Reclaimed (3 page)

“Who?”

“Ruth McAlister.” Mom took a deep breath. “She’s the one who bought the house.”

“So why do we have to go over there?” I asked.

“You.
You’re
going over there. I can’t.”

I glared at her. I was not volunteering for the mission. I really didn’t want to see other people’s things in Pops’s house. “No.”

Mom sighed. She’d never had much patience. “It’s the polite thing to do. To welcome them to town and thank them for doing business with me.” Mom was a real estate agent. She gave me a guilty look. “And to pick up the rest of the boxes. We need to get them out of their way.”

“Shouldn’t we have done that before they moved in?” I asked.

“They were sort of in a hurry. And I wasn’t ready.”

She still wasn’t.

I poured myself a bowl of cereal and curled up in the overstuffed chair in the corner. It was my favorite place in the house, aside from my room. Sunlight streamed over my shoulders. “Well I can’t,” I told her around a mouthful of cereal. “I’m working today. Besides, that’s your job, not mine.”

Mom had perfected the eye of judgment. “You’re going,” she said, “because I said so. Besides, I already called Mops and told her you’d be late.” Mom’s voice was tight. It always was when she talked about her mother. “She was fine with it.”

Sometimes having my grandma as my boss sucked.

“Anyway,” Mom was still talking, “I think Mrs. McAlister has a son just your age.”

As if that was going to make everything about this okay. I rolled my eyes. I couldn’t understand why Mom wanted me all fixed up with a boyfriend. When she was my age, she’d dated the hottest guy in school, and that hadn’t worked out so well for her. I was focused on getting an academic scholarship out of here, shaving a minute off my 5K time, and finally seeing all the places I’d only ever read about. “He’s going to be a senior,” Mom said, “and he’s new in town and doesn’t know anyone. You’re going, and you’re going to be nice.”

“Fine.” But I wasn’t changing clothes.

* * *

I had to admit, I was a little curious as to just who in the world had decided that Solitude would be a good place to live. It was too small to be on a map. But Solitude was safe. People rarely locked their doors. The most dangerous thing that ever happened here was when ancient Mrs. Pettigo decided to drive herself to the store instead of waiting on her elderly son. And since old Mrs. Pettigo couldn’t see a damn thing, anyone within a quarter mile of her and her moving vehicle was likely to lose a limb.

Pops’s place was between Solitude and Middleton and in the middle of exactly nowhere; I had to turn off the paved road long before I wanted to. There was nothing but woods that far out, the houses spaced apart enough that they couldn’t be considered neighbors. The stretches between them were filled with trees, broken occasionally by open fields. I knew every tree, every curve in the road. And even though it had been seven months since I’d driven out that way, it was like returning home after a long trip—not that I would know anything about that. But I imagined it was something like this, a tugging on the heart in two different directions, and I couldn’t blame my mom for refusing to come. She had way more memories tied up in this place than I ever could.

The driveway was overgrown, testifying to Pops’s absence, but I couldn’t have passed it if I tried—the Bronco slowed automatically. It had been Pops’s before it became mine, his fishing rig that usually sat underneath the metal canopy attached to the side of the workshop. The shiny truck parked there instead was an imposter.

The house gave me a reproachful look as I pulled up in front and hopped out, the yard full of tangled bushes and brown spots. I grabbed the welcome basket, which had gained at least five pounds on the ride over. I labored up the steps and tried to shuffle it a bit, but there was no way I was going to be able to hold that thing with one arm. I kicked the door instead of knocking.

Footsteps echoed through the house, and for a split second, I half-expected Pops to answer, grumbling about having to get up to get the door. I turned sideways just as the door opened. It wasn’t Pops, but I would be lying if I said those blue eyes weren’t familiar.

Legs. That’s all I saw when I wrenched open the old door. Long, lean, muscled legs. Beautiful. Then the girl turned.

I pried my eyes away from her tanned legs. Her eyes were green with gold flecks. I hadn’t ever seen anything like them. Her hair was brown, but with red that somehow managed to catch the sunlight even though she was standing in the shade of the porch. She gave me a blinding smile that I somehow felt I didn’t deserve.

“Ian, who is it?” Mom shouted from somewhere inside.

