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.