Chapter 2
Aston
Traffic congesting the interchange doubles what is normally only a half-hour commute for Tillie, and by the time we reach the old mining town of Crowley, heavy rain clouds have gathered across the horizon, blotting out the sun, making it feel a lot later than it actually is.
Trees blur past, broken up only by dilapidated barns and service structures. The further away from the highway we get, the more open it becomes. Cornfields stretching as far as the eye can see. Radio towers and steel stacks reaching for the sky like skeletal arms thrusting out from their graves.
By the time Tillie steers us down a narrow residential street, the asphalt smooth and dark, looking freshly redone, the first drops have just started to fall, splashing the windshield.
It’s a stark contrast to most of the neighborhoods I grew up around just outside of Philadelphia, where I spent the majority of my childhood.
First in the orphanage, then bouncing from one overcrowded group home to the next, before finally getting thrown into foster care at age five and moving in with the Baders.
While it’s fuzzy up until that point—undeveloped brains and all—it’s even murkier after that. At least for the first couple years…
“What kind of trees are these?” I blurt quickly, focusing intently on a droplet of water streaking down the window. Tracing it with my finger.
“Um, sycamores mostly, I think. We’ll have to ask Walt. I’m sure he knows.”
I hum in response, heart thumping in my ears. Sweat has gathered across my palms, and I scrub them roughly down my thighs. Rough enough I’m surprised the friction doesn’t spark.
“You okay?”
I whip my head toward Tillie, eyes wide like I’d just been caught doing something I shouldn’t. “Huh? Oh. Yeah.” Her brow knits as she darts her gaze between me and the road. I wave off her concern. “Just not used to…cars.”
Really? That’s what you’re going with?
I expect Tillie to laugh, but if anything, her frown only deepens. “Right…” she murmurs, sounding miles away.
I turn my attention back to the road, unable to help myself from cataloging the differences.
The street the Baders lived on didn’t have space for many trees. The houses were pressed too closely together. Not here though. This is the kind of neighborhood where kids play together in the middle of the road. Not the kind with crackheads shuffling along the sidewalk like zombies.
A wiper blade squeaks across the still-mostly dry windshield as we ease into a paved driveway, one that leads to a sprawling red brick two-story.
It’s huge. Probably not by most peoples’ standards but compared to the Baders and the other homes I lived briefly in as a kid, it’s a mansion.
It even has a covered porch overlooking a flourishing bright green yard that stretches across the entirety of the front.
Big enough for another small house to sit.
This is going to look so pretty in the winter with Christmas lights…
My lips rise, and I don’t even bother waiting for the garage to fully open so that Tillie can pull in. The second she brakes, I’m flinging the door open and all but throwing myself out, my backpack clutched protectively to my chest. I ignore the slam of her breaks and the startled sound she makes.
All I can do is gape at my new home.
“Wow,” I breathe, just as I’m joined by Tillie moments later. I’m only vaguely aware of the garage doors closing. I didn’t even notice her pull in and kill the engine.
“Nice, huh?” she says, sidling up next to me. With the hand not dragging along my suitcase, she shields her eyes from the raindrops pinging down on us. “It was Walt’s mother’s. She passed away a few years ago.”
I gesture toward the bright pink hydrangeas lining the porch, blinking the moisture from my eyes. “Did she plant those?”
Tillie laughs. “You know it.”
It’s a running joke between us that she’s got a black thumb—can’t keep an indoor plant alive for the life of her. It’s one of the things we talked about—planned for—when it was decided I would come live here.
A garden just for me and me alone to grow and tend to. Something I’ve wanted for years.
Unfortunately, with winter right around the corner, that will have to wait until spring.
Who knows if I’ll even still be here by then…
She tips her head toward the front of the house. “Come on.”
The suitcase bumps noisily along the bumps and grooves making up the stone path curving toward the porch, light enough that it’s easily swooped up with one arm when we reach the steps. Meanwhile, I linger at the bottom, taking time to absorb everything.
“It’s so clean,” I find myself murmuring in awe as I turn in place.
No garbage bags crowding the porch—only dark wicker furniture with cream cushions.
No rusted metal or broken toys scattered across a neglected, weed-infested yard—only perfectly trimmed grass.
