I walk gingerly to my grandfather's old beat up baby blue and rust coloured Ford truck. The truck like how I feel is rusty and grey. I don't think the old thing can move let alone take me from Canada to America where my grandparent's house is in the middle of nowhere. It has been eight weeks since my life has been thrown into chaos. Much like how a twister comes out of nowhere, my life just changed rapidly. The crash remains in my mind in a demanding sort of way. This memory craves my attention constantly; I beg my mind not to give it the satisfaction. All fails at the weak attempt. I wasn't there to witness the tragedy but I can remember every second from the time I found out, to the time my grandparents came here to take me away. I was told no one survived, but I've come to the conclusion that everyone is lying to me. Everything is all a joke or some sort of game, I just have to keep calm and advance through. Everything after that is sort of a haze and I've become auto-piloted, shaking my head up and down and side to side, to everyone's questions and condolences. I am rather sick of all the whispers and stares coming from everyone and everywhere. It is impossible for them to understand but they try and act like morons in the process.
The truck's air conditioner doesn't work, great just great. It is blazing outside and I have to sit here uncomfortable for at least a day and that's if we don't take any breaks. Not to mention that the truck doesn't smell exactly pleasant. There is a moth ball and old fast food smell to it. I clutch my old canvas knapsack, with its meagre belongings in it, as the truck jumps from the bumpy road. In it are An I-Pod to drown the loud engine and my grandfather's singing to the oldies on the radio, a neck pillow, several books, and a bottle of water. The rest of my stuff is in the tarp covered back of the truck. Or at least I think, the suitcases and boxes are there, they could have jumped out with all the bumps on this dirt road.
"Hey Izzy did you see that big Moose grazing over there," My grandfather takes his hands off the wheel and points both his hand towards a rather big moose. He then goes back to the silence, I enjoy. My name is Isabella but my grandfather won't stop with the "Izzy" thing. I don't think I really like being called Izzy; it seems too short and wrong rolling off the tongue. I glance at my grandfather quickly before he notices. My Father and grandfather look nothing alike; he must look more like grandma. It has only been what eight weeks and I can't even remember exactly how my father looked.
I'm not very close to my Father's parents but I remember we use to go there all the time and then for no reason at all we just stopped going there ten years ago and my mother's parents died long before I was born, so I never got the chance to meet them. Living with my dad's parents is going to be awkward more so for me than them. They are complete strangers to me, but anything is better than being sent to a foster home. Even if that means I have to leave this quiet little place called Saskatoon for a humongous city named Chicago.
I haven't cried yet. That I think would seem strange to most, even to me. I just don't know why I can't cry, it is like it everything is too much for me to even begin to break down and deal with. I stare out the old it's seen better day's truck window, nothing to look at but clouds and yellow stuff. The clouds are interesting though, many different colours. The ones though that I am most worried about are purple and black, like a rough black eye. Those clouds are quite intimidating; I hope a thunder-storm doesn't erupt.
"So, it has been a while since you have been down to Chicago Illinois." I turn to look in my grandfather's general direction.
"Yeah I guess it has," I say in a bored monotonous voice. I begin to bit my lip and twiddle my thumbs; I would give anything to not have to have this or any conversation. It is just too awkward talking to a man whom I am vaguely familiar with.
"A lot has changed since I last saw you," my grandfather says hopeful to continue to pry. I snort in response. I wish I could say "no shit Sherlock," it has been ten years what does he expect? I say nothing for a long period then I decide to just play dumb and see if I can figure out why we stopped visiting years ago.
"Yeah, how long has it been since I was in Chicago?"
"Um, I am not real sure Char but it is good that you going to be back." He is avoiding the answer. I don't know how to bring it up again without it seeming that I am fishing for something, so I go back to staring out the window. Nothing interesting to look at, a bunch of fields I am unfamiliar with and the occasional house that leans towards the ground. All these houses that are tilted like that, none of them have fallen or broken in half. I don't understand how something like that could continue to stand after all these years of neglect. We reach the border and the border police; I guess if that is what you want to call them. They think they need to search every ounce of my Grandfather's truck. We both are told to get out and they search every crack in the seats. He puts up a fight; I just stand there praying and lower my head in embarrassment. I hope he doesn't do something that would really get us in trouble. It is not like they will find anything, so why bother with the arguing. I walk to his side, with my arms crossed.
"Grandpa could you please stop arguing with the border patrol, it is not like you have anything to hide." I plead. I really don't care; I just don't need something worse to happen.
"I will not stop, no I won't. It is a thing of pride Izzy bean, just leave everything to me." I have a feeling that if everything was left up to him, he would be dead by now and now I have acquired a new nickname Izzy bean, I can only hope this one doesn't stick. He really just doesn't know when to give up; he is now taunting them as they search. He puffs out his chest and begins to wag his finger at them. He then goes on about when he was a boy they treated their elders with respect and how the world has changed.