“Um.” I hadn’t even asked.

The girl’s smile faded and then disappeared completely. “Jenna,” she said, her voice hoarse.

Mom walked up behind me then, wiping her hands on her shorts. Her smile was plastered on like some overdone Halloween mask. Jenna didn’t seem to notice.

“My mom, Vivian Oliver, sent this over. To welcome you to Solitude.”

“Please, come in,” Mom said, stepping out of the way. She pinched my arm hard.

“Oh, sorry,” I said, feeling stupid. “Let me.” I grabbed the basket from her—it was ridiculously heavy—and followed Mom into the kitchen.

“Excuse the mess,” Mom said, “we’re still unpacking.”

I set the basket on the counter. Jenna looked around the kitchen, her eyes a little sad. She smiled politely at my mom. It was hard to get my brain to focus. I just kept staring like an idiot.

“I also need to get the boxes my mom left,” Jenna said.

Mom nodded. “They’re in the dining room. Ian will help you carry them out to your car. I should finish unpacking.” Mom threw me a warning look out of the corner of her eye, which was unnecessary. I knew the rules—she reminded me often enough.

“So what’s in the boxes?” I asked, picking one up and carrying it out to her car.

She opened the back. “My grandpa’s stuff. He died in October.” I couldn’t read the look she gave me.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

We grabbed more boxes from the house, piling them into her Bronco. There weren’t many, but my shirt soon stuck to my back.

“So,” I asked, “how long have you lived in Solitude?”

“All my life.” She sighed.

I couldn’t imagine staying in one place for so long.

After we filled her backseat, we headed back inside to double-check that we’d gotten everything.

“You really don’t remember me?” Jenna asked.

“Should I?” I spoke before I thought. Of course I should. She was just going to be one of the many things I was supposed to remember but didn’t. But I couldn’t understand how this beautiful girl could tumble into the dark holes of my memory.

“No,” she said, squaring her shoulders. “I don’t guess you should.”

I heard Luke rattling around in his room. Typical. He’d holed up in there as soon as we got here, but let a pretty girl stop by, and he was suddenly ready to make an appearance. He was always ruining things. But Mom had made it very clear that I was supposed to try to keep him out of trouble. It was going to be a full-time job.

“Um, I’d better get back to work. I have a lot left to unpack,” I said.

“Of course.” Jenna’s voice was hard. “I’m sorry I just showed up. My mom,” she said, as if that were all the explanation I needed.

“It was nice to meet you.” I hurried out of the room. Mom eyed me as I passed by—she must have heard Luke too.

Jenna said something in return, but I was already halfway up the stairs. Not a good impression at all. It was all Luke’s fault. Most things were.

He really didn’t remember me. It bothered me, mostly because I felt guilty. I didn’t want to admit I’d been with a boy I hardly knew when Pops died. I’d said good-bye to Ian instead of my own grandfather. I’d carried that guilt around for the past seven months. Obviously, he hadn’t been worth it. I didn’t even warrant a footnote in his life.

I walked back into the kitchen, which, despite how achingly familiar it was, had undergone its own metamorphosis. The wallpaper was peeling and the kitchen cabinets were warped and stained. The refrigerator was too big for the opening, so it was sitting in the middle of the room. The familiar gingham curtains were gone, leaving the window naked. The house had been shut up for a long time, and it smelled musty; it used to smell like cinnamon and pipe tobacco. I walked to the laundry room.

Pops had marked my mom’s height on the doorjamb with black marker, then mine with red. I reached over and ran my fingers along the wood. My red lines were always just above Mom’s. Her lines stopped at twelve, when she reached five feet. Mine stopped at thirteen—I’d hit five feet six inches that year. I’d shot up over the summer, showing up to seventh grade taller than any of the boys. They’d teased me about my skinny legs, and I’d cried when they weren’t looking.

God, this was like being seven all over again. I’d sat on the counters and helped Mops cook. She’d let me make all kinds of messes. We dyed Easter eggs there, and carved pumpkins, and made really ugly Christmas cookies. The past seemed to hover somewhere just out of sight, waiting for me to look the other way so it could slide into place. I remembered where every dish was supposed to go. The nail where Mops’s apron used to hang was empty.

