eighteen
We wait in tense silence for several seconds. All I hear is the slight breeze rustling the trees, a bird chirping, and some guy’s lawnmower from probably several houses down. Everything about this scene seems completely ordinary and peaceful. Just a beautiful spring morning with nothing to worry about and nothing to do but sit outside and enjoy the day.
It feels like we’ve been waiting forever. What day of the week is it, anyway? We haven’t even been on the road all that long and I’ve already lost track. Are these people even home? Or is everyone away at work or school or wherever else?
I’m about to suggest that we turn around and go back to the truck, when I hear footsteps. I jump and instinctively grab Jeremy’s arm. He gives me a look. “Stop acting like the world is out to get you,” he hisses.
But the world is out to get me, I want to say back. I get what he’s saying, though. If I’m all jumpy and paranoid when the person who lives here opens the door, they’ll immediately know something is up.
The door starts to open, and I do my best to act natural. Then I’m hit by a flash of panic as I realize that, in all our planning, we never thought to come up with a cover story for why we’re here. We were all so impulsive and anxious to do something that we never got around to fine-tuning the details.
The door has finished opening, revealing a blonde middle-aged woman in a flowery blouse and blue jeans. “Hello,” she says. “Can I help you with something?”
We both stand there silently, and I know Jeremy has made the same realization I just did a minute ago. We have no plan. We don’t even know whether this woman is one of the good guys or one of the bad guys.
“Hi,” Jeremy croaks out. “I’m… Michael, and this is my… friend, Elizabeth. We’re here to… well, we had some questions for you…”
The woman’s face has formed into a slight frown. Not an angry frown, just a perplexed one. “What kind of questions?”
“We think maybe we used to live here,” I blurt out, concocting a story as I go. “Or, I mean, I think I might have lived here, as a small child, before Michael’s family took me in… I just kind of wanted to go in and, like, maybe take a look around, if that’s okay with you? Just to see if it’s the place I remember?” With every word that comes out of my mouth, I have to put in all of my effort not to cringe. There’s no way this woman is going to want two perfect strangers walking into her house to take a look around. Besides, she probably doesn’t even believe me. It wasn’t exactly the most convincing story in the world, and for all I know, she’s lived here for thirty-five years and she knows without a doubt that I’ve never set foot in this place.
But her face softens. “You think you might have lived here? How long ago?”
Is this a test? What if I say the wrong thing? I want to look at Jeremy, but I don’t want to come across as any more suspect than I already am. “Um, I’m not really sure,” I said. “I was probably only like three or four. So… eleven, twelve years ago, maybe?” Twelve years ago I was a year old, but I figure giving myself a couple extra years can only help in this situation.
“Huh. My husband and I only moved in eight years ago, so it’s possible.” I breathe a silent sigh of relief as she looks us up and down. “Do your parents know you’re here?”
“Yes,” Jeremy replies confidently. “Well, mine do, at least, and since Lizzie lives with us, they’re kind of in charge of her too. We’re doing this family history project at school, and since Lizzie doesn’t know much about her biological family or her history, we figured we’d start from what she does know and go from there.”
I smile and nod, impressed by how convincing that sounded.
I can’t tell for sure whether the woman believes us or not, but she agrees to let us come inside. So far, so good. I’m the last to step into the house, and I shoot a quick glance back at Pam, who’s been sitting in the front of the truck watching us from her window. Yeesh, I hope she wasn’t staring at us like that the whole time we were talking to the woman. If Jeremy’s and my sketchy story wasn’t enough to make her suspicious, a random teenager gawking at her from a pickup truck probably would be.
Just like the outside, the inside of the woman’s house is completely ordinary-looking. Hardwood floors in the entryway, which leads to a sunny kitchen with fake-granite countertops and white cabinetry. A box of cereal sits on the kitchen table next to an empty bowl, which makes me wonder if the woman was just about to sit down for some breakfast before we showed up.
“So… I don’t know what exactly it is that you’re looking for,” the woman says awkwardly. “Are there any particular rooms you think you might remember? Any distinguishing features?”
I look at Jeremy, trying to ask with my eyes, What are we looking for? We have no idea why Dad wanted us to go to this address. We don’t even know for sure if Dad wanted us to go to this address. We’re operating on pure guesswork and hope.
Jeremy gives me the faintest shrug. He raises his eyebrows expectantly at me.
Right. With the story we’ve concocted, I have to be the one to take the lead.
“Um…” I say. “I’m not entirely sure what I’m looking for. But… is that a living room over there?” I point off to the side, where I can see part of a couch through an open-concept doorway. “I think… I used to spend a lot of time in the living room when I was little; maybe something in there might be familiar?” I’m not expecting the living room to be any more helpful than the kitchen, but at least it’s at the front of the house, so we’ll be able to signal to Pam that everything’s okay.
As soon as we enter the living room, however, I realize that I’m wrong about it not being any more helpful than the kitchen. The living room is full of photos. Photos hanging from the walls, photos on the coffee tables, even what looks like a little book of photos sitting smack-dab in the middle of the couch. I feel a small surge of excitement for the first time since coming in here. Maybe the photos will be able to tell us something.
