I nod my head.
“Come on. I’ve got a long drive back,” she says as she gets out of the car and opens the back door to grab my bags.
With a shaking hand, I open the door and follow her along the weathered driveway to the steps leading up to the front door. The rusted screen door squeaks loudly as she opens it and knocks a few times. I stand there, picking at my nails, praying to God that no one opens the door. That this is all a big mistake and we’re at the wrong house.
But it isn’t a mistake, and someone does answer the door. A woman, dressed in a homely, long, denim skirt and a light purple sweater, opens the door. I stare at her as Barbara starts to talk. The woman doesn’t look scary, but I still feel like bolting. She looks down at me and gives me a soft smile. Her ratty ponytail is attempting to tame her long, brown, frizzy hair.
Stepping aside, she invites us in, and the place smells like stale cigarette smoke. While she leads us through the small living room and back to the kitchen, the two of them continue to talk as I take everything in. Wood-paneled walls, brown carpet, mismatched furniture, and ducks everywhere. Everywhere. Ducks on pillows, wooden ducks, ceramic ducks, glass ducks. They line the book shelves, cover the tables, and when I look up, they are even on top of the kitchen cabinets.
“Elizabeth.”
It takes me a second to realize that Barbara is saying my name, and when I look over at her, she gives me one of her fake smiles and says, “Mrs. Garrison says that your bedroom is upstairs.”
“I hope you like purple,” the woman says to me as I look at her purple top and then back up to her face when she says, “You’re the first girl we’ve gotten, so I got a little carried away.”
Barbara gives me an annoyed look, nodding her head to encourage me to talk.
“Yeah,” I finally say. “Purple is nice.”
She smiles and lays her hand over mine. I want to snatch it away, but I don’t. I don’t do anything that my mind is screaming I should. I just sit.
“Well then, why don’t I help you up with your bags before I go?” Barbara says.
The three of us walk up the stairs as they creak beneath our feet and into the purple room. The walls match Mrs. Garrison’s sweater, and I watch as she shows me the closet and then the Jack-and-Jill bathroom that adjoins to the other bedroom.
“This seems like a great room, huh?” Barbara says when she plops my bags down on top of the purple twin bed.
“Mmm hmm.”
“Well, I have to get back on the road,” she tells me, and when she does, I feel the tears hit my cheeks.
Suddenly, I’ve never felt more alone. Empty.
“There’s no need to cry. You’re gonna be fine. I know that change can be hard, but you’ll be okay. Like I said, Lucia will be out to meet you in a few days, okay?”
“Okay.” It’s an auto-response because I’m far from okay.
With a light pat on my shoulder, Barbara leaves me behind, standing in the purple room with duck lady.
“Would you like me to help you unpack, dear?” she asks.
“I’ll do it.”
“Are you hungry? I could fix you a sandwich.”
I look up at her through the remaining tears in my eyes and nod my head.
“Great. We normally always eat at the kitchen table, but I’ll bring it up to you if you’d like.”
“Okay,” I say as I start unzipping my bags.
“Elizabeth,” she calls from the hall, right outside the bedroom, “I hope you’ll like it here. Carl, my husband, worked hard painting this room for you. He’s out running a couple errands, but should be home shortly.”
When I don’t respond, she excuses herself and heads downstairs, leaving me alone to unpack. Next to the bed is a small window that looks out over the front of the house. All the houses are the same aside from the various colors of paint. Everything looks decayed here.
I take my time putting my clothes away and eventually eat the peanut butter sandwich that Bobbi brought me. She told me to call her that rather than Mrs. Garrison.
Aside from a small dresser, desk, and bulletin board, the room is pretty bare. When I walk into the bathroom, the sink counter is already occupied with the other kid’s stuff. I wonder if he’s like me, how old he is, and if he’s nice. I feel like I need a friend more than ever right now. I’m so far from home and so alone.
A loud rumbling from outside calls my attention, and I walk over to look out the window. An old, grey, beat-up pickup truck pulls into the driveway. I watch as an older, fat guy gets out of the driver’s seat and starts walking towards the house. Then the boy gets out, but I can’t see what he looks like under his baseball cap.
I stay in my room and listen as they walk in, talk to each other, and then I hear the creaking of the stairs. Bobbi is the first one I see, followed by her husband.
“Elizabeth, how’s the unpacking going?” she asks.
“Good,” I say as I look at the man. He’s got a big belly, stains on his shirt, and long, messy hair.
“That’s good. This is Carl, my husband,” she introduces.
“Elizabeth, is it?” he asks.