2. Lyric #2
“Mrs. Steele?” I question. She’s in a white linen button-down shirt, a pair of blue capri pants, and leather woven-style flats.
She looks exactly the same, minus a few wrinkles here and there.
I remember everything so vividly it’s like a kaleidoscope of memories hitting me all at once.
Her and my mom talking in the yard for hours on end while waiting for the bus to drop me off during my middle school years.
They did the same on the rare occasion Jagger didn’t have some kind of practice after school.
He’d give me a ride home, and we’d find the two of them chatting it up with no end in sight.
It gave us time to sneak away into the Steele’s house, where Jagger kissed me senseless.
Which inevitably led to a lot more when we weren’t anywhere near our houses or parents.
“Oh, my goodness, as I live and breathe, you are the spitting image of your mother, Lyric.” The inside of the house is empty, and I move closer to a woman who has me ready to cry in her arms. I’ve yet to really let my emotions run free.
The few tears I’ve spared here and there are nothing like the cathartic release I know will come once I finally allow myself to sit and think.
It’s also why Naomi shoved a pink spiral notebook into my hand and told me to journal; I guess she’s noticed I haven’t been doing that lately like I normally do.
When I opened it last night in the hotel room, it even had writing prompts.
Some were way too much when you needed sleep, so I slammed the notebook closed and put it back in my bag.
“Yeah,” I say with a lump lodged in the back of my throat. Her arms lift up, and then I’m giving her a hug, but really, she’s the one giving me the embrace. I had no idea what I’d find when I landed back in Whispering Oaks because, you know, that whole refusing to snoop like I’d usually do.
“It’s so good to see you. I’m so sorry about your mom, honey.
” Mrs. Steele pulls back. She sent a card in the mail shortly after we’d buried my mom.
I remember seeing it and thinking I should give her a call, and then, well, the Ferris wheel kept spinning, and there was no stopping to get off the ride .
“Thank you. I’m sorry I didn’t call you after.
I promise it was on my list of things to do, but then Dad was diagnosed with early-onset dementia.
I didn’t even know they kept this house until the reading of the will when he passed away.
” I get the gist of the story out of the way.
There’s way more involved, and I’ll probably spill the beans, except I don’t think she needs or wants to know every dang detail.
I spin around, trying to give myself a moment to clear the crying jag that’s attempting to take root, and look at the carnage of the inside of my childhood home.
“Oh, dear,” I hear Mrs. Steele say from behind me.
There are holes in the drywall, there’s flooring ripped up in random areas, and when I walk through the house, I see so much more.
A ceiling fan that’s only being held up by its electrical wires, and the kitchen is a disaster, filthy in a sense that it doesn’t look like anyone has ever cleaned up after themselves, missing cabinet doors, drawers pulled out.
And when I walk out of the main living area, heading toward the back of the house, where there are two bedrooms, two bathrooms, and what my parents used as a study, the damage is much the same. Damn it, the house is inhabitable.
“Why don’t we go over to my place? We can talk.
You can catch me up on what’s been going on, and I can do the same.
We tried to do what we could. I can promise you that, Lyric.
” I nod my head, still not turning around to face her.
My shoulders slump. I’m going to have to add finding a place to live while the house is gutted to the studs.
“Yeah, okay. We can do that.” I take a deep breath, realizing I’m fortunate in the way that I’m set up financially to fix my house and live somewhere else for the time being. I’ll also need to find a job. Idle hands and all will only make me really lose my mind.
Mrs. Steele’s hand goes to my back when I make my way into the front of the house.
Neither of us should have walked in here, not without a hazmat suit and steel-toed boots at least. I’d beat myself up for allowing this to happen, only I had no idea, and with the round-the-clock care my dad needed, it’d have been impossible to work on the home here in Whispering Oaks while residing in North Carolina.
“Do you still enjoy sweet tea? I just brewed a pitcher, and Mr. Steele has yet to discover it,” she teases, helping ease the boulder sitting on my shoulders.
“I do, thank you. I wasn’t sure what to expect. Definitely not a house with more holes than walls,” I say before mentally telling myself I can do this.
“Well, it’s a good thing I have a lot of contacts, if you want them.” I’m going need them in spades, but until then, I’ll put one foot in front of the other, make a list, and go from there.