“What's on it?”
“Road trip songs,” I say. “Put it in.”
She does and “Ticket To Ride” by The Beatles blasts through the radio. Mom claps and starts singing along as Dad drives up the road. Aj isn't here yet, but I have the sneaking suspicion Dad is going to call her when we're on our way. I think they have something planned.
“I meant to ask you, did you throw all those flowers away?” Mom says ten minutes later.
“Yeah. I did. I couldn't stand them anymore.”
“Thank you. I couldn't stand them either, but I couldn't throw them away for some reason. They were just too much.”
“Just a bit,” I say as the CD clicks over to another song.
“So where are we going?” Mom says, batting her eyes at Dad.
“No way. I want to see the surprise on your face. Nothing is going to stop me from getting that.” He takes her hand and kisses it.
I settle back against the cooler and close my eyes. Peter is close, so close. I glance out the window, but I can't see him. He's running too fast. We stop at 11:30 so everyone can get out of the car, stretch and pee.
“I still don't know where we're going,” Mom says, putting her arms over her head and arching her back. She's so thin. I wish she would eat more, but I know food makes her feel sick. She could take drugs that would help her eat more, but they have other side effects that she doesn't want to deal with. It's a lose-lose situation.
We get back in the car and keep going. It takes another hour, but we finally pass the sign that says we're in Machias.
“Oh, Sam,” Mom whispers. She knows now. “Thank you. Thank you both.” She reaches her hand to the backseat and I grip it. “I can't believe this,” she whispers.
I've never been to the house, but I've seen it in pictures enough times. We had a photograph of her sitting on the porch when she was four years old hanging in our living room. I grew up with that picture and I always wanted to see the house.
“Turn left,” Mom says as we drive through downtown. I'm sure Dad downloaded directions, but he doesn't use them. Mom's way better than the internet. I glance at the cooler I'm slumped on and wish it could magically turn into Peter.
“Here,” Mom says, pointing to a mailbox with a thirty-eight on it. “I wish we could go see it, but I'm sure someone owns it.”
“Why don't we see?” Dad says, turning off the car and getting out.
Mom and I stay in the car. “What is he doing?”
“Don't know.” I actually don't know about this part. When we discussed it, he said we'd just drive by the house so she could see it from the car. He didn't say anything about getting out. God, we're probably going to get arrested for trespassing. I get out of the car to stop Dad from waltzing onto some stranger's lawn, but I stop when I see the FOR SALE sign. Also, if anyone wants to get us with a shotgun, Peter can block the bullets. My bulletproof boyfriend.
“Huh. Looks like we can go and see it,” she says. Mom and I walk arm in arm up the driveway. Her breaths are shaky, and I can tell she's on the verge of tears. I finally notice another car in the driveway. A BMW. Dad walks toward it and a woman in a pinstripe jacket with matching pencil skirt gets out, brushing nonexistent wrinkles from her flawless clothes.
“Mr. Sullivan?”
“Yes, you must be Gretchen.” He shakes the woman's hand.
What-the-what is going on? I glance at Mom and she raises her eyebrows. I see movement over my shoulder and I can feel Peter lurking in the bushes. Kind of like a stalker. I prefer to think of him as highly involved.
“This is my wife, Claire, and my daughter, Ava.” Gretchen sticks her hand out, and Mom and I both shake it. Still not sure what she's doing here.
“Well, are you ready to see the house?” she says, rifling through a leather briefcase, pulling out some papers and giving us her best smile. It's way too fake.
“Yes, we are very interested in seeing the house,” Dad says in a loud voice, putting his arm around Mom.
Gretchen looks at him weird but slides a smile back onto her face. The real estate agent smile. Clearly, that's what she is. I can connect the dots here. Dad called the real estate agency and asked about the house. The only way we're getting in to see it with someone who has keys is to pretend that we're interested in buying it. Well played, Dad. Well played indeed. I didn't know he had something like that in him. It's a scheme worthy of Tex.
“Yes, I saw the pictures online and it's perfect. This is such a good neighborhood, too,” Mom adds, playing along. I feel the need to add something, but settle for looking like a surly teenager. No normal teenage girl wants to look at a house with her lame parents. Ugh, how awful.
“It is a good neighborhood,” Gretchen says, touching on one of the good points of the house. I finally take a good look at it.
“It's just like I remember,” Mom whispers to no one in particular. Dad takes her hand and winks at both of us. Smooth.
“What did you say?” Gretchen asks, shuffling through her papers.
“I said it's just like the pictures we saw online,” Mom says as we walk up the front porch.
The house is older, and a little run-down. The white paint is peeling in spots, and the grass hasn't been mowed in a while. Other than that, it's exactly what I thought it would be.
A white farmhouse, with a porch that wraps around the front and left side, a peaked roof and a small shed that might have held a tractor in the days when a farmer lived here. I even see a tree with a tire swing across the yard.
The steps creak and bend under our feet. Gretchen goes into full selling mode, drawing our attention away from the peeling wallpaper and uneven floor to the high ceilings and amazing light that somehow flows from room to room, making it feel like it's bathed in sunlight.
Mom's eyes go wide and she smiles, going from room to room, brushing her fingers on the wallpaper, the windowsills.
While Gretchen blathers on, Mom whispers to me some of her memories. Like the corner where she used to read, or the place where she fell and got the scar under her chin. In the kitchen she tells me about my grandmother making pies and Christmas, and I can almost smell the delicious cooking. I try to imagine what it was like. The wooden furniture, lots of flowers, lots of painted teacups on the wall.
Gretchen takes us upstairs, and Mom clutches my arm when we go into her old room. It looks almost exactly like mine, only it's tucked into the eaves, so one of the walls slants until it meets the floor.
“That's where the bed was. My desk was over there.” Mom recreates the room for me, and I can almost see it.