2. Friday, August 25, 2023
Alice
She had no idea how calming it was to watch trees blowing in the wind.
A wall of them, tall ones, with bushy plumes of bright-green leaves, are within view from her chair on the back deck.
Even the loop of tinny pop songs playing in her ear while she’s on hold with the phone company isn’t getting to her.
She can feel the rev of anxiety lessen as she watches the dance of foliage against the sharp-blue sky.
The internet was supposed to be set up today at nine a.m. Alice had specifically chosen the first available time slot on the morning after moving day, knowing her kids could not go long without it. When nobody had shown up for the installation, the kids had used her as their verbal punching bag.
Teenage tech-withdrawal rage was no joke.
She’s the one who found the house, put in an offer—one even lower than the asking price—and when it was accepted, convinced everyone to move there, sight-unseen.
This means she’s going to be blamed for every issue, lack, and mishap that might arise from now until eternity.
It doesn’t matter that her husband, Geoff, signed the paperwork too; that he eventually conceded that the family needed a change.
Even though all he really seems to care about is the fact that he has his own writing studio now.
He’s out there unpacking as Alice sits on the back deck on hold.
At least the view is good. She’s never owned so much property.
There’s an acre at least of sprawling lawn with a beautiful, undulating patch of wildflowers and ornamental grasses in the center and thick ground cover surrounding ancient trees that tower over the house.
All of it reaching out to a border of deep woods.
Over one hundred acres in total, apparently, although only fifty came with the house.
The realtor had explained that the other half belongs to the sister of the original owner.
A few generations ago, a local family had owned the entire hundred acres together.
Two sisters each inherited half the woods and a couple of cabins that had been built on the property years before.
The realtor explained that one sister was still alive and living on the far side of the woods, but the other, the one who’d owned the house that was now Alice’s, had died about seven years back.
The Gordon family bought it two years after she died and, before moving in, completely renovated it, erecting the outbuildings and installing the pool.
Alice calculates in her head that the Gordon family lived in their renovated house for only one year before the horrible—
“Yes, hello? How can I help you?”
The voice on the other end of the line startles Alice out of her tree trance and she shifts into business mode, determined to get the Wi-Fi up and running by the end of the day, for fear of her children’s wrath.
Polly
If her mom doesn’t get the Wi-Fi working today, she’s going to lose her fucking mind.
Nothing on her phone is loading, probably because there are so many goddamn trees everywhere.
She’s been staring at the bare wood walls of her room for hours.
Of course she and Quinn got the side of the house that looks like a cottage that hasn’t been renovated since 1982, and her parents have the white walls, carpet, and high ceilings.
All Polly’s unpacked is her toothbrush, deodorant, and some makeup.
She’s not sure she can bring herself to put things on the walls, or clothes in the closet, or string up her LED lights, or find a proper hiding place for her weed.
Doing those things would mean settling in, and she can’t seem to do that anymore.
Not since her sister died. Her therapist told her she has survivor’s guilt because they were in the car accident together.
She hadn’t needed a therapist to tell her that.
Her therapist also said that she has PTSD from the accident itself—again, not revelatory information.
She still wakes up most nights covered in sweat, her dreams a ramped-up replay of the car accident and her screams at the sight of her dead sister.
What her therapist doesn’t know, what nobody knows, is that Polly also shoulders the weight of a secret from the night of that accident, one that she’s sure she’ll buckle under.
There’s a knock at the door, and she rolls away from the wall and sits up on the bed.
Her mother comes in and glances around the room, taking in the unpacked boxes and duffel bags still full of clothes.
That look on her face is one Polly knows well.
She has a weird set to her mouth that makes her look like she’s holding something under her tongue, which she is—her opinion—and she can’t look Polly in the eye.
“They’re sending another technician out for the Wi-Fi in a couple of hours,” her mother says, finally letting her eyes land on Polly.
Polly only nods in response, withholding further interaction until she’s properly connected. She’s sure they would have had Wi-Fi earlier if not for some error her mother had made in the first place.