Even after Mops had moved out, she would come over here on Sundays and bring Pops dinner. We would all sit at the table and listen to his stories. He was always full of them—and full of bull too. After dinner, Mops would clean up the kitchen while Pops would lean back in his chair and smoke his pipe. In the summers we might go down to the pond before dark; sometimes we’d throw a line in, and sometimes I’d look for turtles and catch tadpoles.

The house didn’t smell the way I remembered, didn’t sound the same, didn’t feel the same. Standing in the kitchen, I was slapped in the face with Pops’s death. I couldn’t forget, couldn’t pretend he was just out of sight. The house screamed his absence.

“Looking for something?”

I whirled around at Mrs. McAlister’s voice. She couldn’t have been much older than forty, but she looked tired. There were lines around her eyes and ones that pulled down at the corners of her mouth. Her dark hair was streaked with gray. She looked wary. I got the feeling she wanted me to leave.

“Sorry,” I said. “My grandpa used to live here.”

Mrs. McAlister gave me a small smile. “Thank you so much for stopping by.” She didn’t really look like she meant it. “And for the basket.”

“Sure.” I stepped around her and out into the hall. She followed me to the door and shut it behind me before I’d even gotten off the porch.

I opened the Bronco door, then looked up at the house before I slid in. Ian’s face peered out of an upstairs window—the room I’d once slept in. I climbed in and started the car. When I looked back at the window, he was gone.

I woke up late, and it took me a minute to remember where I was. I’d dreamt about the tree house again. For just a moment, caught in that strip between waking and sleeping, I could smell the cut wood and hear the buzz of a lawn mower. But then I was fully awake, and the feeling shattered.

It was quiet upstairs. Luke wasn’t around—hadn’t been much in the week since we’d moved in. There were unpacked boxes still stacked outside his bedroom door. He’d always been irresponsible; it was one of the reasons he and Dad couldn’t get along. They’d walked away from their last argument bloody and bruised—literally. Fistfights had a tendency to do that. Some mistakes just couldn’t be forgiven. We left because our family refused to look our problems directly in the eye. Better to neglect them completely and hope they starved to death. Then Dad could hide the bones in the basement, and Mom could plant roses in front so our neighbors could go on admiring our perfect yard while all the time there were piles of problems decomposing underneath us. The divorce was a shitstorm that had threatened to unearth everything we’d been trying to keep buried. Mom was going to make sure that didn’t happen again—because the McAlisters were perfect.

Even though Luke and I had once been inseparable, we mostly avoided each other these days. He was the reason my parents divorced. If he’d just been able to control his temper then Dad would have been able to control his. I blamed Luke for having to leave the familiar behind. I didn’t know who I was here. I wasn’t an athlete or an honor student. I wasn’t anything everyone kept telling me I was supposed to be but couldn’t really remember. And God, I wanted to. Because if I could just remember, maybe we would be normal again. But at least there weren’t any bones in this basement. Yet. Mom was determined to keep it that way, which meant I was stuck reining in my brother. And he was being moodier than usual.

“Ian?” My mom’s voice came from the living room.

“Yeah, it’s me.” I walked across the hall. There were dents in the old wooden floor, a paint splatter here and there. Our house in Massachusetts had been new and pristine, still smelling like paint and wood—the perfect museum for the perfect family of the perfect soldier. This house smelled a little musty, and the wallpaper was peeling in places. This was a better setting for the family we were now—broken and scattered.

This house had a lot of windows, and Mom had tacked thick blankets over them until we could get curtains. The only things close enough to see in our windows were bugs and coyotes, but Mom was used to neighborhoods—or maybe she was just protecting our secrets. The blankets made the living room feel like a cave. Or a tomb.

Mom was sitting on the floor, a busted cardboard box next to her, the floor strewn with photo albums. The pictures were scattered.

“What happened in here?” I asked.

She’d been crying. She tried to play it off, but I could tell. I always could. “I was trying to put these away, and the box broke.” I sat next to her and helped her sort the pictures, our lives reduced to ink on paper, every single moment of the past seventeen years frozen in time.

“Remember that trip?” she asked. She sounded hopeful as she showed me a picture of our whole family in front of the Yellowstone sign.