Chapter 4 – Jael
Fifteen minutes later, I pull back into the gravel driveway in front of my mom’s trailer, armed with the green grabber tool and a half-baked plan to rescue Bentley’s bone.
The place looks the same as always. One of the front window screens cracked, weeds snaking up the cheap paneling, but the empty driveway makes me exhale in relief.
Her car is still gone. Thank God. That means I can handle this little mission and get back to my hotel without running into her.
I may be here because she asked me to come, but that doesn’t mean I’m interested in catching up on the years that she missed out on.
Any conversations we do have will be strictly business about Dad’s passing, the lawyer, and whatever loose ends need tying so that I can get the hell out of town.
Nothing more. It’s easier that way. Cleaner. Safer.
Back to the toilet I go with a deep breath and the kind of determination I usually reserve for hospital emergencies.
I lift the lid I’d carefully closed earlier and look in the bowl.
It’s still only half full, gurgling now.
Grabbing the plastic tool, I shove it into the hole as far as it will go, fishing around with what I can only describe as surgical precision—if surgery required blindly jamming a piece of plastic into the unknown.
For ten long, sweat-inducing minutes I poke and prod, the handle squeaking as I work it up and down.
My frustration builds with every failed attempt, each scrape of plastic against porcelain making the situation feel even worse.
By the time I’m done, I’ve accepted my fate.
This is officially beyond me and I’m going to have to hire a plumber.
With a resigned sigh, I head to the fridge, looking for a phone book or some clue as to which local plumber my mom might trust. I could look it up online, sure, but this town isn’t brimming with businesses that maintain active websites, and knowing my mom, she’d have a very specific opinion about who she’d let step foot in her house to touch any of her belongings.
Finally, my eyes land on a magnet slapped onto the side of the fridge: Whitewood Creek Plumbing—Your Neighborly Solution for When You’re in a Jam!
Perfect. I dial the number, and a cheerful woman answers my call on the second ring.
“This is Florence of Whitewood Creek Plumbing; how may I serve you today?”
“Hi, Florence,” I say, exhaling as I lean against the counter while pressing my forehead into the cool fridge.
“My dog tossed his toy down my mom’s toilet, and I’m in desperate need of a plumber before she gets home from work or I’m going to have to endure a long lecture that I’m not sure I can handle in this heat. ”
She chuckles, her laugh warm and motherly. “I got you, sweetheart. What’s the address where I can send out the help?”
I rattle it off, and Florence promises to send someone within the hour. I thank her and hang up, the sense of impending doom easing slightly as I relax against the fridge.
Now what?
With some time to kill before I can head back to my hotel, I decide to snoop. I haven’t been back here in over a decade, and I’m curious to see what my mom’s been up to all these years, or maybe more accurately, what she hasn’t been up to because this place looks like it’s stuck in the past.
Not much has changed in her old trailer.
The living room still holds a leaning stack of weathered magazines with furniture pictures that she’s cut out and never done anything with.
There’s a faded, black and white photograph on the wall of her as a kid with her parents, which only reminds me of how little she acted like I existed growing up.
The pantry is a sad collection of soup cans and cereal boxes, and the fridge is a predictable assortment of my dad’s beer bottles, and expired condiments.
I close it with a sigh, disappointed but not surprised.
I don’t even know what I thought I’d find, maybe some hint that she’d changed, some sign of growth.
But isn’t that just the story of my life?
The people I most want to change, never do.
And the ones I wish would stay steady and consistent, always seem to shift.
I wander toward the back of the trailer and stop at the door to my old bedroom.
The sight freezes me. It’s like walking straight into a time capsule.
The walls are still plastered with magazine cutouts of Shane West, Usher, Enrique Iglesias, and Brad Pitt, their glossy smiles frozen in time.
The floor is still the same dirty, pink carpet that I was when we moved in.
Even the comforter on the bed is the one that my parents bought me second-hand when we first moved here, back before everything unraveled.
I walk over to my old CD player, sitting in the corner like it’s been waiting for me. On a whim, I press play, curious about what’s inside. The Backstreet Boys’ harmonies fill the room, and I can’t help but smile as I listen to their voices.
