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The set of keys feels heavy in my hand. Before I get a chance to unlock the front door, the sound of a supercharged motor causes me to glance around.
A silver Ford F-150 pickup truck with black rims and tinted windows tears down the same street and pulls into my grandfather’s driveway, screeching to a hard stop. The reflection on the windshield blots out the driver’s face. I have no clue who it could be. Until I catch sight of a long pale blonde ponytail.
Sweet Jesus.
My sister hops out of the cab wearing a big grin, a pink tank top, and cut-off jean shorts, her prosthetic leg gleaming in the sunlight.
When she was fourteen, Annabelle fainted in the middle of a tennis match and was rushed to the hospital. In a rare stroke of luck––if you can call it that––she was seen by a doctor who had recently come into contact with a similar case. Otherwise they might not have diagnosed it in time.
Toxic shock, he told us. Her body was ravaged with the staph infection. After twenty-four hours they said there was only a thirty percent chance she would survive, but in true Bebe style, she clung to life by her fingernails for three days and battled back from the brink of death. They told us she would probably lose both her legs, and yet they managed to save one.
When they finally sent her home, my parents were no longer my parents. They were Annabelle’s parents, Annabelle’s nursemaids, Annabelle’s cheerleaders. No one in my house ever spoke the word tennis again.
My parents never came to watch me play after that. They didn’t want to hurt Bebe’s feelings. So it was my grandfather who stepped up, who wouldn’t let me quit, who became my champion, my cheerleader. It was Rowdy who traveled with me to tournaments, who was there for me. Everything I accomplished was in large part because of him.
“Hey.”
Smiling, I raise a hand and wave. She makes her way up the walkway. Working hard to keep her gait even, she ascends the steps of the front porch only to stop and pick out the pebble stuck under her hot pink flip flop.
“New prosthesis?”
“Hot off the runway. All the celebrities are wearing it.”
She looks around awkwardly for a minute, the carefree act slipping enough for me to notice her discomfort. Then she throws her arms around my neck and pulls me close.
A surfeit of emotion stuffs my throat and sinuses. “Hey, you okay?” I ask, hugging her back.
“Welcome home, jerk.”
“Speaking of home.” I pull back to glower. “Thanks for stealing my bedroom, bitch.”
She grins broadly. “Like what I did with the place?”
I laugh, and we’re back to being the same people that used to fight over who got to shower first. Then I remember, my eyes narrowing in accusation. “I’m the executor, you said. I needed to come immediately, you demanded.”
“Yeah, well, you wouldn’t have come otherwise.”
“You freaking liar.”
“Thank you,” she glibly retorts.
My eyes drift to the red brick Georgian across the street.
“He still lives there.”
“Do I look like I care?”
“Yeah, you kind’a do.”
I bat her comment away with a wave of a hand, and brush past her, into the house. As soon as I enter the kitchen, my feet skid to a stop.
“Wow.” My eyes bug out. My grandfather’s house has been completely remodeled. “When did Grandps––”
“He didn’t,” Bebe answers before I can finish.
“Daddy?”
“Nope.”
A creepy crawly sensation skitters across the back of my neck. “Who,” I finally ask, even though I have a pretty good idea, my face puckering in distaste.
“Noah spent most of the year taking care of Grandpa. Last year he remodeled the entire first floor so Grandpa could get around better in the wheelchair.”
I look around again and notice the changes, widened doorways, rooms clear of unnecessary furniture, the handicap railing. What used to be shabby and dark is now gleaming with new ivory paint and clean, simple details.
“Why didn’t Daddy do it?”
“He did…some. But Rowdy wanted Noah.”
The knowledge that I owe him, we owe him for taking care of my grandfather sits like a boot heel over my throat. On the inside I’m gagging.
“When I leave, you can move in here,” I tell her, looking around in wonder at the finely crafted detail.
“Why would I want to move in here? It’s your house.”
“Daddy told you?”
“Of course.”
“I don’t want it.” I level my sister with all the irritation that usually accompanies me on these awesome trips home. Heavy sarcasm. “And why are you still living with Mom and Dad?”
Sliding onto the barstool at the kitchen counter, she shrugs and looks away. “I don’t have to do laundry…and it makes them feel better.”
“Them?” This earns her a raised eyebrow.
“You haven’t been here. They act like it happened yesterday. I’m the only teacher who gets making sure you’re still alive texts from her mommy.”
