My Blue River (3 page)

I looked back on why all of this was happening. A few years ago, Aaron started to drink beer. A while after I knew he was drinking, I saw him taking shots of tequila at a party,
but who am I to rat him out?
I didn’t think much of it, but then he started to drink every night. Shortly afterwards he started to experiment with pot, and I could’ve sworn I overheard something about crack. His friends started to just dump him on the front yard, passed out. He wouldn’t be found until he missed his curfew and Dad would go looking for him. When Mom found a mini-pot farm in his closet, I knew Aaron was both intelligent and stupid all at the same time because he had the brains to create a whole system that kept ten plants alive and growing yet was dumb enough to do it in our home.

My parent’s ability to deal with Aaron went downhill from there. Their plot was devised behind my back and without even asking me what I thought. It all seemed incredibly unfair. For all the preaching my mom did about family togetherness, this move seemed altogether wrong. It was wrong since it was not a united family decision and it didn’t make any sense. My mom was a trained psychologist who knew better than to deal with Aaron’s problem by running away. She was normally so logical, almost to a fault.
I feel like there are other reasons behind this move and I want to know what they are!

“We’re home!” declared Dad, as he placed the SUV into park.

Mom reached over and patted Dad on the back. I rolled my eyes and exited the car. I tried to take pictures but it was difficult to even want these pictures since the images were so undesirable. Tears began to form in my eyes so I turned my back, not wanting to give Aaron the satisfaction of seeing me cry. I wiped away a tear and regained my composure. I flicked the switch on my anger button, sniffed back a tear then punched Aaron in the arm. “Well, brat, we’ve arrived at the prison. Good job.” My entire statement was thick with sarcasm.

“What the…?” He stopped short, finding no words to complete his sentence. With the way Aaron gaped at the house, it may as well had been an actual prison with bars and barbed wire fencing.

The house was about 80 years old and the outside desperately needed to be painted. It was so dilapidated I was certain years of work would be required to turn it into a livable dwelling. A second floor window shutter literally dangled by one nail, creaking as it swayed back and forth in the wind. Part of the front porch railing was disconnected and leaning forward. There wasn’t one part of the house or the property that didn’t need work; everything looked like it needed a magic wand waved over it.
I need a fairy godmother!
The only part that looked somewhat attractive was the room on the east end of the house with bay windows. I envisioned it as becoming my parent’s home office. They always had to have an office.

The property was about five acres, or so I had overheard Dad say, with one acre near the house landscaped, and very poorly at that. I had to admit I could imagine that at one time this home had been loved and taken care of, but right now, it looked like a complete disaster. It fit the moment. There was also an apple orchard that had been neglected. It all needed to be brought back to life—much like myself. There were two outbuildings also in need of work; they didn’t seem functional—much like Aaron.

The door creaked as Dad opened it, and with one step into the house, I knew this would be a very long summer. My parents had already talked about all the work that needed to be done and that keeping Aaron’s hands busy meant keeping his mind off his wayward choices. Now that I think of it, those were Dad’s words not Mom’s. Despite how sometimes my dreams had actually come to fruition, no amount of dreaming could have prepared me for this moment. The carpet was avocado green and the curtains burnt orange. I walked from room-to-room, feeling like I was trapped in a Spielberg novel and something was about to climb out of the floor and kill me. The kitchen walls were pink with yellow tea cup wallpaper and if that wasn’t bad enough, for some reason the previous owner had chosen gold linoleum flooring. On top of everything else, there was an incredibly disgusting odor. I gagged. The house smelled of an array of cat piss, dust, and some other unidentifiable scent.
I bet there’s a dead body in here somewhere.

I climbed the wooden stairs, hearing various creaks along the way, finding what would become my bedroom on the second floor. The ceiling was the type of architecture I would have pictured in an attic—low points that ascended to a vaulted ceiling with large wooden beams; unlike a dark, dingy, attic, this room was actually very open and white. I hated admitting to myself that I liked the wood floor and the ceiling. Surprisingly, the room had potential and since it would be my hideaway until I left for college next year, I began to visualize the changes I could make.

As I considered my options, I caught a glimpse of the outside view. I walked to the large window and pulled back the dusty, white sheer curtain. I coughed
. I think I just inhaled a hairball
. The room faced west, just like my California bedroom, but unlike my California bedroom, this Montana bedroom had a view of a sunset like I’d never before seen. I had found yet another point I hated to admit—the view of the mountains was breathtaking. My mouth fell open at the beautiful sight. I tried to pull the window up to lean out, but due to a lot of warping and not being opened in years, the window was stuck. It didn’t budge an inch. It was an easy thought to dismiss; I would worry about the window tomorrow.

