On a squeaking cart, they push the usual stuff,
A mattress, bed ends, cups, carpets, chairs,
Four paperback westerns. Two whistling youths
In surplus U S Army battle-jackets
Remove their sister's goods. Her husband
Follows…
And pushing, of all things, a lawnmower.
There is no grass in Terry Street. The worms
Come up cracks in concrete yards in moonlight.
That man, I wish him well. I wish him grass.
By Douglas Dunn.
The first thing, I guess, you should know about me, is that my world is not quite the same as yours. The second is that my name is Bella. And that is all I have to say about myself, whoever that is.
I lugged my heavy suitcase up the stairs, to my old room, to an old part of my past. Thump, thump, thump- it banged on each step and against my heels. On the landing the worn carpet creeks under my foot as my suitcase whines, protesting as its wheels catch on tufts of unloved beige fur. The door to my room is white washed, so much that it hurts my eyes. Gingerly I push it open, as if there may be someone else lying on my bed. But no, it's just me, my suitcase and a watery sunlight filtering though the clouds.
I let out a small sigh of relief, and it settles like dust into the room. I remember everything, the soft blue carpet, the almost threadbare comforter on my bed, the large open window that still seemed to be the room's focal point. Far away I can hear the ghost of a little girl laughing.
Then like a machine, I unpack. Efficient and measured, unfolding uniform white underwear, various slacks and shirts. I hid everything away in a whitewashed wardrobe, until my room was bare again. Breathing heavily from the flurry of movement I was at a loss as to what to do next. I glanced round the room, and there was nothing, nothing that inspired me, nothing that would make me feel better.
Before I get too caught up in my feelings, I force myself into action. I spread myself out on the empty floor, until my tense spine clicks into place. And then again I am a flurry of movement, I fold my legs, touch my toes. And again. And again. A thousand sit ups until all I can hear is my heart pounding in my ears. Proof that I am still alive, still here.
A while later, I hear Charlie call my name "Isabella". But that is not my name. I creep out of my room stepping only on my toes, to stop the floor creaking. He'd made us dinner, dry pasta and a limp salad.
"So, first day of school tomorrow" he says trying to make conversation. The pasta catches in my throat. I nod. "You can take the truck if you want." I nod again even Billy Black's old hand-me-down gas guzzler beats a ride in Charlie's cruiser. "You got everything ready?" He asked sensing the waning chance of a father-daughter discussion. "Yeah sure" my words are short and to the point, the corners of Charlie's mouth seemed to dip a little, and I feel bad.
"You know, Ch- dad, you should let me cook from now on" the relief on his face from such a small offer is bemusing, even to me. Clearly he doesn't cook. Then comes his obliged refusal. "You know Bells really you don't have to, I get by just fine." Then I can't help but crack a grim smile, which feels stretched and alien on my face. "Don't worry" I promise "I enjoy it, really". And then after a quick glance around his kitchen I add "Do you have some money or something, I could stock up on supplies after school."
"Oh, yeah sure, in the cupboard over the sink, there's money I save each week for groceries." And then he gets distracted by a baseball game on TV. After dinner I get bored quickly, I was up to date if not already ahead of any revision or projects that would be required at Forks high, courtesy of no social life in phoenix. I'm not the most co-ordinated of people but I enjoy physical exercise, it stops my mind from wondering, so I decided to explore the neighbour hood.
I pull on my sweats and sports bra, scraping my longish brown hair back into a pony. Charlie was still absorbed by the TV, I yelled to him as I left. "I'm going for a run". He glanced over at me briefly, assessing my mental health, "Sure, be back by ten" Inside I smile, three hours to play with.
My feet pound the street, sinking softly into the well worn but springy soles of my sneakers. All the houses looks similar, red or cream walls, flower boxes and pastel colour blinds, blocking the front rooms from prying eyes, like mine.
I run until the houses and bungalows become so far apart it takes my ten minutes to reach the next. The gaps are filled by overwhelming pine forests, that fill the air with a sickly sweet pine fresh smell, and flickering orange streetlamps that bounce gold onto the slick black puddles, of Fork's famous rain.
When I at last reach the next house, I brief a heavy sigh of relief, at last I had not crossed to far into the outskirts of town. Unlike the other houses though this one felt different. I'd compare it to an abandoned castle from a low rent horror movie, except the cream walls and large open glass windows gave it an open, almost inviting feel. The door is normal, the windows are normal giving a soft cozy orange glow, even the noises are normal, the faint sounds of CNN floating on the air. But the house seems taller, with no pines to shadow it. And the air smells empty.
The flash of headlights from the road ahead of me draw me from my trance. I am halfway home before I realise there was no grass around the house, in fact, life at all.
When I arrive home, pushing the time constraint, Charlie is asleep in his chair. I creep over to him, and playing the role of a loving daughter, pull a felt blanket around him. He muttered in his sleep, and his mouth stretched into a broad grin. He looked so young in his sleep, like the man my mother married, all the lines on his face smoothed and all the thoughts on his mind at rest.
Then I get ready for bed. Shower. Brush my teeth. Pack my bag for school the next day, pens, pencils and notepads follow one after the other into an oversized satchel. And then I climb into bed my limbs weary from the run. I stare up at the blank ceiling, and can't help but feel a sense of overwhelming emptiness in my life, like a black hole threatening to swallow me. I cannot sleep to scared even to move. But I cannot say what of.