"When I was a boy there were wars to fight and people didn't waste their time search cars and houses for nothing, they joined the army and made something of themselves. I remember that people actually cared about one another, now... now everything is always about silly things. I can't even buy a chocolate bar without there being some sort of hissy fit and that is not even just about the price 1.50 you have to be kidding me." I am not sure what chocolate has to do with anything but I want to drag him back to the side. I reframe from doing so because I am thinking that it may rile him up some more. He continues to go on.
"Just forget about your pride for an hour or two." I screech. This seems to get his attention, he then walks over to me silently and lets them care on with the search. Maybe it was his inner former cop self that felt the need to fight another cop. Or maybe he is really hiding something bad in the truck.
About half an hour later we are finally cleared to enter America. My eye lids weigh heavily, as I try to focus on the fields in front and all around me. I must have fallen asleep because when I wake up I am in an unfamiliar room and I can hear snoring close by. I sit up pull the covers away from me. I am sweating from the heat this room seems to cling to. I reach over and flip on a small light that sits right on the wall above the headboard of the bed and look around the room, my grandpa sleeps heavily on the next bed and a bathroom is just beyond his bed. I go into the bathroom and wash my face to find comfort in the heat. I look in the mirror, I don't see myself as how I remember, and something has clearly changed. I look haggard; do all people look like this when someone close to them dies. Can death really make the living look dead to someone? The light I turned on is suddenly out; great I mumble and stumble back to the bed, forgetting to change into my pyjamas. I don't think I could find them even if I wanted to. I flop into bed for another round of vivid and bizarre nightmares. A light shines brightly on my eyes. I roll over to avoid its glare.
"You need to get up if you want a shower, your grandmother expects us to be home by eight tonight," My grandfather says. I ignore him and roll over again, not caring so much about the suns glare. He pulls the light sheet from me. "I get you don't want to deal with anything, alright but you need to get up now take a shower get dressed eat some breakfast. We need to get a move on, ok," He says sternly. I comply and eat breakfast first then take a quick shower. When I get out of the bathroom grandpa is already at the door ready to leave. I put my clothes in my bag and put the bag back in the truck. I once again get in the old truck and we leave immediately. My grandfathers in quite a rush this morning, I think to myself. I don't think it is just my grandmother's expectance that is making him rush. Maybe I am just paranoid, or my grandfather is very anal about being somewhere on time. The smell is still there. It must be permanent in the fabric of the seats. I lean my head on my arm and stare out the window for what seems to be hours.
"We are almost there I can smell your Grandma's supper on the table!" My grandfather exclaims.
"Sounds great I am really looking forward to getting there I am quite exhausted." For once I feel I am being honestly and sincere to my Grandfather, since getting into this truck for the first time.
"Just wait until you see the bedroom your Grandma designed for you, I know you will just simply love it. You will even get your own bathroom."
"You guys didn't have to go to all that trouble; a plain white room is fine with me." I say leaning my arm against the window.
"Don't worry about it. It was nothing really, you grandma loves to design the house, so it was a personal joy for her." I don't remember grandma really liking to do anything except garden. She had this whole design and order to her yard. Every year I went there it was different and seemed to get grander. One year she had roses in the right corner, white and purple lilacs bordered the fence, along with some vines, tiger lilies, a whole bunch of wild flowers and an herb garden near the porch. The vines always reminded me of the movie the Secret Garden. I wonder what the garden looks like now. I hope the gazebo is still in the center of the garden. I see a sign that says "Welcome to Chicago, The Windy City." The population is 2.7 million people, that is beyond what I can imagine being big, I am from Saskatoon. I am pretty sure that whole province has less people than the whole city of Chicago.
I can't wait to just get out of this truck to stretch my legs, the right one keeps falling asleep. We pass many restaurants, big parks huge building, skyscrapers, and many different businesses. We drive a couple of miles outside of the city and I can see the house just as we drive to the top of the hill. It is hard to miss, it is so huge. It is a dark blue and white. It is a Victorian style home. There are three stories plus an attic and basement. I look to the second floor and I see a black shadow move the curtain slightly. I look with more attention to the window this time and nothing. I must be seeing things. I take in the rest of the exterior of the house. The ways the windows circle around make it seem like part of a castle. Parts of the black shingled roof are pointed. The house is breath taking and creepy at the same time. The flowers and vines all around it make it seem much older than it is and they also make it look hidden and secretive. I watch my Grandma come out of the heavy white French doors. She steps out on the deck and waves to us as we pull into the gravel just adjacent to the house.
I hop out of the truck and almost fall to the ground because my legs are so stiff. I grab my backpack. And go to grab my stuff from the back of the truck but grandpa insists on caring them in. I don't refuse when I realize that my arms are also very stiff for some reason. My whole body suddenly feels very heavy; My Grandma opens her arms as I walk up the steps to the wrap around deck. She comes and gives me a great big bear hug. I didn't realize she was a huggy type of person. I hug her back rather awkwardly.
"Hey Grandma," I say as I pull away from the hug. She grabs my shoulders.
"Well my, haven't you grown up, just look at her Wes. Oh look what have I done." She grabs a towel that hangs out of a pocket in her apron and dusts me off. "I have gotten flour all over you my dear."
"It's nothing really Grandma," I brush the remaining flour from my shirt.
