Something of a Kind

Something of a Kind

Miranda Wheeler

Kindle Edition | Copyright Miranda Wheeler 2012 | All rights reserved. | Released September 2012. | Cover Art & Design by Miranda Wheeler.

Something of a Kind is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. No part of this work may be reproduced or transmitted in any form by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission from the copyright owner.

For Mom, an indestructible bounce board armed with a literary black belt.

“We are what we believe we are.” ~ C. S. Lewis


CHAPTER 1 | ALYSON

As Alyson unfolded her legs, she was surprised to find motion painful. Hours of confinement left stiff aches, and she was eager to escape.

Silence lapsed between side-longed glances, making the space feel smaller each time. It didn’t help that Greg was blasting the heater. Dry air depleted the moisture and drew in the smell of wood smoke emanating from chimneys as they passed.

With a lack of elbow room, the ve hicle’s front seat seemed too crowded to slip out of her coat. She struggled for composure but was uncomfortable. Seeking distraction, she fixed her attention outside. As Aly appraised the brisk night, her fingertips brushed the chilled glass.

Aly’s iPod had exhausted its charge hours ago, forcing her to fight weariness rather than falling back into excruciating thoughts. She didn’t want to know who was settling into her mother’s condo, how her cousins felt about having their bedrooms to themselves again, or which poor soul now inhabited Room 1405 in the overrun cancer wing.

Aly had lost hope. Pretending she hadn’t was unbearable. The facade of strength she constructed for her family now felt out of reach.

Aly had tortured herself about the move for months. Looking back now was sadistic. With it, her friends disappeared, misery swelled, and the sun burned a few shades too dark. The life she had before had died with her mother, and she almost felt comfort in leaving it behind. With enough persuasion, every outlying mile in her wake made it seem easier to disentangle, shut down, and close her eyes.

But Mom was all I had. It’s inescapable.

Aly had spent dozens of sleepless nights attempting to convince herself that a change of scenery would emancipate, maybe even provide the space to find herself outside of implacable grief.

Instead, she obsessed over her mother, thinking of the incredible adventures they spoke of. Unable to construct meals after late shifts behind the counter of Martha’s Bakery, Vanessa would drop onto their violet sofa, aspiring of a daring future and popping Oreos into her mouth.

Her mother swore she would explore every glorified corner of Paris, visiting the restaurants of idolized chefs, considering art, or perhaps using the four years of high school French that had been lost on their small city. Vanessa had vast amounts of arbitrary knowledge.

No one knew she would hardly use it, chemo and radiation only extending her life to a cheerless thirty-five. Knocked up at nineteen, her youth was taken by the burden of single parenthood. Stage two, and eventually four, ovarian tumors stole the rest. Vanessa’s dreams never ventured beyond her daughter’s bedtime stories.

Aly had always been an attentive audience.

Even covered in flour with hair frizzing at the crown, or pale and emaciated, her mother’s emerald eyes made her exotic and beautiful.

Aunt Lauren, her mother’s sister, insisted she would inherit the glow like a promise from her maternal genetics, but Aly was still fifty-percent Glass. She shared untouchable baby blues with her father. His gaze had always been flat and distant.

As the Chevy slowed, Aly jolted herself awake. Easing into a driveway, she marveled at the thought of stretching her limbs and breathing pure Alaskan air.

Doubts rushed back in. Suddenly, something felt incredibly off.

Now that we’re here, it feels so surreal.

She had actually left Kingsley. The little Adirondack city that sang the praises of bed-and-breakfasts and native-walked campgrounds to any vacationer lured by bear encounters, historic lean-tos, and legendary hermits was now a part of her past.

It was her home– hermother’s home – and she left.

It was becoming more and more difficult to remember better times. To the core, she knew she lacked acceptance. She watched her mother fade. Aly suffered a bitter goodbye each time she kissed her mother’s clammy forehead and swore into her sunken eyes that, yes, she was looking better.

Devastation milled to the surface. She had a feeling the trauma of a sudden move was to blame.

As Greg shifted the truck into park, she half expected him to toss his balding head over his shoulder and go in reverse to once again right a wrong turn. Instead he twisted the keys from the ignition and climbed out, confirming they arrived. She scrutinized his stiff gate as he approached the house, his presence triggering an automated porch light.

With a quick retrieval of her belongings from the backseat, she was eager to flee the odor of ‘new car’ leather. Even Greg’s overwhelmingcologne hadn’t penetrated the scent, and it seemed to worsen in the heat. She loathed the stainlessness. The purity was artificial, screaming of life’s absence.

The home mimicked a series of others on the road, though the yards parting each offered seclusion. Despite its lack of uniqueness, the design seemed directed towards a single homeowner, adding to the memo that she was unwanted, unwelcome, and unasked for.

Another lifeless, monochrome, cul-de-sac type for a Stepford bachelor.

Her only relief came as he unlocked the deadbolt, offering an escape from hovering insects and the night’s setting chill. The smells of cleaner intensified the sense of inhabitability. Greg’s constant fidgeting fueled unease as she moved inside.

The house harbored bright, assailing lights, with a layout reminiscent to a studio. Aly was accustomed to hallways and soft lighting. Walking through the front door and entering the kitchen, stairwell, and living room simultaneously seemed more disorienting than simplified.

Her expectations were modest. Based on a glimpse the week before, there had been little basis to work with. She hadn’t wanted to get her hopes up. She left the imagination untouched.

