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1
Alyssa
“God, I hate this town.”
I was driving west, away from Tampa International Airport, over the Courtney Campbell Causeway and into Clearwater. I didn’t hate Clearwater, Florida, because it was objectively bad. All of my reasons were as subjective as they got. Growing up here, there were nothing but bad memories waiting for me. I hadn’t been back here in eight years, not since I left for college.
Eight years felt like an eternity, but somehow not long enough.
When I turned into the quiet neighborhood that was less than a mile from the water, all those bad memories came flooding back to me. The palm trees and perfectly-manicured grass felt every bit as fake as the flamingo lawn ornaments. The brightly-colored single-story houses might hold a beachy charm for any other visitor, but for me they were merely coats of paint over rotting interiors. My anxiety had been rising every mile the closer I got to this place, and now I was practically buzzing with nerves.
Why had I decided to do this? Why didn’t I let Brandi take care of it all on her own?
In the blink of an eye, I was on our street. The same one I had grown up on, riding bikes up and down the sidewalk under the Florida sun, racing home from school to avoid the daily afternoon showers. The hair on the back of my neck went stiff as I passed an electric blue house, the same color it had been when I was a girl.
Jack’s house…
But I had forgotten all about that, because my house—my mother’s house—was two doors down from it. Strangely, I felt a sense of calm wash over me as it came into view, a one-story rancher with pretty good white paint. There was no car in the driveway, but I parked on the street out of habit, taking care not to block the mailbox. Our mother had never allowed us to park in the driveway. Strange how hard it was for old habits to die, little practices in life that are written in our minds so many times they leave an afterimage, like an old television set paused for too long.
I turned the car off, but couldn’t make myself open the door.
I still felt calm. Most of the anxiety of the flight, and then drive, was gone. But I didn’t want to get out of the car. Getting out of the car meant going up to the front door, which meant going inside the house, which meant starting a monumental new task that would take weeks. Once all of that began, the peace I felt would be gone. The longer I sat in my car, the longer that peace remained.
Ten minutes later, my phone rang. It was my sister.
“Hi, Brandi.”
“Alyssa! I saw your flight landed on time. Everything good? You get to your hotel yet?”
“I decided to come straight to the house. I’ve been sitting outside a little while.”
There was a pause. “You didn’t want to wait?”
I took a deep breath, then let it out. “I know that if I delay, it’s just going to extend my anxiety. I want to get it over with.”
“But you’ve been sitting outside a while?”
“Ten minutes. I think I’m afraid to go inside.”
My twin sister chuckled. “I know the feeling. When the police called me last week, I drove straight down and did the same thing. I parked on the curb and stayed in my car for an hour before giving up and going home.”
“You didn’t park in the driveway either?”
“And piss off the ghost of our mother? Hell no. I’ve only parked in the driveway once, and she grounded me for a week.”
“You missed the Jonas Brothers concert. I remember.”
“Listen,” Brandi said. “I wish I could have come down today, but I can’t get out of this leadership training meeting. How about you go to your hotel, get wine-drunk in the lobby, and then we can go inside the house tomorrow. Together.”
It was tempting. It was the easy thing, to wait for my twin and lean on her for emotional support. But I hadn’t come down here to do the easy thing.
“I’ll be all right,” I said. “I’ll let you know if I need anything. Love you lots.”
“Love you more,” she replied. “I’ll text you when I’m on the road tomorrow.”
Despite not wanting to rely on my twin for emotional support, talking to her had filled my tank with enough courage for one brave act. I walked up to the cement porch and found the key under one of the painted rocks, where it had always been. Before I could over-think things, I unlocked the deadbolt, swung the door open, and stepped inside.
The scent of cigarettes and pine-scented cleaner immediately transported me a decade backwards in time. It was strange how houses never lost their distinctive smell—it remained constant across the years, like a fingerprint. Aside from the scent, the house felt different than I remembered. Smaller, and with a different feel to it.