I walk around the room, trying not to be obvious about the fact that I’m peering at each picture I pass, trying to figure out if I see my dad or anyone else familiar in any of them. Most of the pictures are of kids, and I don’t know if I’d recognize my dad as a kid. The only pictures I’ve ever seen of him have been pictures taken with me, Jeremy, Mom, and Rachel.
“Who’s this?” Jeremy asks, pointing at a picture on the far wall.
“Oh, that’s my grandson,” the woman says, walking over to join him. “Nathan. He just turned one in February. Now his mom’s expecting another baby, due in July.”
“Is that his mom?” Jeremy asks, pointing to the picture next to the baby one.
The woman begins explaining that picture to him, and I realize what he’s doing. He’s distracting her to give me an opportunity to send a signal to Pam.
The bay window is covered by a thin decorative curtain, probably thin enough that Pam would be able to see our shadows in here if the lighting was right. I consider asking if I can turn on a light, but I don’t want to draw our hostess’s attention back to me, so instead, I just part the curtain in the middle and look out the window, as if I’m trying to figure out if I’ve ever seen this view before.
Pam is sitting in the front seat of the truck, eyes glued to the very window I’m staring out of. I lock my gaze with hers and flash her a quick thumbs-up. So far, so good. Jeremy and I just need to figure out whether there’s anything we can learn from this place before anyone starts to wonder what the heck some random teenage girl is doing sitting in a pickup truck staring at a house.
I back out from the window area and turn around, casting my gaze around the room and trying to notice something, anything, that could be important. There’s a bookshelf in the far corner. Maybe some of the books hold information that could help us?
I meander over to the bookshelf, skimming the titles. Nothing seems even remotely relevant. It’s just a bunch of those chubby little books they make for adults, where the writing’s so small you can barely see it and all the covers always look basically the same.
I move away from the bookshelf, eyes slipping to the rocking chair, the doorway to the kitchen, the brown wicker basket containing what looks like baby toys, and the giant flat-screen TV hanging on the wall. I let myself stare at the TV for a moment, reveling in the weirdness of my life compared to others’. Most kids my age wouldn’t glance twice at a TV like this, because for them flat-screen living room TVs are so ordinary. But for someone who’s only ever had a clunky old box model from the 90’s, the sleek grandiosity of this specimen has caught my full attention. I let my eyes drink in the flatness of the black screen, the borders that are so tiny it’s hard to tell they’re even there.
Then I gasp. I barely refrain from shouting Jeremy’s name and blowing our cover.
Because there, at the bottom of the TV, written in tiny gold lettering on the black border, are the words Dermott Tech.
It feels like we’ve been waiting forever. What day of the week is it, anyway? We haven’t even been on the road all that long and I’ve already lost track. Are these people even home? Or is everyone away at work or school or wherever else?
I’m about to suggest that we turn around and go back to the truck, when I hear footsteps. I jump and instinctively grab Jeremy’s arm. He gives me a look. “Stop acting like the world is out to get you,” he hisses.
But the world is out to get me, I want to say back. I get what he’s saying, though. If I’m all jumpy and paranoid when the person who lives here opens the door, they’ll immediately know something is up.
The door starts to open, and I do my best to act natural. Then I’m hit by a flash of panic as I realize that, in all our planning, we never thought to come up with a cover story for why we’re here. We were all so impulsive and anxious to do something that we never got around to fine-tuning the details.
The door has finished opening, revealing a blonde middle-aged woman in a flowery blouse and blue jeans. “Hello,” she says. “Can I help you with something?”
We both stand there silently, and I know Jeremy has made the same realization I just did a minute ago. We have no plan. We don’t even know whether this woman is one of the good guys or one of the bad guys.
“Hi,” Jeremy croaks out. “I’m… Michael, and this is my… friend, Elizabeth. We’re here to… well, we had some questions for you…”
The woman’s face has formed into a slight frown. Not an angry frown, just a perplexed one. “What kind of questions?”
“We think maybe we used to live here,” I blurt out, concocting a story as I go. “Or, I mean, I think I might have lived here, as a small child, before Michael’s family took me in… I just kind of wanted to go in and, like, maybe take a look around, if that’s okay with you? Just to see if it’s the place I remember?” With every word that comes out of my mouth, I have to put in all of my effort not to cringe. There’s no way this woman is going to want two perfect strangers walking into her house to take a look around. Besides, she probably doesn’t even believe me. It wasn’t exactly the most convincing story in the world, and for all I know, she’s lived here for thirty-five years and she knows without a doubt that I’ve never set foot in this place.
But her face softens. “You think you might have lived here? How long ago?”
Is this a test? What if I say the wrong thing? I want to look at Jeremy, but I don’t want to come across as any more suspect than I already am. “Um, I’m not really sure,” I said. “I was probably only like three or four. So… eleven, twelve years ago, maybe?” Twelve years ago I was a year old, but I figure giving myself a couple extra years can only help in this situation.
