She Said, She Said

The house was beautiful — the kind you see in magazines and wish you owned yourself. It had a wide front porch that was overshadowed by a low ceiling. On the white porch sat two rocking chairs, and a mat bearing the words 'Welcome' was spread out in front of the light oak door. Small plants were sitting on the large railing that surrounded the whole front view. From afar, you could see that it was well-kept and appealing, but if you were one of those people that looked at the little details instead of the "big picture" you would notice some odd things — like how the flowers were drooping and looked like they hadn't been watered in a while; and how up-close, the paint on the door was chipped in places; and even that spiders had attached fragile webs onto the walls, claiming their territory.

To me, the person who'd spent half of her life in the place, it told a different story. It looked as if the house was literally going limp; the roof of the house seemed to be almost frowning down at me. Nonetheless, it was my home, a place that would trap all of my memories — and my family’s — in its corners forever.

"So," Aunt Debra said in a strained voice, "I think I'll sit in the living room and wait for you to finish up. Is that alright?"

I nodded, not entirely listening. My focus was on the house, on the lonesome chairs outside and the musty smell that filled my nostrils as soon as we stepped inside. There, standing in the doorway, I felt something in my chest: a dull pain that spread and spread, and threatened to choke me, to not let me breathe.

To see the house so lonely, so lifeless made me realize how much more real this whole situation was. It hit me all at once: my parents dying, leaving me behind on my own; crying in the hospital, surrounded by the blinding white walls; the strangeness of feeling like life was normal when it obviously wasn't; making friends with Sylvia in such a short period of time. How could this have all happened? Why didn't I notice how odd it all was?

"Valerie." Aunt Debra placed a hand on my shoulder and squeezed. "You can look around now."

"Alright," I said in a voice that definitely didn't belong to me.

I moved my wheelchair forward and took a quick look around. The couch, the loveseat and the chairs were all empty and looked as though they could definitely use some cleaning up. I was sure that if I sat down on the couch, I would come up with my shorts coated with dirt. As I moved deeper within the house, I noticed some things that made the dull pain in my chest grow stronger.

There was my mother's favorite crockery set — pale blue and covered in dark, swirling lines — that sat in the large, glass cabinet in the kitchen. Sabrina's favorite cup (that had a picture of a green dinosaur on it) placed on the table, as if waiting for someone to pick it up. Framed pictures that covered the walls: a thirteen-year old Brandon smiling cheekily, showing bright braces; me, when I was ten, holding a new-born, chubby-cheeked Sabrina; Mom sitting in a hospital bed, looking as if she'd just fought a wrestling match, surrounded by bright balloons and stuffed toys; young versions of Mom and Dad on their wedding day, both smiling widely and holding each other.

I had the sudden urge to cry, to scream, to let everyone know that I wasn't all right, that this whole thing was affecting me more than I let on. Why hadn't the house fallen down by now? It didn't feel right to see it standing quite still, as if it didn't feel the change.

Get a hold of yourself. Arching my back and pushing the wheels forward with my hands, I started to look around again, taking things in; appreciating things that I hadn’t ever thought would mean so much to me.

“Valerie, you almost done, sweetheart?” The voice rang in my ears for a few short seconds before I realized that it was only Aunt Debra. Sweetheart?

“Almost,” I said in a choked voice. Then: “Almost!” Even to me, my voice sounded as though it was being forced out of someone who’d just dropped from a great height and had trouble breathing, let alone talking.

For the next fifteen minutes, I went around and examined every inch, every corner of the rooms downstairs, except for the living room: the kitchen, the cramped office that belonged to my father, and the laundry room. It all smelled musty and dirty, but it looked so familiar, so recognizable that I felt as though an imaginary place from my mind had suddenly come to life.

When I was sure that every bit of the rooms was etched deep into my memory, I went out into the living room, but halfway there, I saw something that made my heart lurch into my throat: the staircase. Upstairs were the rooms: mine, Mom and Dad’s, Brandon’s, and Sabrina’s. I couldn’t go up there. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to, it was that I couldn’t. I needed to go up there, to see the places where my family had lived, the family that was dead.

“Valerie, I think we should go,” a faint voice called from the living room.

I turned around slowly, and met Aunt Debra in the doorway. She looked as though she’d been crying, but I didn’t bother to ask why — I had a feeling she wouldn’t tell me.

“Ready?” she said in that same faint voice. “Or are you not done looking around?”

“Aunt Debra — the staircase . . . I was wondering if I could go upstairs, but, but I don’t know how.” I looked at her, a little embarrassed.