I left to find my luggage, shared a glare with Aaron before he entered his room, and then pounded down the stairs. With great reluctance, I offered my help. We unloaded our luggage, and when I handled baggage that belonged to Aaron, I tossed it to the ground a little bit harder than I ordinarily would have, pretending it was actually his body I was throwing around.

As we picnicked on the floor with the “chicken meal deal” we got from Brody’s, I noticed despite my mom’s best efforts to improve the floor, the stench remained.
The smell of this decrepit house is slowly destroying my lungs!
Since we would be spending the night in sleeping bags on the avocado green floor, I was grateful exhaustion would probably claim my body and my senses. Right before sleep found me, I thought of the moving truck arriving in the morning with the remainder of our possessions, especially my dad’s beloved car. In all honesty, I loved that car more than he did and he knew it. We each took a sleeping bag, claimed a spot on the floor, and tried to relax into a blissful slumber.
Nope! I was wrong
. I couldn’t ignore the odor and now that I was on the floor, I picked up a new scent, Ben-Gay. Between the house and its odor, I couldn’t help but picture the previous owner must have been a blue-haired lady, rocking in a chair while knitting a cap. My endurance no longer held up. I was too exhausted to cry, which meant a complete meltdown was in my future, but thankfully tonight, Mr. Sandman found me first.

********

The next morning the moving truck arrived. I couldn’t believe they found us in the boon-docks of Montana. It seemed to take forever, but by that night we had given the house some semblance of order. It smelled much better, too. The pantry and refrigerator were full and our possessions slowly took over each room. Surreal faded away as reality set in so, I did the only thing I could think would matter to me. I started to plaster my bedroom walls with photos of California—the beach, the ocean, palm trees, my friends—and after making my bed, I flopped myself onto it and the meltdown began. I was certain the sweet release of death would have been better.

That night I had a dream. I kept hearing the honk of a car horn and then I felt the rush of excitement. I was in a parking lot that I didn’t recognize. I would turn around and around until I felt dizzy. All I could identify were the cars passing by and when I stopped spinning, everything turned brown.

3. Encounters

“Now, you’re sure you remember where the store is right?” asked Dad.

I turned to face him and threw my hands on my hips. “I’m pretty sure I can find it, Dad—one horse town, remember?” I sarcastically replied.

“Okay, but take your cell phone just in case. I’m not sure you’ll get service. Blue River doesn’t have a cell tower yet, but you just never know.”

“What do you mean
they don’t have a cell tower
?”

“I mean, they have one, but it’s down and they have no idea when service will be up again.”

“You’re kidding, right?”

“Sorry, princess.”

“I’m so over this nightmare,” I muttered.

As I walked away I heard a final, “and please be careful with my car.”

I shook my head in disgust.
When
will I ever be considered an adult?
I can’t wait to be eighteen!

I slowly slid into the driver’s seat of Dad’s Aston Martin as if it were made of fine crystal. Once I settled into the seat, I caressed the steering wheel like it was the face of a newborn baby. “I missed you,” I whispered, then laughed at myself for talking to a car.

I loved this car and right now, it was my only true friend. It was the only relationship that wasn’t going to disappoint me. The red Aston Martin Vantage Roadster convertible called to me. I needed to drive it at least once a week to feel complete. I knew it was silly to love an object so much, but I couldn’t help myself.

I felt another twinge of excitement that I couldn’t identify. Maybe it was the dream and now I was over analyzing it out of desperation. It felt like something exhilarating would happen today, but that hardly seemed possible.
What can happen in a dumpy little town in, of all places, Montana?
There was definitely an excited feeling in my stomach. I had been stuck at the “new” house for days so maybe the mere fact I was escaping the confines of Aaron’s prison gave me the butterflies in my belly.