“Huh. My husband and I only moved in eight years ago, so it’s possible.” I breathe a silent sigh of relief as she looks us up and down. “Do your parents know you’re here?”
“Yes,” Jeremy replies confidently. “Well, mine do, at least, and since Lizzie lives with us, they’re kind of in charge of her too. We’re doing this family history project at school, and since Lizzie doesn’t know much about her biological family or her history, we figured we’d start from what she does know and go from there.”
I smile and nod, impressed by how convincing that sounded.
I can’t tell for sure whether the woman believes us or not, but she agrees to let us come inside. So far, so good. I’m the last to step into the house, and I shoot a quick glance back at Pam, who’s been sitting in the front of the truck watching us from her window. Yeesh, I hope she wasn’t staring at us like that the whole time we were talking to the woman. If Jeremy’s and my sketchy story wasn’t enough to make her suspicious, a random teenager gawking at her from a pickup truck probably would be.
Just like the outside, the inside of the woman’s house is completely ordinary-looking. Hardwood floors in the entryway, which leads to a sunny kitchen with fake-granite countertops and white cabinetry. A box of cereal sits on the kitchen table next to an empty bowl, which makes me wonder if the woman was just about to sit down for some breakfast before we showed up.
“So… I don’t know what exactly it is that you’re looking for,” the woman says awkwardly. “Are there any particular rooms you think you might remember? Any distinguishing features?”
I look at Jeremy, trying to ask with my eyes, What are we looking for? We have no idea why Dad wanted us to go to this address. We don’t even know for sure if Dad wanted us to go to this address. We’re operating on pure guesswork and hope.
Jeremy gives me the faintest shrug. He raises his eyebrows expectantly at me.
Right. With the story we’ve concocted, I have to be the one to take the lead.
“Um…” I say. “I’m not entirely sure what I’m looking for. But… is that a living room over there?” I point off to the side, where I can see part of a couch through an open-concept doorway. “I think… I used to spend a lot of time in the living room when I was little; maybe something in there might be familiar?” I’m not expecting the living room to be any more helpful than the kitchen, but at least it’s at the front of the house, so we’ll be able to signal to Pam that everything’s okay.
As soon as we enter the living room, however, I realize that I’m wrong about it not being any more helpful than the kitchen. The living room is full of photos. Photos hanging from the walls, photos on the coffee tables, even what looks like a little book of photos sitting smack-dab in the middle of the couch. I feel a small surge of excitement for the first time since coming in here. Maybe the photos will be able to tell us something.
I walk around the room, trying not to be obvious about the fact that I’m peering at each picture I pass, trying to figure out if I see my dad or anyone else familiar in any of them. Most of the pictures are of kids, and I don’t know if I’d recognize my dad as a kid. The only pictures I’ve ever seen of him have been pictures taken with me, Jeremy, Mom, and Rachel.
“Who’s this?” Jeremy asks, pointing at a picture on the far wall.
“Oh, that’s my grandson,” the woman says, walking over to join him. “Nathan. He just turned one in February. Now his mom’s expecting another baby, due in July.”
“Is that his mom?” Jeremy asks, pointing to the picture next to the baby one.
The woman begins explaining that picture to him, and I realize what he’s doing. He’s distracting her to give me an opportunity to send a signal to Pam.
The bay window is covered by a thin decorative curtain, probably thin enough that Pam would be able to see our shadows in here if the lighting was right. I consider asking if I can turn on a light, but I don’t want to draw our hostess’s attention back to me, so instead, I just part the curtain in the middle and look out the window, as if I’m trying to figure out if I’ve ever seen this view before.
Pam is sitting in the front seat of the truck, eyes glued to the very window I’m staring out of. I lock my gaze with hers and flash her a quick thumbs-up. So far, so good. Jeremy and I just need to figure out whether there’s anything we can learn from this place before anyone starts to wonder what the heck some random teenage girl is doing sitting in a pickup truck staring at a house.
I back out from the window area and turn around, casting my gaze around the room and trying to notice something, anything, that could be important. There’s a bookshelf in the far corner. Maybe some of the books hold information that could help us?
I meander over to the bookshelf, skimming the titles. Nothing seems even remotely relevant. It’s just a bunch of those chubby little books they make for adults, where the writing’s so small you can barely see it and all the covers always look basically the same.
I move away from the bookshelf, eyes slipping to the rocking chair, the doorway to the kitchen, the brown wicker basket containing what looks like baby toys, and the giant flat-screen TV hanging on the wall. I let myself stare at the TV for a moment, reveling in the weirdness of my life compared to others’. Most kids my age wouldn’t glance twice at a TV like this, because for them flat-screen living room TVs are so ordinary. But for someone who’s only ever had a clunky old box model from the 90’s, the sleek grandiosity of this specimen has caught my full attention. I let my eyes drink in the flatness of the black screen, the borders that are so tiny it’s hard to tell they’re even there.
Then I gasp. I barely refrain from shouting Jeremy’s name and blowing our cover.
Because there, at the bottom of the TV, written in tiny gold lettering on the black border, are the words Dermott Tech.
