Day 1

The afternoon air was thick and heavy when my Greyhound rolled into town. The whole city seemed braced for a thunderstorm; the streets were mostly empty, except for the couple of cab drivers impatiently waiting outside the bus station. I hopped into the first cab I saw, and as the driver steered us through downtown, I stared out the mud-splattered window.

Everything seemed eerily familiar. So little had changed in the four years I’d been away, it seemed as though time had iced over Amesville, leaving everything but the old movie theater (which was now a burlesque house) unchanged. The absence of people made me feel as though I’d stepped into a ghost town, not the friendly Midwestern burg of my childhood.

The heat and humidity felt even more oppressive as I stepped out of the taxi in front of an old, paint-chipped Victorian. I dropped my duffel on the ground and took in the whole building before me. For a moment, the house seemed so much smaller than I remembered, that I wondered whether it was the right place. I shook the impression away, and handed the waiting cabbie his fare. I stood on the empty driveway as he veered off, half-wishing that I were headed back to the bus station.

The whole street seemed deserted, and as I made my way up the front steps and onto the porch, it occurred to me that perhaps no one was home.

“No, of course Nona is home; where else would she be?” I thought. Unconsciously, I touched my belly, which didn’t yet betray a hint of its future swelling. Would Nona live to meet the child that waited inside? An unanswerable question--only time knew. I automatically reached for the doorknob, and felt a tinge of surprise when it didn’t turn.

I am no more than six. I have scaled the heights of the beautiful elm. I can see down the stretch of road all the way to the Bermans’ house on the end. Without looking groundward, I crawl out to the edge of the branch, trusting my feet and arms to guide me. Who knows how long I stay up. Finally, I begin my descent. I am still several feet up on the trunk, when my legs go loose, and I am sliding, sliding, sliding. I can’t hold on, and I fall to the grass.

Picking myself up, I examine the scrape on my hands, and I see where the blood drips out from my torn pants. I run past a blur of houses, up the steps, past the porch swing, and push through the unlocked door. Inside, I head straight for the kitchen, where Momma sits at the table. I careen straight into her, my head at her lap, tears running down her gigantic pregnant belly. I am home.

Knocking yielded no answer, so I rang the doorbell twice. The doorbell had always been reserved for company. The old building creaked and groaned, and, eventually, a woman I had never seen before appeared, blurred behind the cut glass window in the door. The blur took shape as she opened the door wide, and I could see a short, round fifty-ish woman with graying brown hair and smiling eyes.

“Why it’s Gennie! I recognize you from all the pictures, of course. You’d be hard to miss with that hair. Besides, you look exactly like the photograph of your mother,” the woman announced, pointing to a framed photograph over the mantle. She had taken my bag out of my hands at the first word and had already steered my onto the couch before taking her next breath.

“My name’s Mrs. Fisher. I’m minding the house and taking care of your grandmother, while your Uncle Paul works. She’ll be thrilled you’re here, but I’m afraid you’ll find her to be rather weak-- time is taking it’s toll on her body, but her heart is still quite strong.”

“Paul will be home late. He told me you’d be coming, but he wasn’t sure when. Would you like anything from the kitchen?”

I shook my head, and said nothing. “Well, let me bring this bag to your room. Are you tired from your trip? Do you want to rest?” Mrs. Fisher started up the stairs, and I followed, listening to the floorboards sound with each of her steps and echo with my own. She led me down the hall, past the room that had always been Nona’s, past another room with a closed door, and to the end of the hall.

We entered the room I had once shared with my baby brother. All the old decorations were gone. Now, it was filled with scores of trophies, proud relics of my uncle’s many victories in the local tennis circuit. Placing my bag on an empty chair, Mrs. Fisher asked if there was anything I needed. Again, I merely shook my head.

“Well, I’ll be down in the kitchen. Your grandmother is still asleep, but I’ll have dinner ready in a few hours, and you can come down if you like. Of course, I feed her in bed.” I thanked her, and she shuffled out of the room.

I sat down on the edge of one of the two beds in the room. I was not tired, but the hot, humid air made me feel drowsy. Still no air conditioning, I thought. It was strange to think that I was in my uncle’s home now. I always thought of it as Nona’s house. My house.