takes a drink and then sets the glass down on the kitchen counter. I wonder if he’s actually drank any of the tea, because the glass seems to be just as full as it was when Jen handed it to him. “I should probably be headin’ home. Momma will whip my tail if I don’t get the rest of the boxes in my room unpacked.”
“What about your dog?” I’ve moved further into the kitchen, only a few feet away from Matthew.
“My dog?” He looks at me and, instantly, I am caught in his eyes like a butterfly in a spider’s silken web. Shaking my head slightly, I break free. “Yes, your hound dog... you said he ran away.”
“Right. Well, Ollie’s a smart dog. He’ll find his way home I reckon.” The sweat is back, and he looks uncertain. He backs way towards the kitchen door.
“I thought his name was Otis?” Jen is looking at Matthew curiously.
“Right, right. Sorry. We only just adopted him a few weeks ago. His name was Ollie at the shelter.” He turns and opens the door, letting warm air into the house. “Thanks again for the tea.”
Jen and I stare at Matthew, not saying anything. We’ve both apparently come to the same conclusion—Matthew is lying to us for some reason we don’t understand. He is a stranger, a stranger full of lies.
“Well,” Matthew bounces on the balls of his feet and glances at the ceiling before meeting our gazes again, “I’ll be going.”
“Where did you say your house was?” Jen moves a step toward him and he flinches visibly.
“Right down the road a few miles.” The Hoyt-part of the Matthew’s voice is completely absent now.
“I didn’t think there were any houses for sale in this area right now. Most of this is old family land that was never parceled off.” Jen has her hand on the door now, preventing Matthew from shutting it. He backs further away from her, nearly falling down the stairs.
“We didn’t buy it, ma’am. It was my great-grandpop’s home.”
“Mr. Seymour?”
“Yes. That’s right.”
“There is no Mr. Seymour.” The way Jen is standing, I can see her face and the fierceness of her expression. “I think it’s best that you don’t come back, Matthew.”
He gives a sharp nod, turns, and runs. As Jen is closing the door, I see he is heading towards the woods. Something about him makes me recall the whispered warning and the footsteps in my room.
“Well, that was strange.” Jen bolts the lock and leans against the door’s white surface with a sigh.
“Do you think he was casing the house?” I say, trying to get my large wheelchair between the table and a window so that I can see if Matthew has already disappeared into the forest.
“Casing?”
“You know, seeing if we’d be a good robbery candidate. Casing the joint or whatever.”
“God, you think?” Jen pushes next to me and looks out the window. “Maybe I shouldn’t leave you today.”
“Your opening is right around the corner, Jen. Like really around the corner. It’s Saturday, right? You can’t put the meeting off. You’ve postponed it once already because of me.”
“But what if he comes back?” Worry lines etch my Aunt’s face.
“I’m a big girl and I’ll lock all the doors and windows.”
“Dad’s shotgun is still in the pantry and I think I have a few shells for it too. They’re ancient of course. I wonder if bullets go bad. Do you think they go bad?”
I snort. “How intimidating would I look with an ancient gun? Look at me.” I wave my hands comically. “The cripple has a weapon!”
“That’s not funny.” Jen pokes me in the arm.
“Ouch! Yes it was. You just need to close your eyes and get the full glory of a mental picture.” My aunt does not look amused. “I guess what they say is true then.” Placing my hands on the wheel grips, I back away from the window.
“What’s true?” She follows me, pushing from behind for a moment so I’ll be out of her way quicker.
“Once you get old, you lose your sense of humor.”
This time Jen does not give me a playful poke; she full-out, open-hand slaps my shoulder. “I am not old! Take that back!”
“Or what?” I tease.
“I’ll tell the rehab center that we need to change our standing appointments.”
“Big deal.”
“To a time that Hoyt isn’t available.” Jen grins in triumph.
I grimace. “That’s dirty fighting.”
“Well, take it back.”
“Fine. You’re not old.” Looking proud of herself, my aunt goes to the sink and dumps out Matthew’s drink, then gets two new glasses and fills them with sweet tea. Absentmindedly, however, Jen picks up one filled glass and the recently emptied one. When she hands me Matthew’s used glass, I lift it up as far as I can and wave it in front of her face. “Wow, I was super thirsty. Drank it all already.”
“Wait... what?” Jen’s confusion is nearly giggle-inducing.
“You gave me Matthew’s empty glass.” And then we both laugh.
“MAYBE I AM GETTING old.” She switches out the glasses and soon we are both drinking the cold tea that is so sweet hummingbirds would reject it.
