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“How was your day?” Mom asked, checking out her freshly applied makeup in the rearview mirror.
She had never been much for makeup before, but after the divorce, she didn’t leave the house without it. In my opinion, it aged her, but I would never tell her that.
I shrugged. “It was school.”
“Do you think my hair looks okay like this?” She switched the subject without even hearing my answer.
It was the obligatory mom question, I supposed.
“Yeah. It’s nice.”
“So, were there any cute boys?”
I turned toward her and lifted a brow. “Really, Mom?”
She giggled. “What? The boys are cuter in public schools. They aren’t walking around with sticks up their asses.”
“The only difference I saw was the lack of uniform.”
“I bet you’re enjoying that. Finally, being able to wear whatever you want. It’s a nice change.”
It wasn’t.
I missed my uniform, and my closet was sad. I wasn’t one to blow money on clothes, especially now that money was tight for us.
We pulled up to a stoplight, and I let my eyes drift, taking in the new place I called home. There were unfamiliar chain restaurants and stores. Even the gas station names were different. I sighed, missing everything familiar.
The sound of loud engines filled my ears, pulling my attention from the view and making me turn in my seat. Four guys pulled up beside us on sport motorcycles, their engines humming as they slowed. My eyes caught on one guy who was dangerously standing on top of his bike seat. He smoothly stepped down from his position as his bike rolled to a stop.
He faced forward, his profile hidden behind his black helmet, and he pumped at the gas handle, revving his engine and filling Mom’s car with the smell of gasoline and exhaust.
His bike was black and neon green, the back tire extended further than the bike itself. Feeling my eyes on him, he turned my way, but all I could see were his bright green eyes peeking out. A handkerchief covered his face from the nose down with the nose, mouth, and chin of a skull.
He nodded in my direction as if to say hi, and I turned away just as the light turned green, and Mom started forward. We had barely moved before all four bikes took off down the street in front of us, the screeching buzz of their engines echoing behind them.
They disappeared well ahead of us, and by the time we made it to our road, they were long gone.
Mom didn’t get out when we got home.
“I have errands to run, but I’ll be back later. Text if you need anything,” she said, pulling away and leaving me alone.
It was fine. I didn’t mind being alone most days, but standing and looking up at the historic house and its crooked siding, I couldn’t help but feel like I wasn’t the only ghost who lived there. And that was what I was. An essence who moved through the house that no one could see. Invisible since the only person with the ability to see me had died.
The house my mother grew up in was an old farmhouse on two acres of land. It used to be more, but the family had sold it off over the years. The view was more beautiful than the one I had in Seattle, oak trees, and nature as far as the eye could see, but that was the only difference that was nice. The rest was awful and needed love.
Thankfully, I adored old things and could appreciate the history of the house. I only wished we had the money to make it beautiful again. I was sure it had once been a stunner with its tall windows, original wood molding, and gorgeous hardwood floors. It was a treasure that needed the muck cleared away.
I started toward the wrap-around porch, slicing through the thick humidity as if I were swimming to the front door. I feared I would one day drown in the air around me. I stuck my key in the lock and opened the door; its hinges squeaked as if it were screaming to remained closed. I didn’t blame the door. I never wanted to open myself for anyone, either.
Once I was inside, I locked the door behind me out of habit and went upstairs to my room. Tossing my bag onto my bed, I went straight for my pajama drawer and my comfy shorts. Jeans in Georgia in August wasn’t the best idea. I had spent the day pulling the material from my sweaty legs and wishing I was the kind of girl who wore breezy skirts.
I fell onto my bed, glad I had been able to bring my comfortable mattress, and I let the stress of the day dissolve from my chest and shoulders.
“Today was hard,” I said, speaking to my father’s urn
It sat on my dresser and was a beautiful hand-carved urn made of African blackwood with tiny bits of emerald around the top. His name was carved on the side along with his birthdate and the day he died. At the bottom, the wordsBeloved Fatherblazed back at me, making my stomach clench with pain.
I missed him more than I could ever put into words. It was like a large rock had settled at the bottom of my stomach the day he died, weighing me down and leaving an ache so strong I walked around in a constant state of nausea.