I tried to go slow, but once I was away from the house, I tore down the gravel, pine tree lined driveway in the Aston Martin. I was on my way to Brody’s Supermarket. It was hardly “super” and barely a “market,” but it was the only grocery store in town. I put the top down on the car, a decision I immediately regretted when I got my first whiff of the fresh country air. The scent was a mixture of alfalfa fields and cow crap, forming a not-so-pleasant bouquet of “ew.” I officially decided that fresh air was highly overrated. But I endured the painful tingle in my nostrils because I wanted to feel my long, blond hair flying in the wind as I pretended I was driving down the California coastline. For just a fraction of a second, I closed my eyes to get a mental image, took a deep breath but was pulled back from my reverie as the scent of Montana touched my nostrils again.
The smell of this so-called fresh Montana air is going to make it extremely difficult to fantasize that I am living in California!
Just as I was getting comfortable with the smell, a monster-sized fly buzzed by my ear. I kept smacking it away and it kept coming back for more.
Man, these Montana bugs are tenacious little bastards!

I finally freed myself from the fly and started to daydream about what I would be doing right now if I were at home in California.
Would I be on a boardwalk experiencing the joy of a Ferris Wheel? Would I be at a beach party in front of a bonfire roasting marshmallows and laughing with my friends as glorious waves crashed to the shore?
Surfing. That’s it. I would be surfing
. There were so many fun and exciting things to do in California. What would I possibly enjoy doing in Montana? Herding cattle? Cow tipping? Would I watch the lazy Blue River flow by? Would flies mating on the windowsill be my new form of entertainment? One time, while Mom was completely frustrated about something, I overheard her say to her friend, “Something has to give.” I now understood the meaning of her words because that was exactly how I felt right now.
I can’t take living in Blue River and something has to give, and that “give” is Mom and Dad giving up and moving us back to California
.

My eyes began to burn with tears as I thought of how hopeless that thought was. Mom and Dad would never give up and not follow through with their plan. I was sick of feeling weak.
You’re stronger than this, Addy!
I cursed myself and wiped my eyes. I shook my head to refocus. I would no longer cry about this move. Life was exhausting enough without all this crap. I knew it was pointless and in a way, it felt like I was letting my brother win some unspoken sibling battle. I was tough—tough as nails—certainly tougher than Aaron.

I wasn’t certain I was right, but I thought Aaron felt a little pleasure in knowing how much pain I was in so, I resolved to make a plan that signified my departure from this one horse town. I had already assumed the boys I would meet in Blue River would be monosyllabic. It didn’t take a genius to figure out that dating wasn’t going to be part of my new social life. I made a mental note to start a countdown calendar when I got back to my bedroom and continued my drive to the supermarket. I suddenly felt invigorated that at least I had a plan and having a plan made me feel a little less anxious about how my senior year of high school was going to go. It felt like I had regained some control of my life and nothing would get in my way.

It was easy to find a spot to park in the near desolate lot. By my count, there were about a dozen vehicles and the image was so stereotypical that I laughed out loud. Most of the trucks were larger than necessary, caked with dirt, gun racks in the windows, and some even had a patiently waiting dog in the back. As I entered the store, I laughed again.
I never thought I would shop at a store this small
. The store had mini shopping carts and even those made me laugh. It was like they were made by a toy company
.
I walked slowly in order to kill time. I wasn’t very anxious to get back to my dad’s “to-do” list. His list was a mile long with each chore a painfully dull task. Since there was so much work to be done before my parents started their new jobs, my dad had hired a handyman. He would start tomorrow. I smiled at that thought because it meant less work for me. I felt overworked and under-appreciated and Aaron had been next to useless.
So much for Mom and Dad’s “busy hands” rehab program.

I found the film I needed for my camera, a bottle of sun block, a can of bug spray, and a fly-swatter. I shuddered as I thought of all the bugs. They were gigantic and swarmed in groups, like little gang bangers who were out to cause trouble. I had just been attacked by a fly on the drive over here and then there was yesterday. Yesterday, I used my tanning oil and little gnats stuck onto my skin as if the oil had given them renewed life. If it wasn’t the gnats sticking to my skin irritating me, it was the cotton from the huge cottonwood trees. I couldn’t forget to add that Montana was hotter and more humid than I had expected it to be, as well. It all added to the list of un-pleasantries I had already anticipated.

I paid very little attention to the girl who rang me up but we did exchange typical greetings.

“Hi, how are ya?” she asked in a really cute, almost sticky–sweet voice.

“Fine, thanks. How are you?” I replied when what I really wanted to say was, “Well, actually, I’m quite depressed. In fact, my mom would refer to this as the depression phase of grief. Are you familiar with it?”