An Unsettling Quiet
JEN IS GONE. I AM LYING against the cushion of the window seats again, feeling sleepy with the sun warming my body. I hate the silence that has settled over the house. It’s such a stark contrast to how I used to feel before the fire. How I once enjoyed the silence like it was its own kind of magic.
LIKE A THICK COMFORTER too-tightly tucked, it traps heat and suffocates my body until I want to kick out violently and shift the bedding off the mattress so that I can breathe again. But I am not in bed; there is no easy solution to freeing myself. Escaping reality when you can’t walk is something I struggle with all the time. Jen usually tells me to pick up a book, to lose myself in the easy rhythm of the words, but that’s a simple thing for her to say. She’s an artist. Her mind works differently than mine.
Her head can wander off to new beginnings any time, through paint, through l
iterature, through imagination.
My head is stuck firmly to my shoulders, these two not-so-narrow things that are gaining muscle tone as I learn to live again. Sitting in my wheelchair every day is a stark reminder of all that I’ve lost. I close my eyes, resting them against a particularly soft pillow with gold tassels. I wait, several moments, just staring at the insides of my lids willing sleep to overcome me. It does not, and I find myself with eyes wide open, staring at the wheelchair. Sun rays are hitting it, making the leather glisten. My hands ache to grip the wheels, they want to rotate the wheels and move me out of the house and into the light that is calling. It’s such a lovely day, so many puffy clouds and so much brilliant, shining sun.
I can go outside. I’m old enough. I can manage. But Jen wouldn’t like it. She told me to stay inside... especially after Matthew and his lies. What if his name isn’t even Matthew?
In moments though—ones in which I do not consider consequence, but only action—I find myself sitting in the wheelchair and nearly to my doorway. I pause, surprised at where I am, and my gaze moves back to the bay window and then to the second window in my room that has curtains framing it. They are billowing, lifting every now and then as the vent below them pushes cool air through the house.
Again, I look at the bay window—at its cushions and the way they seem to still be indented with the after-presence of my body’s shape. That strikes me as odd. But I do not think about it for very long. I move towards the kitchen and the pantry—the pantry’s entrance is narrow, but I think I can fit my way in to get Grandpa’s shotgun.
Like I know how to use a gun. I laugh out loud. No. If I’m going to go outside, it will not be with a gun. I won’t have a moment of blissful freedom tarnished by something that kills. I’ve had enough of death.
Determined, I roll my way into the kitchen. Taking a deep breath, I reach up and unlatch the bolt, then the doorknob handle. When my fingers are firmly grasping the cool surface of ridged bronze, the knob I need to rotate to release myself from the heavy weight of the empty house, I hesitate. If something happens to me, Jen will blame herself.
If something happens to me, I’ll be with my family again.
The pros outweigh the cons.
I turn until I hear the click that means I can pull the door open. I have to roll backwards as I do, letting warm air into the coolness around me. My feet are instantly warmed by rays of light, but I know that I do not really feel the heat. The memory of it is almost as pleasant, almost as real.
I wish the same was true about memories of Mom... and Dad... and Toby.
It takes me a moment to actually exit the house. Despite all the accessibility changes Jen has made to the farmhouse, a few small things remain large obstacles to me. The floor of each doorway that exits the house has a thick piece of trim wood that blends the interior floors with the exterior porches. The thresholds are only a quarter inch thick, but they might as well be mountains.
Grunting, I give the wheels a hard push forward. The feel of it is not unlike driving across an overly large speed bump. Except I do not have shock absorbers and the jolting is unpleasant to the parts of me that still can feel. Speed bumps.
My life is like a never-ending series of them now. Bump. Bump. Bump. And all I can do is keep shoving myself forward and on towards the next obstacle meant to slow me down. Or... I could stop. Put my metaphorical car in park and just be finished. As much as I think about joining my family—and I think about it all the time—I know that if I were to take steps to join them, join them before my time, they would be so disappointed in me. Disappointed that I’d been given the chance to continue living and I’d thrown it away.
Over something as small and fleeting as speed bumps.
Maneuvering down the ramp is easy. I push myself forward once at the top and then, living dangerously, I take my hands off the wheels and I throw them up in the air, towards heaven. For a moment, I imagine that I must look carefree and beautiful rolling down the ramp at top speed. My coal-dark hair is floating behind me, my eyes are closed, my head tilted upwards enjoying the light.
But then, because the universe does not like when people are carefree and lately it thinks it’s beyond hilarious to kick me as soon as I’m feeling emotionally calm, the wheelchair begins to careen sideways as it transitions from wood ramp to grass.
At least the grass is soft, I think, my glasses once again askew, my face shoved against the ground roughly. And, I nearly smile despite the tiny rock that is cutting a shape into my cheek, at least Hoyt isn’t here to witness this fall.
But then I hear a laugh.