“Can I help get you started on unpacking?” Her mother’s offer melts her just a little bit. She knows that Polly gets stuck sometimes. She knows about the survivor’s guilt and the PTSD.
“Maybe you could put away my clothes?”
“Happy to.” Her mother unzips the duffel bag at her feet and starts making piles of clothing on the bed. “What do you think of your room?”
“It’s great if you want to feel like you’re at summer camp year-round.” Her response causes her mother to stop unpacking and straighten up to scrutinize the room.
“Okay,” she says, with a sideways nod. “I can see what you mean. How about we paint the walls?” She gestures to the floor. “Rip up that old carpet and see what’s underneath. But I mean, look at the view. Those trees are gorgeous.” Her mother goes back to putting things away in the dresser.
“They’re also straight out of a horror movie,” Polly responds. “Some lunatic could pop out of them at any moment, go all Michael Myers on me. And the hot teenage daughter is always the first to go.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Polly,” she snaps. “Why do you have to be so morbid? That’s a horrible thing to say.” She slams the dresser drawer, and Polly is sure she’s going to storm out. Her mom’s mood swings are off the charts these days.
“Holy shit, Mom. I was joking.” She lies back down on the bed. “It’s a cool house, okay? And you were right. We all needed a change.”
Her mother pauses, her arms full of Polly’s sweatshirts, and widens her eyes. “My God, did you just say I was right? Someone come quick. Polly said her mother was right about something.” Polly chucks a pair of socks at her mother, who dodges it, then scoops it up and launches it right back.
Polly’s glad the fight was averted. She shouldn’t have said that thing about the horror movie. She can tell how much this move means to her mom. She’s been even more wound up than usual. She loves her mom, but she drives her nuts.
Outside her window, her dad passes by with some boxes and nods at them. Polly realizes she’s going to need some curtains ASAP. Without them she’s like a fish in a fishbowl.
“Hold on. I have to talk to your dad.” When her mom drops the sweatshirt she was folding and leaves the room, Polly’s insides instinctively clench.
She can tell by her mom’s tone that she’s annoyed at her dad for something.
Hopefully the “talk” doesn’t lead to a massive fight.
Polly considers pulling out her dab pen, just a quick hit, to make the whole moving ordeal more tolerable.
She only started smoking weed after the accident and finally came to understand what all the fuss was about.
It’s become a habit, one that she’ll stop as soon as things get better.
Is it her fault they never seem to get better?
She hears her sister’s voice in her head: Don’t do it.
Mom will be able to tell and then she’ll implode.
She hears her sister’s voice in her head all the time.
She has no idea if it’s really her dead sister talking to her or if it’s just her own imagination.
Either way, it’s weird, which is why she hasn’t told anyone about it. Especially not the therapist.
She wonders what her sister would think of this house, of them moving away from the city.
She’d probably hate it. The thought makes her chest hurt, like her rib cage is suddenly too small for her lungs and heart, making it hard to breathe.
She reaches under her pillow and takes the pen out and hits it not once but twice.
It’s the only way to make the ache go away—and the ache is worse than her mom’s wrath any day.
Her fingers instinctively dig into her thick hair to find the long, textured scar that runs along the midline of her skull—another new habit since the accident.
A shadow moving across the window catches her eye.
She looks out, expecting to see her mom or dad passing by, but there’s nothing but trees.
A shiver tickles up her spine and she can’t shake the feeling that someone was out there.
Probably just paranoia from the weed, but she really does need those curtains ASAP.
Alice
“Geoff,” she calls out, running to catch up to him as he crosses the lawn toward the cabin that he has claimed as his own. “Are you busy?”
Geoff holds up the box he’s carrying as though that’s evidence enough.
“I’m setting up my writing studio.” His dark, curly hair is pushed back with sweat, the silver streaks in it frizzing around his face, and his salt-and-pepper beard has bits of dust in it.
Clearly, he’s been working hard, just not at anything helpful to the rest of the family.
Alice nods. “Okay, but that’s not really crucial, is it?”
“To me it is,” he shoots back, already looking wounded.