Something Of A Kind Read online

  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 certainl
y 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.

  CHAPTER 2 | NOAH Like most things at Yazzie’s, the f luorescents were in extreme need of replacement. Though hardly noticeable in daylight, the predawn flicker was a severe contrast to the black sky splashed across the windows.

  Akin to the high pitched squeal of his sister’s sneakers, the disturbance was forgotten amongst the fluid routine of clearing each table. Work moved fast, and Noah had grown accustomed to maneuvering around Sarah’s clumsy quest to refill napkins and tend to empty shakers.

  At eighteen, he knew working the family business was a light task compared to manning his father’s fishery or dealing with the man’s temper. Easy peace of mind usually gave way to the music, anyway.

  Noah lost himself in the muffled pounding of kitchen speakers. He followed the throaty howls as they drifted between the radiating partnership of guitar and bass. Even with electrics, he could almost catch the cords by ear before getting caught up in the song again.

  Catching motion in his peripheral, he grinned. Despite Sarah insisting she was only dedicated to country-pop, her ponytail flailed with a vicious head bang as her fingers curled into an attempt at ‘Rock On’devil horns.

  “Nice moves, Sar’.” He laughed, unable to contain the amusement slipping through his smile.

  “You never dance,” she accused, shaking off a startled freeze as she twirled across the restaurant.

  “Not true,” he defended. “Remember when I had to spend an entire year of gym partnered to Caitlyn Mariano for ballroom?”

  “Ew!” She sniggered, wrinkling her nose and blinking, as though the sight could be forced away. “I did a show for Tribe last summer, too.” Noah reminded, flexing his arms into sunbird formation, which he had always thought looked more like a bad rendition of ‘Walk Like An Egyptian’.

  “Until the monsters chased away the crow,” she teased, dumping mop water into the barrel sink. “That might’ve been me,” he kidded, remembering the elders’ erratic behavior. It was caused by their paralyzing fear of the beast of the woods. They had warned the people of Gigit and Omah, escorting every womanto their homes and canceling the day’s events.

  Her snorting giggles fell flat, replaced by an angry flush beneath her cheeks. Bells clanged as John shoved through the front doors, leaving a trail of mud over the scrubbed floors. The stains followed his boots to his thighs, a blaring sign he had already been at the decks this morning.

  Of Noah’s four older brothers, John was the most unpleasant. He had adopted Mark’s ridiculous use of man-braids and AbrahamLincolnstyle facial hair, Isaac’s moping sulk, and Andrew’s miserable disposition. Combined with a doublewide fisherman’s build and an antagonistic sneer, he had a naturally aggressive presence.

  “You been running around in the rain?” John jerked his head forward, as though Noah’s damp hair was personally offensive.

  “It’s four in the morning. I just showered.” Noah replied robotically, refusing to alter his passive tone.

  “Thought you blew it with the girls.”

  “You tracked all this crap in – allover the floors. The sign’s up, I clearly justmopped.” Her teeth clenched. “Clearly!” John hollered, lip curling. His chest inflated as he raised his chin, crossing his arms. Meaty hands ba
lled into fists as he stuffed them into his elbows.

  “Wow, two syllables,” Sarah snapped, her shoulders heaving with a deep breath. Rolling teary eyes, she spun on her ankle and returned to the sink, unearthing piles of supplies from the cabinets below.

  “So how’s that blatant disrespect for human beings been working for you? You know, I hear harassing fifteen year old girls looks really great on college applications. Not that you’ll ever see one, of course,” Noah seethed.

  The fact John had intentionally gotten a reaction from Sarah was infuriating, and Noah felt the anger swelling in his chest. His knuckles were pulled white, heat flashed across the back of his neck.

  John’s jaw set as he reached across the counter. Nearly knocking napkin holders to the floor, he slapped a sugar jar across the drying surface. As though the explosion of white wasn't enough damage, he flicked the crystals in various directions.

  "What the hell, John!" Noah yelled, dropping the cloth and throwing up his hands in frustration. "Watch your mouth, punk." "Punk? You're kidding. You do realize you are the world's most stereotypical bully, right? You are literally a goon. Nineteen seventies mafia, right there."

  "Shut your mouth!" "Me? You're an idiot, no, seriously, you are. Lee’s wallet earns every pound of sugar in this damn place. You’re just biting the hand that feeds you. Chomp freaking chomp. Just wait.”

  "Noah," Sarah warned.

  "Are you threatening me, little boy? You talk about your father like he’s trash on the street.”

  "He's not the one I have a problem with."

  "Gut it out," Lee growled as the kitchen doors flew open. "Outside, like men. Go 'head. Gut it." "Not interested," Noah muttered. Even though the kitchen’s CD track had slowed to a stop, his voice was barely audible as he struggled to control his tone.

  The sun hadn't risen, the work day barely started, and his father had already begun drinking. Stains of morning coffee and ketchup from the abuse of a scrambled omelet coated his plaid shirt. The close stretching between buttons over the bulge of his belly left Lee looking ten years too pregnant. Propped in the kitchen’s entrance, his cheap bolo tie reflected the metal panels of the double doors as one swung in his wake, the other propped by his arthritic hip.