It is throaty and merry, enjoying my accident.
I want to be angry, but there’s something in the laugh—a tendril of knowing that moves its way into my brain and threads through my psyche. It “feels” like the thing that calls to me, that makes me feel strangely less broken. I wait for a second laugh, but it does not come. And I find that this disappoints me. The laugh definitely belongs to the thing in the forest. The way my body responds to the sound... It has to be male. And part of me, a large part of me, wants him to come out of hiding and face me. I want him to scoop me up, take me away, and make me truly be whole. Not just “less broken.”
“Who’s there?” I crawl my way out from under my wheelchair, which fell on top of me, and simultaneously cramming my glasses back onto my face. “Hello?” No answer. “Come on. It’s not like your laugh was silent.” I try to make my tone pleasing, but, in truth, it is more plea.
“You okay?”
This is not he voice I want to hear. This is not the person that matches the laugh.
Using the on-its-side wheelchair, I pull myself to a sitting position and look at him.
Matthew.
“My aunt told you not to come back here.”
“I’ve never been very good at following directions.” Matthew gives me a boyish, lopsided grin.
“Look, I don’t want you here. I mean, I don’t know why you lied to us about your family and stuff, but you need to leave.”
“Lying’s just easier than the truth is all.” Matthew steps towards me and I can see in his face and the way his hands begin to lift, that he wants to help me up.
I shift my body so that my hands are flat against the ground behind me and I can lean away from him, make it clear that I have no intention of letting him help me up. “I don’t care what you say. How can I believe a guy who did nothing but lie the first, and only time, I met him? Seriously, just leave.”
His expression crumples. I’ve hurt him. Good. I want to hurt him.
But, Jesus, he looks like a puppy I’ve just kicked and thrown to the curb. And now, I feel like an asshole. I don’t know his story and he doesn’t know mine. We’re strangers. So he lied. I’ve lied, more times that I can count. Mostly to my parents. This thought makes my own expression fall.
“Fine. Tell me the truth—whatever the heck that is—and then help me up. I’m not usually a forgiving person, so whatever you say better be good.” I look down at my white pants. I should know better than to wear such light colors. I’m always spilling things and making messes. “Actually, help me up now and then tell me the truth.” I lift my arms and am about to give him instructions on the easiest way to lift me—Jen and I have had enough experience on the matter to figure out what works and what doesn’t—but before I can speak, Matthew has righted my wheelchair, gripped me beneath the arms and lifted me.
Just like Hoyt, Matthew shows no signs that I am heavy. It is one fluid movement. One second, I am sitting on the ground—likely getting bright green grass stains on my pants—and the next, I am seated back in the wheelchair as pretty as can be. “There.” Matthew steps back from me so that I don’t have to crane my neck to see him.
“Thank you.” I mumble a bit incoherently and push a lock of hair behind my ear. It’s a rebel though and instantly defies me, falling forward again to brush my cheek. “Now. Truth. And then I’ll decide whether you can stay or whether I should call the cops
.” I look Matthew directly in the eyes and I try to make my gaze fierce so that he’ll shrink away from me. He doesn’t though; he meets my gaze with an intensity that surpasses my own. And, as I stare, I see shadows dancing in his eyes, like dark clouds passing over a brilliantly blue sky.
“Mind if I sit.” He motions to the Adirondack chairs that are grouped in a circle beneath the largest oak tree on the property. Jen says she and mom used to be able to link hands around it, but now it would take at least three people to circle the breadth of it. I love the tree, with all its growth marks and damage scars. When I stare at it, I can always find faces—wizened old things that are dying to tell the stories of what they’ve seen in their long lives providing shade.
“Go for it.” I watch him walk away from me for a moment before rolling after him. It’s harder in the grass and I can feel my muscles straining. I have no idea what I was thinking coming outside in the first place.
“I saw your aunt leave.” Matthew says as he sits down.
“Oh, really? Is that why you thought it would be okay to come back? Figure it would be easy to break in with only the cripple left behind?” My words are sharp, little pinpricks of broken glass.
“Jeez, you always so defensive about being a—” He stops talking quickly, maybe realizing that it was okay for me to say “cripple,” but it wasn’t okay for him to say it. He’s right. Had he said I was a cripple, I probably would have rolled my way back into the house without a second glance. Of course, I know that I am one—a cripple. But him saying that I am one sounds like he is defining who I am by only my disability.
I treat myself that way too though, like being a cripple is all I am now, like I’m no good for anything else. So, I can’t fault Matthew. I used to be more: cheer captain, club leader, awesome at math, earning my father’s envy because he royally sucked at anything to do with numbers. I can still be who I used to be in a lot of ways.
But not really.