Page 46 of Again, In Autumn

How apropos: the light of the gaslighter.

“Where are you going?” she calls out, her voice easy, as I slide on my puffy black coat.

I’m less unaffected.

Rage bubbling up, I mumble, “Just for a little stroll.”

“It’s dark and freezing out. You’ll be mauled or eaten by something, Vienna.”

“I won’t leave the property,” I say, stepping into boots. Stabbing them with my bare feet, more like. “I just need some fresh air.”

She begins to walk up the stairs. “Don’t die and ruin our Thanksgiving. Oh, and I want omelets for breakfast tomorrow!”

You love her, you love her, you love her.

She’s your sister. Her whole personality is not a good enough murder defense. It won’t hold up in court.

I let the door slam behind me as I head outside.

One time in middle school, I held a bottle of Gatorade while I walked with Francesca and her friends around the mall. We’d had such a nice day until she made a joke about how my dad probably paid to get me on the Varsity cheerleading team. She went on and on and on.

I knew she was wrong: I could backhand spring circles around her, I had pep in my step, the calves of a mountain climber. I earned my spot for freshman year. She was wrong. Yet, I stayed silent and imagined I lived in an episode of Real Teenagers of Atlanta where I could toss my Gatorade in her face.

No jury would convict me for that.

The temperature outside has dropped, thankfully and sucking in this icy chill cools my red cheeks and boiling anger. My blood pressure slowly drops.

The porch light is on, making the lawn, the lake, and the woods appear black. My hands snatch lantern beside the door and turn it on. For old-time’s sake, I feel like being a kid again, my attention drawn to the treehouse.

If I could relive my childhood, there’s so many things I would want to experience again.

I’d lay in the grass and just exist. I wouldn’t worry so much about my sister turning bitchy on a dime or boys who won’t give me the time of day. I would care less about school. Until middle school, they’re just going to pass you right along to be the next grade’s problem. Nothing’s ever that serious.

I would stand next to my mother and smell her vanilla perfume. I’d watch her bake in the kitchen and listen to every recipe hack she verbalized but didn’t scribble down. I’d take the sign from the bakery, Kneaded and Nutty, and hide it, so she didn’t burn it in a summer bonfire when the bakery closed.

I’d have asked her unrelenting questions and begged for her opinion on everything, so that I had some guidance after she was gone. So that when I looked at sunset, I would know how my mother felt about it, and she’d live in on millions of passing thoughts I’d have every day.

My feet stop. I look up at the green treehouse that Billy built before I was born. The lantern swings, and I climb the two-by-fours nailed into the trunk, something that felt so much easier as a kid. Easier even as a teenager, climbing the ladder at night where Adam would be waiting.

I crawl onto the flat surface and slide my back onto the planks of wood under the square window, testing their strength.

Not too bad, Billy.

I set the lantern down and straighten my legs, listening to the sounds of animals cry out into the night. My jacket makes squishing sounds as I get comfortable. Right beside me, the door of a repurposed metal mailbox hangs open, revealing the empty inside.

It used to be filled with little notes written on scraps of junk mail or cardboard from cereal boxes. Adam would tear out articles from his stepmom’s magazines that he thought I would like to read. Celebrity gossip, usually, and he’d leave judgey remarks in the margins. We came out here all the time after that first kiss on the dock.

One night, I held his right hand to mine, keeping it close to the lantern.

“This is your love line,” I said, dragging my fingertips along the fold in his palm. “It’s nice and long, that’s good. It’s not broken. I don’t see a cold-hearted spinsterhood in your future. You’re going to have one great love.”

He lowered his head and kissed under my ear.

“What’s the male version of a spinster?” I wondered.

“A spinsthim,” he breathed into my skin.

I laughed and continued, “This one is your life line.”

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