2. Chapter One

Chapter One

I huffed, blowing some hair out of my face, only to scream, internally, as it fell back over my eyes again. I couldn't see where I was walking, and the last thing I needed at that moment was to fall. I tried again and again to get the hair to move away and stay there. I shook my head from side to side, back and forth, and even tried to tilt it backward a bit. No use. So there in the attic I stood, balancing two boxes in my arms while trying to move forward. I continued to huff and blow at my hair every few feet so that I could see where to step. My lungs began to hurt from all the huffing, and I became a bit dizzy. The second to last thing I needed right then was to pass out. It seemed that the sweat upon my brow was the reason that a stubborn clump of hair kept sticking to my forehead, directly over my eyes. I realized that no amount of huffing was going to permanently move that hair, so I grunted once more in annoyance, set the boxes down, sighed, moved the hair from my face with my hands, and tucked it behind my ear before, finally, fixing it by pulling it all up into a clip. The attic was hot, and I had never intended to spend so many of my afternoons up there, but what was inside those boxes was so incredibly interesting that even the heat couldn't deter me from going up there. Plus, with my best friend gone for most of the summer and my aunt working daily at the flower shop, I had little else to do. And having little to do was dangerous because it left my mind free to ponder on the tragic state of my life.

I didn't want to do that.

So, there I was, shuffling boxes of my parents' pasts around the attic, when other teenagers were going to the beach, the pool, or the mall.

Do I want to go to those places?

No.

Actually, I had no idea what I wanted to do other than keep my mind busy and my body tired so that I wouldn't think too much, so that I could fall asleep quickly at night. I always hoped I could work my body hard enough so that I'd fall quickly into the deepest of sleeps and, thereby, avoid the nightmares. At that time, being exhausted did keep them at bay. It wasn't a flawless plan, but it worked most of the time. I picked up a box, dislodged some dust bunnies, which caused me to sneeze for the hundredth time that day, and I dropped it, causing me to flinch as it hit the floor, and I hoped that nothing breakable, or priceless, was inside. I sat down beside the box and stared around the small attic for a moment.

Before my parents' deaths, I had never gone up into the attic, and it was a lot smaller than I thought it would be. I went up, initially, just trying to find some pictures of my parents. It was surprising to me, the lack of baby pictures of both my mom and my dad. Actually, after searching through half of the boxes, I realized that there were not any pictures at all from their youth. Not just no pictures , but there were no toys and no little trinkets or keepsakes from their childhoods, either, not even clothing—no pictures of their parents—nothing. I realized that while, yes , I knew both sets of my grandparents were dead, I had never, not even once, seen a picture of any of them. I wondered why that was. The attic door squeaked, and I turned to see Mary, my aunt, leaning there in the doorway, holding a cup of ice water. Her blond hair was wavy as was mine and my mom's. She looked so much like her, an aching reminder of what I'd lost, yet I was happy to have a piece of my mom still there with me in the form of her sister. Mary must have left the flower shop early, heaven bless her .

"Thought I would find you smoldering up here," she said with a chuckle, walking over to me and handing me the glass.

I greedily gulped it down.

"Find anything good?" she asked.

"Not really. I was wondering, though–There are no pictures of mom's and dad's childhoods. Why is that?"

Mary's face grew strangely pale, and she appeared uncomfortably silent. Her blue eyes searched about the room.

"Mary?" I asked, confused by her reaction.

"Uh, well—you see," She touched the fabric of her oversized t-shirt, which advertised a band that I wasn't familiar with, as she spoke."There was a fire."

"A fire?" I whispered, "Why had I never heard that story before?"

"It was before you were born; there was a fire, and most of their pictures and things were destroyed." Mary looked around the small space.

"But, you must have at least one picture of your parents, right? My mom's side?"

She looked into an open box as she spoke absentmindedly, touching the papers inside.

"I was living with your mom and dad at the time. We all lost everything."

Why isn't she looking at me? I wondered. I felt as if she were actively avoiding me. Perhaps, it was only due to the pain of losing her sister. Talking about her must be hard for her. I didn't often bring up my mom.

Mary had helped me so much through my grieving, even got me a therapist, which was another reason I was up there in the attic, going through these boxes. The therapist said it could be helpful if I went through their things and said goodbye . I wanted to look at their lives through pictures, but I had found only a handful, and none of them were of them as small children or even in their teens. Even with the lack of pictures, there were other items that reminded me of them and made me feel close to them. In some ways, it did seem to be helping, yet I was sad that I would never get to see them as children, and never get to see what my grandparents looked like. Looking up at Mary, I noticed the dark circles under her eyes. She was my mother's younger sister, not even old enough to have a child my age, and yet, she had moved into my house and had become my guardian after they passed, no questions asked. I loved her more than I could ever express. The pain there, the loss she felt, was so apparent, not only for my mom, but also regarding that new topic: no pictures of her family. So, I didn't press any further. I understood that losing images of the ones you love was completely heartbreaking. I felt it, too. I couldn't imagine not having what few pictures I did have of my parents so that I could look at them whenever I needed a reminder of them, because I missed them.

"Come down soon, Emma. You don't want to pass out in here from this heat," she said, finally looking at me with a sad smile. She tucked her hair behind her ear as she went back to the door.

"I won't be much longer," I said, watching her as she walked through the door, closing it behind her with a soft smile for me.

The next day, I was back up there in the attic. It seemed to call to me, and I knew I had to go through every box, just in case there was something I would want; I was almost done. I sifted through my dad's college books, which weighed the same amount as a small car, and I wondered why he had saved them. The books were mostly about science, biology, and other medical stuff. I flipped through the pages of his books, imagining that he had touched those very same pages in his youth. All those books, while priceless to him and to his career as a physician, were not priceless to me. I wouldn't keep those books, and somehow, as I carried them downstairs, placing them in the trunk of Mary's car and then closing it, it felt good—felt right. He would like them being donated so that others who were interested in the same things as he was might benefit from their pages.