I popped a piece of spearmint gum in my mouth as she rang up my purchase. She told me the total and continued to offer pleasantries. I think I heard her say something like, “I haven’t seen you before,” so I threw in an “uh-uh,” but I wasn’t really paying attention. Finally I heard, “Have a great day.”

I responded with, “Yeah, I’ll try but I doubt it’ll be that great.”

I sauntered to the Aston Martin, got in, started it, pulled it into reverse and began to back out when I heard the screech of tires and the blare of a horn. It was shocking how much it sounded like the horn in my dream. Then I heard, “Hey! California! What’s your problem?”

I looked back to see someone no older than myself stomping toward the car.
Oh, great. What’s his problem?
I popped the car into park. He was now at my side and since I had put the top down, I could see him clearly. His sandy, blond hair had a natural wave to it that left it lying in any direction, with no clear order. Had he not been so angry, I probably would have found him attractive, maybe even down right hot, but right now, he was just huge irritation in my already aggravating life.

“Did you hear me? What’s your problem?” he demanded.

It wasn’t a lack of words that left me speechless, it was him and now that he was even closer, there was no, “despite his anger” about it. He was attractive—extremely attractive. I refocused and cleared my throat. “Uh, I guess
you’re
my problem since you’re blocking me,” I said testily. I looked back to note the color of his Jeep Wrangler. I may need to report this to the police, sheriff, or whatever these people called someone of the law around here. This guy may be hot, but he may also be a freak. The Jeep was brown and the soft top was off, revealing the roll bar.

“Yeah, well.” He seemed to forget what he was about to say, then he shook his head and began again with, “You just about got nailed. You need to watch out for other vehicles when you’re backing out.”

“Well, if everyone in this
stupid little town
didn’t drive enormous trucks, I could actually see while backing out, but since I can’t,
you’ll
just have to watch for
me
instead. Got it?”

He was clenching his jaw; his very square, well-defined jaw. His big, brown eyes were thoughtful a moment, considering his next words.

Finally he spoke, “You just better watch out. The next guy might not be so nice. He may just go ahead and ram you. I’d hate to see your precious sports car turn into a pile of crumpled metal. And yes, we drive trucks in Montana. If a convertible and a truck run into each other you’ll lose.” He was pointing his finger at me, and it seemed like he was trying to sound tough, but it wasn’t really coming across that way.

“Yeah, I’ll put that advice in my journal just as soon as I get home, cowboy. Now, do you mind?” I nodded in the direction of his Jeep.

He rolled his eyes then turned around to return to his vehicle, but not without muttering “Dang Californians.” I watched him walk away in my rear-view mirror and couldn’t help but appreciatively examine the backside of his faded Wrangler jeans.

“Stupid rednecks,” I grumbled.

Mr. Jeep Wrangler backed up and allowed me to back out of my parking space. As I was leaving Brody’s parking lot, I noticed he was driving behind me. Every turn I took, he took, too. Even though I had planned to drive around town and kill more time, I decided I better get back to the “prison.” He still followed and I was now getting nervous. I grabbed my cell phone only to discover I had no bars—no signal what-so-ever!
Crap
. What if Mr. Wrangler is really “Mr. Psycho, Mr. I stalk and kill girls who piss me off?”
Was this the exciting event of the day? Was my anxious feeling really a warning I didn’t listen to?

My anxiety level rose as I pressed the accelerator harder. I could feel my heart thumping. I was relieved to reach the driveway of 48 Cottontail Road.
Whew! He passed by!
I truly questioned what he was up to by following me home.
Small town people are weird. They probably track down Californians and harvest their organs!
He had definitely been angry with me and unfortunately, he now knew where I lived.

I parked the car and ran into the house. I told my dad about how some redneck idiot nearly plowed into his car, and how the guy followed me home just to scare me. Dad gave me his speech on being more careful—the speech I was certain I had heard a million times in my seventeen years of life, even the years of life a child doesn’t truly recall. I rolled my eyes and stormed off to my bedroom, slamming the door behind me. I felt so alone. It was like being stranded on an island that no one would ever discover. I was left here to suffer in complete solitude.

That night I dreamed about the guy from Brody’s Supermarket. I wanted to be mad at him, but the feelings wouldn’t come. His eyes kept twinkling and his lips smirked but I didn’t find his smirk the least bit irritating; I found his smirk attractive. Maybe he isn’t from Blue River and that’s what makes him different. Maybe I will never see him again.