"Please just call me Claire and call your grandpa Wes. Anyway let's get inside it looks like there is another storm approaching."
I step through the doors and I am immediately hit with a smell of fresh bread and several other baking smells. I guess grandma; I mean Claire, I don`t think calling her Claire is such a good idea. It seems so wrong to me like calling a teacher by their first name wrong, must have been baking all morning. Grandpa directs me to the stairs; we climb the elegant freshly polished stairs. I know they are freshly polished because I can practically taste the lemon smell coming off the wood. We turn right and there through the first door. My first impression of the room is to run and hide. Everything and I mean everything is a shade of pink that would make Barbie squeal with delight, and me on the other hand, well I won't be squealing, jumping up for joy, or screaming with a high pitched "OMG IT IS SO LIKE PINK?" I will be tolerating it and appreciating the thought and effort my grandma... I mean Claire put into it but everyday peeling a little bit of the froufrou wallpaper off until it is a little less pink.
"You don't like it do you?" He says as he comes up behind me.
"It is um, well different than any other room I have ever had." I reply. This is true; I have never seen such a sight in my life or even thought about having a room like this.
"Don't worry, we can change it, to whatever color you would most enjoy." My grandpa smiles as he says this. He brings the suit cases in and places them on the huge bed. That isn't the only thing that is huge, the whole room is enormous. I don't know where to begin, I hop onto the bed to test it out, and it is quite comfortable. My grandpa points to the door to my left and tells me that is the closet. Then he points the other door to the far right and tells me that it is my own personal bathroom. He then leaves but not before telling me to get ready for supper.
I lie in the bed taking it all in for a moment. My eyes analyze the room and I can't stop think that something is wrong with the vanity table; it seems odd, like it is hiding something behind it. I get up from the bed to pull out the vanity table a bit to see if something is behind it. Before I can pull it out enough to get behind it, Claire calls me to supper. I have a hard time tearing myself from what I was doing but the smell of supper brings me downstairs. I think Claire must have cooked everything but the kitchen sink, because there is everything from chicken to cabbage rolls. Claire notices my expression.
"I don't remember what you liked so I cooked a little of everything," she exclaims.
"You guys didn't have to go to all this trouble I am not a picky eater," I say.
"It was nothing really, now come on and sit down. There is a special desert after." I pick a seat from the round heavy wood table. I can see the sitting room from my chair, there is a beautiful old grandfather clock. It chimes loudly eight times as I begin to eat my food. We have pumpkin pie for desert; it is my absolute favourite flavour of pie known to man-kind. I have never ever had pumpkin pie in the middle of July, very special indeed. I yawn profusely after desert. I get up from my chair and begin to help Claire clear the dishes. "You don't have to help me dear."
"Are you sure, it is no problem."
"I am sure, go on now," she insists.
"I think I am going to head to bed early it has been a long day. See you guys in the morning, thank you for the supper." I say as I head up the stairs. I almost lose my way navigating to my room from the stairs. I walk straight for the vanity again. It is back up against the wall, which is not how I left it. Maybe Grandpa Wes moved it back. He did go up-stairs during supper. Anyway I am not in the mood to check it out now. I unpack my clothes and put them in the walk-in closet. I take a shower and change into my pyjamas and head to bed. This room is unfamiliar so I can't exactly sleep. I lay and toss and turn trying to find a comfortable spot. Maybe I wasn't as tired as I thought or maybe it is the fact that it is a bed, I bet if I went to a couch I would fall asleep instantly.
I give up and turn on the lamp sitting next to the bed and read a book. Every couple of sentences of the book I look up towards the vanity again. What is with it? I just can't stop being bothered by it. It is just a black wooden desk with a stupid mirror on it. Why is it that I can't stop thinking about pulling it out away from the wall? I slam the book shut when I realize reading it would be a waste, since I can seem to comprehend what it is that is going on in the book. No thanks to the fact that I am extremely distracted. Maybe the internet will hold my attention for a while
I quickly log into Facebook, to check in with my friends back home. No one is online; I guess the time difference is to blame for that though. I quickly write a status, log off and check my emails. Nothing important just junk about Viagra, dating sites, schools I don`t and never have wanted to attend, and one email from one of my closer friends Emelyne. She tells me how much she misses me and then rambles on for ten paragraphs, if you can call them that about her boyfriend Eric. I skip most of what she mentions about Eric, I have never liked the guy he seems slimy. Emelyne seems to be having a great summer, from what I can tell. I write a short and sweet response to her lengthy email.
I tell her I miss her even though I am not sure it is true; Emelyne was a friend that was also a handful at the same time. Blonde, tan, tall, blue eyed and pin thin, I on the other hand am shorter, have wavy black hair, really white skin, hazel eyes that can't decide on a colour and I am average weight. I was never jealous of her, I just didn`t like dealing with all the drama she surrounded herself with. She always had a new boyfriend every month; we seemed to be complete opposites. I don`t even know why we are friends. I guess I just like the fact that she is generally nice to most people. She torments this one girl though. Alison was here name I believe. I never stuck around when Emelyne became a catty person; it is not something I wanted to be a part of. I finish the email and try to get some sleep.