I head to my closet and peek inside. Most of my clothes went with me to Richmond, later swapped out for a more grown-up wardrobe or donated, but a few dresses still hang in the back, tucked beside my graduation cap and gown.
My fingers skim the soft, dusty fabric, and for a second, I’m back on that night, graduation, the weight of the gown, the feeling of wanting so badly to escape this place but also stay in place and soak up the moment. I let go and quietly close the door, leaving it all where it is.
In the corner, my desk looks exactly as I left it. On the edge sits a neat stack of high school yearbooks. I lower myself into the chair, the squeak both familiar and strange, and flip open the top one as Joey’s voice croons in the background.
Turning to my class photo section, I immediately spot Owen.
My stomach does a little flip, the kind it used to do when I was a shy eighth-grader, new to town with an embarrassingly huge crush on the popular kid.
He was the golden boy back then, handsome, athletic, and so completely out of my league.
Though I guess I wasn’t really in anyone’s league considering how shy I was at first. Practically every girl in school had a thing for him, and I felt like I’d never have a chance.
He didn’t really notice me until our senior year when I turned eighteen years old.
We dated for a few months that spring before I ended up breaking things off.
He hadn’t taken it well. And despite how it ended, I’m choosing to remember the good times now—the nights we’d sneak off to the corn fields, the way he used to make me smile until my face hurt.
God, you’re pathetic, Jael!
His yearbook photo stares back at me now, blue eyes sparkling, blond hair neatly combed, and that same cocky smirk he was wearing today in the hardware store firmly rooted on his face.
I turn the page, searching for my own photo and instead, find another familiar one—Rhett Miller, my old neighbor and my first friend when I moved here. Chestnut brown hair, hazel eyes that look green in the summer light, and a jawline much too mature for a kid.
My chest tightens at the sight of him. Memories of those sweltering trailer park summers flash in my mind—long afternoons spent with him, dreaming about what life could be outside of this place while we hung out by the lake that bumps up to the back of our trailer park.
Seeing his photo stirs something deep inside of me that I haven’t felt in years.
Remembering him does something else entirely.
Nostalgia, sure, but also a sadness for the way we lost touch and how easily time moved on without us.
He’d been my protector for years, a distraction from the chaos that bloomed within my family’s home and a friend to lean on like I’d never had and have never had since.
I stare at his picture a little longer than I probably should, remembering the way his lips felt on mine and the way his big hands palmed my body so tenderly, before finally closing the yearbook and setting it aside.
Many things have changed in Whitewood Creek, but some things, like these memories of the people that I’ve left behind, feel as permanent as the heat that’s permeating this trailer.
My mind slows and I take a deep breath, trying to control my emotions and failing as my hands go right back to that yearbook and the page with Rhett. And seeing him there has me reminiscing on one of my last memories of the summer that we spent together before I left.
◆◆◆
“Please help me, Rhett,” I beg, dragging out my words for emphasis. My voice echoes loudly enough to startle a few birds that were enjoying their peace from a nearby tree that surrounds the lake.
It’s a warm spring afternoon, the kind that begs for adventure or at least something interesting to happen, but Rhett and I are stuck in our usual after-school routine.
Me, pestering him for attention, usually bringing up something absurd I read online, and him, trying his hardest to ignore me while tinkering with the beat-up truck he’s been fixing for months now.
His brow is furrowed, his hands are smeared with grease, and he looks as if he’s actively willing me out of existence.
Today, however, I’m not letting him ignore me because I need his help.
“I’m serious, Rhett,” I say, stepping closer to where he’s hunched under the hood, pretending to not hear me even though I’m shouting now. “I need you to teach me about the birds and the bees!”
His head jerks up so fast he nearly hits it on the hood. “Can you keep your voice down please? You know the people in this neighborhood have nothing better to do but gossip.”
“Ugh, I was making sure you heard me,” I say, folding my arms over my chest and narrowing my eyes at him. “The public school system has failed me, my parents have conveniently avoided the subject my entire life, and I need someone to fill in the gaps.”