No newspaper or tarp taped over any of the windows. No bars…
“Yes, well,” Tillie says, laughing, as she opens the door. It’s black, like the shutters, with white windowed panels on either side. “Now that we have a sullen teenager who rarely leaves his room, it’s much easier to maintain.”
Yeah, so, I’m still reeling over the fact she actually is a mom already. But I’ll circle back to that.
Inside, a brightly lit foyer welcomes my shuffling steps, and just like the exterior, I can’t help but compare it to the other homes I’ve lived in.
Where I’d normally find peeling, yellowed, stained wallpaper—or worse, wood paneling—and crushed shag carpeting, instead I’m met only with gray paint and polished wood floors.
And the smell…
Like dryer sheets mingled with something more sweet and potent—leathery.
Just as the scent registers, I get an even stronger whiff when a set of French doors to my right open, revealing a tall, skinny man with thinning brown hair dressed in a gray tracksuit.
He emerges from what appears to be some kind of fancy man cave with a leather recliner facing a huge flat screen against the far wall.
I stand up a little straighter as Tillie introduces us, pasting on an expression of polite indifference as I nod in greeting. It doesn’t escape me that Walter doesn’t extend his hand for me to shake, nor does it seem to escape Tillie, if the purse of her lips is anything to go by.
Ah.
Let me guess: somebody wasn’t fully on board with this whole taking me in thing.
Naughty, naughty, Tillie…
I, for one, couldn't care less what Walter here thinks. If anything, I’m relieved we’re not about to fake pleasantries. If it was up to me, he wouldn’t even be here. How someone as vibrant and wonderful as Tillie could end up with such a dud—his name is Walter after all—beats the crap outta me.
I wonder if his son is just as lame as him…
“Is Eden in his room?” Tillie asks him, darting a look up the stairs, and I perk to attention. I swear she’s a mind reader sometimes.
“Yeah, he just got back a little while ago.”
Following her gaze, I’m unable to make out anything more than the curved banister overlooking the foyer. It’s a far-cry from the narrow walled-in stairwell at the Baders, with its uneven planks covered in that awful brown carpeting.
I wonder if these creak…
Tillie turns toward me, and I blink away the thought. “He works part-time at the library,” she explains. “It’s right down the road. Perhaps he can take you sometime, so you can get yourself a card.”
Nodding, I force on a small smile. “Sounds good.”
While Tillie chats briefly with Walt, who barely contributes, I only half-pay attention, not really absorbing anything as my thoughts wander back to what she revealed to me in the car.
In the two years I’ve known her, she’s never shied away from sharing tidbits about her personal life with me. Another thing that sets her apart from the rest.
Unprofessional and naive? Probably.
But I appreciated it, nonetheless.
Little did I know though…all this time, she was keeping a pretty big secret from me.
She has a kid. A son.
And not some snot-nosed toddler for me to get roped into taking care of, but a teenager who’s apparently not much younger than me. Sixteen, going on seventeen next month.
I can’t even be mad she kept this from me. It just goes to show she really is a good mom, just like I thought she’d be.
Although…I can’t shake this nagging sensation in the pit of my stomach that tells me, hold up, wait a minute, put a lil sus in it.
Because let’s be a little real for a second: why risk this? Keeping his existence from me made sense. But bringing me into his life? Not so much.
And it’s been this thorn twisting deep in my brain ever since she casually dropped the bomb on me.
When it was just her and Walt taking me in, I didn’t question it—adults always think they have things under their control, despite what their instincts might say, and people like Tillie—the good, doting sort of people that are rare to find—often feel a need to…swoop in. Play savior. Fix me…
As if it’s just a given their little pet project won’t turn on them. After all, how could a grown-up possibly be undermined by a child? Or at least in the case now, someone decades younger than them, who is as clueless as a newborn to the workings of the real world.
But then again…maybe that’s exactly it. That false, deluded sense of invincibility, giving them a conflated sense of control.
You’d think, knowing now that they’re parents…Tillie, in particular…that their instincts would be much, much harder to ignore. That they’d be selfless enough to put their egos aside to not risk a child’s—their child’s, their sweet, innocent, flesh and blood’s—wellbeing.
Not dangle him in front of the monster like a candied carrot.
I look down at the floor, jaw working, as I tell myself there has to be a reasonable explanation. Something that justifies her confidence in putting me in her son’s path.
Because Tillie’s not like that. She’s not like them.