She could recall flicking through photographs of the home. The four images, attached to a wordless text message, were viewed beneath the desk during AP Bio-Chem. The limited insight had made the place seem tolerable enough. Heaven forbid anything as interesting have happened in Honors Trig.

I should have known I would do this.

Therewas no satisfying her. This house was not her mother’s home. It would never be enough.

Cardboard boxes dominated the open floor. Organized in columns, the zones of exposed hardwood were reduced to meager aisles. In spite of the spacious layout, she felt like further exploration of the home would require coordination, if not an entire GPS. After a commute three-thousand miles, the exertion was unfathomable.

Greg stared from the corner of the room. Aly knew he was looking for a sign of approval or appreciation. She felt a pang in knowing she had nothing to offer him.

I never have.

His hands had trembled against the steering wheel since he shifted the SUV into drive at the satellite airport. Immediately she knew the four-hour road trip would be suffered in silence.

Aly hadn’t realized Juneau was so far from Ashland. She envisioned Albany International as point A in a two-stop scenario. The lines were distorted after the third or fourth private plane. It was becoming clear how little she knew about Alaska.

Aly had lived in Kingsley, New York, with her mother since infancy. Gregory had faded from the family portrait before her birth. They barely spoke most years. Aly certainly never imagined living with him.

Behind her, the open door was a tease. Vanessa was gone. There was no going back.

Her sigh shattered the silence. She wove a path towards the winding staircase, avoiding the precarious towers and scattered textbooks.

“Alyson?” Greg asked, irritation seeping from his voice. It was rough and hesitant, adead giveaway that he hadn’t spoken in hours. “You alright?”

She paused. His last syllable hung in the air.

I wouldn’t know.

“I’m tired,” she whispered, as though fatigue numbed her lips. For good measure, she shifted an armful of luggage, unwilling to exchange pleasantries. Aly knew she sounded unconvincing. She wanted to disappear – to pretend she didn’t exist – but Greg sought praise.

Why can’t he see that I’m so unhappy?

Rough hands audibly scratched his salt-and-pepper stubble, grating her nerves. Eyes flashing, he nudged square frames over the bridge of his nose with a curt nod. She attempted to persuade herself the emotion was benevolent and disappeared onto the upper floor.

“It’s minimal.” Greg had explained, picking apart a soggy bagel. “A real’skinny hallway. Inset window on the right, two rooms on the left. Way down at the end, the wall’s all brick. It’s a chimney extension from the living room or something.”

“What are you doing with the paint?” Lauren asked, her elbows propped against the island countertop.

“Upstairs?” He clarified around a mouthful of coffee and margarine.

“That’s a good start.” She ribbed, offering a playful shove.

“Doors, molding, ceiling… dark and brown, I reckon. White walls and rooms. Alyson’s going to want to do her own, no doubt. I’m leaving it green. She can change it herself later, anyway.”

Despite having lived with her aunt’s family for the past six months, it was almost painful for Aly to think of Lauren now. With cream skin and a mass of chocolate hair, her aunt could pass as her mother’s twin. Every time Aly stumbled over their similarities, it was like stepping on another thumbtack.

Her grief was raw. Even before her mother’s passing, Aly had never quite adapted to the climate of the home. Between Aunt Lauren, Uncle Vincent, and her cousins, Giovanni and Francesca, the house was in a constant state of unruly animation.

Where Aly’s condo was colorful and modern, the eggplant Victorian was filled with deep maroons and hardwood. Vanessa’s fondness for culinarypop art and urban photography wouldn’t be found amongst religious icons, scenic mountain tapestries, and animal memorabilia. Aly collected classic literature, while her aunt and uncle harbored a tongue in cheek fondness for Big Mouth Billy Bass plaques.

Aly was loved but ill-fitting, lost and motherless in the place her eccentric extended family called home. She didn’t belong there.

Maybe not even here.

Disappointment was swelling. She harbored hopes of waking up to a day when something was easier. Each morning, she convinced herself the time wasn’t right.

Relief, hope, strength… it would happen.

The pain still came at night.

Thoughts of unearthing her new bedroom and unpacking were tempting and disinteresting at once. There was weariness in every inch of mind and body.

For tonight, locating the last door on the left was enough.

The chipper promise of frosty mint paint was quickly abolished. Dark accents absorbed the lights. Drapes cloaked the largest wall, hiding a massive window fixed above a stretch of trees. The shadows curled into the private bathroom and beneath the furniture, filling the walk-in closet and flooding the hardwood floor.

Dropping her bags at her feet, Aly moved to the bedside. The intricately carved headboard had been in a storage unit since she abandoned her childhood bedroom. The other furnishings were wrapped in plastic, basic replacements made long before her arrival.

Few containers had been delivered to the space. She remembered labeling each one with specifics, yet the tape had been severed. Her possessions sprayed from the boxes. They had been sifted through, as if someone felt it necessary to confirm the contents.

Invasive, much?

A flash of fabric caught her eye. Closer inspection revealed a blouse, rather than a corner of her beloved duvet. Unable to muster the energy to embark on a search, she settled with the discovery of cotton sheets. With a glance towards the closed door, she shed her clothes.

Cocooned on the crumpled plastic, Aly curled into fetal position. She hated the alien sterility. It was a haunting reminder of the ICU.

She didn’t want to think about it. The concept of beginning where her mother ended was sickening.

Abandoned and worthless, she felt her strength fading. The affliction was tangible, the mourning all encompassing. The convulsing hole in her core yearned for what had been taken. As pain thrashed against her rib cage, tears crumpled her resolve. Her mother was dead. There was no going back.