Page 16 of Catching Sparks

Climbing the porch stairs, I glance at the array of planters beneath the front window and rocking chairs beside them. The baby blue and yellow patterned seat cushions are old and worn. Well-loved, I suppose would be a better term.

I’m about to knock on the screen door when the gentle, weathered face of an old woman appears from behind it. I drop my arm, rubbing the back of my hand on the rough material of my jeans.

“I was wondering when you’d come by the house. I’m Eliza. Now, let me have a look at you,” she orders softly, waiting for me to take a step back before pushing open the door. “Oh! What happened here?”

“Your husband happened,” I mutter while toeing off my dirty shoes on the porch and following her inside.

The house is warm and smells like the buns my mom bakes every Sunday morning. A sense of nostalgia hits me hard, but I shake it off, letting the porch door swing shut.

“Oh, dear. Was it the hay?” she asks. We head through the hallway and into an open kitchen, where four bread pans sit on the stove. “Who am I kidding? Of course it was.”

“Seems I’m allergic to it.”

She turns off the oven before rushing back to me, inspecting my arms under the bright lights. I blink down at the short woman, taking in the pure silver bob swishing side to side as she cocks her head, the pursed lips painted bright pink, and the deep-set smile lines at both corners of them. Brody’s grandmother has a gentle aura about her that I feel guilty popping.

I swallow thickly and allow her to twist my wrist left and right and poke at the side of my inflamed throat. Something tells me Eliza Steele is a woman used to being obeyed in moments like these, and if it means I’ll stop itching, then by all means, she can have at it.

“That’s no good. Come with me. I have some lotion in the bathroom.”

It’s a short walk from the kitchen to the bathroom, but I reel at just how much stuff this family has managed to fit in the small distance. Pictures and clutter and rugs of every colour and pattern. I stare at the photo of Brody and Annalise at a grand opening in town for longer than I should. When I look away, I shake my head at my misplaced curiosity.

Eliza flicks the light on in the bathroom, and the outdated feel of the space doesn’t appear out of place at all in this house. I expected the yellowing tub and chipped porcelain sink. The two fluffy, purple towels hung on the towel rack match the bath mat and even the soap dispenser. It’s incredibly clean, though. Every inch of it.

“Sit on the edge of the tub, and I’ll find you something to help,” she demands, starting to root through the medicine cabinet.

I do as she says, keeping my legs pressed tight together to avoid knocking my knee into the toilet. “Thank you.”

She swipes a dainty hand through the air. “Please know that my husband, while he does love a good prank, wouldn’t have tasked you with the hay had he known you were allergic.”

“He doesn’t particularly like me, so I wouldn’t put it past him to enjoy this.”

Eliza ignores my comment and, instead of telling me off like she probably should, hands me a pink bottle of lotion and a pack of tiny pills. “I’ll go grab you a juice. Do you have a preference?”

“No.”

“Be right back, then. Start to rub that lotion over your skin. It should take the sting away.”

I pop the cap as she slips from the room and start lathering myself in the runny substance. The relief is instant, and I sigh at the lack of itching. I look ridiculous painted in the stuff, but as I pop two of the allergy pills into my palm, I let that thought go.

“I had some lemonade in the fridge, so I brought that instead of juice. Do you like lemonade?” Eliza asks once she returns, a tall orange cup in her hand.

I answer her question by taking the cup from her and tossing the pills back before draining the lemonade in one go. The lingering sweet yet tangy taste settles in my mouth, making my stomach growl loudly.

Eliza’s face goes bright as she grins and clasps her hands against her middle, over the frilly apron. “If you’re done in here, you come with me back to the kitchen. Why don’t you help me with lunch instead of working back outside?”

My stomach growls again, and then I’m rinsing my hands off in the sink before following her out of the bathroom.

7

POPPY

There are only two things that I’ll ever splurge on: my yearly trip somewhere tropical and my hair.

I’ve gone on a yearly trip since I moved out at eighteen. Chalk it up to hardly ever leaving Cherry Peak when I was growing up due to my family’s penny-pinching ways, but the moment I could break free, I was gone. Where there’s sun and unlimited alcoholic beverages, I’m there. For seven to ten days every year, I get to live a life so different from the one I have here. I get to be the full, unrestricted version of myself somewhere nobody can judge me for it. Or where they still can, but I just don’t give a single flying shit if they do.

When it comes to my hair, I can never seem to stick with one style for too long. Short, long, purple, or red. Luckily, my best friend happens to be an incredible hairdresser and loves me enough to let me stop in for house calls before work on a Monday morning to change it up.

There’s hardly a reason behind why I wake up on random mornings with the craving for something new, but I’m not about to change my life now. I’m twenty-six years too late for that.

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