I miss you so much, Dad. I tried to shake that thought away. Letting it linger would have led to tears.

I drank another cup of cold ice water before heading back upstairs and into the hot attic. I opened a box that was full of my mom's things. It was a jumbled mess, but it was not heavy—almost as if she had gathered up her life as fast as she could, and then she just threw it all into that brown cardboard box. Her box held many letters. The collection of letters ranged from letters from my dad, to letters from friends, to birthday cards. There were also programs from plays that she had seen, and even a few movie tickets hidden within the mess. It felt good, and yet miserable, to search through my parents' lives, all crammed into those boxes. I picked up the top envelope within a smaller box. It was old and yellowed, and I couldn't read the inscription on the front. I opened it and pulled out a small sheet of paper and read:

Darling Ara,

I have spent years longing for home, searching for a way back to it. You and your love make me feel as if I have found home, here, in this strange place. I am at peace because of your smile, your soul, and the melody that you have within yourself. I am touched, and I know we can make a life together as beautiful as the ones we left behind. You are my world.

All my love,

Lamont

I tried to stop the tears which fell from my eyes as I read my dad's words, but I couldn't. I was so affected by how much he loved my mother, by how sad he must have been at the loss of his own parents, but at what peace he had found in love—in love with my mom. I wiped at my tears and set the letter on top of the others. I thumbed through those other letters; there were over a dozen there from my dad to my mom. The pain of losing such wonderful people became acute, and I felt it deep within my soul; I wanted to scream. Misery welled up within me and slithered from my eyes. After a time, when the tears had stopped, I stared at the box; it was as if their love still lived inside of it, manifesting itself to me within those written words, even after they were gone.

Will I ever have a love like that? I wondered. Will someone ever love me like my dad loved my mom—Will anyone ever refer to me as their home? I often questioned, how could someone ever love me when I was broken, shattered glass?

I would never be whole again.

There was a loud rumble outside, causing me to turn my head towards the window. It must have been coming from a large vehicle. When I heard a door slam, I knew I was right. Nothing out of the ordinary ever happened in our small neighborhood, but I was pulled from my thoughts anyway, just enough to become curious. Perhaps one of the neighbors was in need of some kind of repair, and for some reason, I wanted to know for certain. I walked to the small circular window to peer down below.

The cute home across the street with a picket fence had gone up for sale a few weeks earlier, and apparently, it had been sold. The large moving van directly across the street from our house was proof that we would have new neighbors. The house was the same cookie-cutter type as most of the other middle-upper class houses in my neighborhood. It had a manicured lawn, ornate window trim, and neutral cream colored stucco, which to be honest, seemed weird to me. Why would you paint your house white? Won't it get super dirty? Still, the white picket fence was my favorite. I always told myself that I'd have a home with a white picket fence one day. I shook my head, focusing on seeing who was moving in. My heart jumped as I watched a boy climb out of the moving van. I looked down at my chest, confused at my racing heart. Nothing like that had ever happened to my heart before–or well, maybe it had; there was so much I could not remember about my life before losing my parents. I watched the boy; he had dark black hair and tan skin, and he looked to be my age or maybe a little older. A song, a melody, floated within me, and I felt my senses awaken.

What is going on?

His hair was midnight black, rich and dark, but in the sunlight as he moved, it appeared to have a sort of blue hue to it. It was styled longer on top, somewhat messily styled with a middle part and shorter on the sides. He looked ready for a photoshoot for some academy school catalog, standing there in tan slacks and a blue, button-down shirt that hugged him in all the right places.

I murmured under my breath, "Turn around, turn around," I repeated softly to myself, wishing to see his face. He was tall and broad-shouldered; the way he stood, it was as if he commanded an army for a full-time job, not that he was a high school student, which he had to be, right? Or, maybe he is in college . Oh my goodness , I was too invested in that stranger.

Please turn around! Did I say that already? I felt my heart do flip-flops within my chest, which freaked me out because I was sure that I didn't have a working heart anymore after the loss of my parents; that had shattered it. I had become accustomed to a lack of feeling and an absence of it beating.

What is happening to me?

He turned, facing my house, and I squinted, trying to make out his face. His chin was strong. I couldn't see every single detail, but I knew he was handsome. As he raised his head more, and looked my way, I quickly ducked my head—panting.

Did he see me? What the heck! I am such a stupid stalker.

I felt the heat rise in my cheeks, which was new. I tried to calm my racing heart. I never thought I would ever feel that way—alive.

This feeling makes me feel like I exist .

You do exist . A voice seemed to float within my mind. I guess I did, but something was different in that new existence his simple presence gave me.

It was as if that boy jump-started my dead, frozen, hollow body as well as my heart. I was struck alive for the first time since the horrific night my parents took their last breaths.

How can a stranger—albeit a very attractive stranger, cause this? I don't even know him! Hormones, perhaps? This is just pure attraction. That explains it, right?

Yes.

Of course, you think he is hot. That's normal. I want to know him—be his friend, his—

You will— Those words within my mind interrupted me . They echoed inside of me, startling me.

I'll figure it out, but for the moment, I need to focus. My heart was going crazy. I put a hand there on my chest, trying to breathe in and out evenly.

I slowly peeked through the lower half of the window, once again, wanting to see if he was still there. He was still looking at my house, so I ducked down again. Why was he looking at my house?

Doesn't matter; don't let him see you.

I held the image of him in my mind.

I smiled—though my grin was unfamiliar and stiff from lack of use. I felt lightness and hope race through me, and then, softly, words inside of me, spoke:

This is my chance, finally.