“Oh!” Her voice sounded stronger now, and she looked at me with a sheepish look on her face, as if I’d just asked her where babies came from. “Well, I don’t know. I don’t think an old lady like me could carry you . . . but maybe next time, we could bring someone along with us.” She gave me a sad look.

“A-Alright,” I stammered and, turning around quickly, headed to the door.

When I emerged from the strange darkness of the house into the bright outdoors, I felt the sun glaring at the top of my head. The time spent inside had somehow turned the morning into afternoon, and I was sure it was around noon now.

“Hungry?” Aunt Debra asked from behind, and I turned around to look at her. In the light, I could see the lines around her mouth and eyes that I hadn’t noticed before.

“No, I think we’d better get back.”

The ride back was silent. And as far as I was concerned, it was completely normal and perfectly fine with me. I was in no mood to talk — and I had a feeling if I did end up saying anything, it would be mean and hurtful.

The trip had been eventful, yet it had filled with great emotions that overtook my senses quickly. I was confused and hurt and totally lost, as if the world had suddenly flipped upside down. I didn’t know what to think — just that I didn’t like how I’d felt back in the house anymore. Sure, I’d liked seeing the framed pictures on the walls, and my father’s office that was still messy and cramped. It had been a relief to me to see something normal for once, to make me feel like I could get through this, but now I had a different feeling.

Deep inside, I knew what I was feeling was normal. To feel lost and rejected after you’ve lost your family was completely ordinary and something people would understand. But what if they didn’t? What if they told me I was being too whiny or complaining too much? Would it be the truth? Was I really being unfair and acting as if I was the unluckiest person in the world?

After all, it wasn’t like it was my family’s fault that they were gone — it wasn’t anybody’s, really, except the truck driver’s. And that brought more questions up: was it the truck driver’s fault? Or was my father not as much of a great driver as I’d thought? Had we distracted him too much?

Suddenly, Aunt Debra spoke up: “Valerie, I was wondering about this whole ‘trip’ over the week . . . and now I think I shouldn’t have brought you back here. I know it’s your home, but this must put more stress on your mind, and I didn’t mean to do that. I-I just thought you might like to come back before they start cleaning it out and whatnot.”

I was quiet for longer than necessary, but when I finally spoke up, my voice was grave and quiet. “It’s okay, Aunt Debra. I’ve already been disrespectful towards you, and . . . and I’m sorry for that. Don’t worry about this trip — I enjoyed it. You were right: I wanted to see my home.”

Aunt Debra let out sound that rung in my ears for a few seconds; it was somewhere between a sob and a laugh. I didn’t need to look up to know that she was silently crying into one of her hands, while holding the steering wheel with the other.

*

“Valerie!” A loud bang and the sound of a tap being turned on. “I’m home, you silly goose! Get out of bed; it’s five o’clock.”

A rather harsh shove to the shoulder and I was awake.

“What?” I said groggily and pulled myself deeper into the comfort of my bed, the sheets smelling slightly of sweat and fabric softener.

“Dinner is going to be ready soon. Come on!” Sylvia’s voice was less cheerful than it had been a few seconds before. “Didn’t I tell you? On Sundays we get a special dinner — pizza, usually, but sometimes we get to make muffins and stuff.” An exasperated sigh and I squeezed my eyes shut tight. Maybe if she thought I was sick . . . “Come on! Don’t tell me you don’t like muffins?”

“I don’t feel well, Sylvia,” I croaked. My insides tightened and twisted together so hard, I thought I would burst.

“Alright then. Well, take care.”

I felt Sylvia tug at the sheets around me and then heard the squeaks of her wheelchair as she moved towards the door. A quiet click, and then silence.

After I was sure that she was gone, I sat up and rubbed at my eyes. I’d gotten back at the rehabilitation centre around one in the afternoon, and, feeling tired, had taken a nap. Even as I’d slept, I couldn’t let the questions escape my mind. I couldn’t make the naggings go away, nor could I stop the feeling of hopelessness as it spread inside me.

There was nothing I could do. No matter how hard I tried to tell myself that it wasn’t my fault that my family was gone, I couldn’t help but feel as though I was doing a crime by staying alive. A few days ago, I’d wished that I was dead so that I didn’t have to be alive and feel alone. But now I didn’t want to live because I wanted to punish myself, to leave this world that I didn’t belong to — not when my family wasn’t here with me.

Why couldn’t Brandon have been alive instead of me? He was older and he’d had his whole life planned out. He was going to become an electrician. But me? I had only been complaining about high school, and worrying about having and not having friends.

I didn’t deserve to live. I needed to go and join my parents — to be with them and to let them know that I wasn’t betraying them by staying in this strange world, but instead with them, where I belonged.