The Miles Between (16 page)

“I do.” I think.

“What's the big deal about this day? October 19. What's the secret?”

An easy one?

Hardly.

Unexplainable. Illogical. Impossible. Yes. But at the same time, real. Very real for me. A day I was rejected. Sent away. Separated. A day I should have said good-bye. A day I should have taken different steps. A day I turned seven. Not easy at all, Seth. But I must get home today. Tell them. Tell my parents. Has the courage suddenly materialized? Or the foolishness? I am not sure. But I must get home. A measure of truth could get me there.

“Truth, Des.” It is like Seth can see the workings of my mind, as I search for something plausible to substitute for the truth, and he is trying to trip me up.
Truth, Des. Truth
. A measure.

“Today is my birthday.”

They are silent, their faces blank, like they were expecting something else.

“That would make the day special,” Mira says.

“Yes, that's right.”

“Of course.”

There they go again. Assuming. Not a wise thing to do.
There are many meanings to
special,
and they aren't all good. Different. Odd. Rare. Uncommon. Peculiar. Yes, special. Like special circumstances in a crime that can up a life sentence to a death sentence. Yes, that kind of special.

“The nineteenth.”

“Oh.”

It is obvious that their minds and mouths are out of sync. Minds racing. Mouths tripping.

“You and your mom share the same birthday?” Seth's voice has suddenly gone soft.

“That's right.”

“Today is your birthday,” Aidan repeats like he is trying to process what that means.

Mira leans over the door and hugs me. Her eyes glisten. “Happy birthday, Des.”

 

 

 

S
ETH DRIVES AT A SLOW
and easy pace. No one tries to fill the silence. For the moment the wrinkles between us are patted out. The universe is large. The breakable is real. Momentum is our fuel. I watch for landmarks.

He veers to the right at the fork. Just ahead, a weathered windmill stands at the far end of a field, its blades turning in the breeze. My stomach twists. A short distance farther, a neat row of mailboxes hugs the road. White, red, black, and silver. This is it.

We are coming up fast on another lane. I see it already. A street sign, shorter than I remember:
RAVENWOOD
. Raised metal letters that I always wanted to jump up and touch, like touching them would help me understand my place in the world, but I was too small to reach. Seth sees
the sign and steers the car to the left, down a narrow lane that is crowded with golden birches on either side.

We could turn back now and life would go on as before. As it always has. Return, go back, and not move on—as I have always not moved on except to a new boarding school where no one knew me or wanted to know me. Turn back and Mr. Gardian would take care of the misdeeds of the day as he always has. And as always, Mother and Father would not be disturbed. Turn back. Because no good can come from this day. It's not too late, Des. Turn back. But we are being swallowed up by a tunnel of golden birches and momentum that won't let us go.

“I don't see any addresses.”

“I don't see any houses.”

And then, set back a hundred feet on a brick drive littered with leaves are two stone pillars, the lions still crouched and poised—landmarks that have been waiting for me. Just below them is a small, distinguished realty sign.

“Here,” I say. “Turn here.”

The large wrought-iron gate that spans the drive has been pulled back to allow access.

“Was that a for-sale sign we just passed?” Aidan asks.

“Looked like it to me,” Seth confirms.

“Your parents are moving without telling you?” Mira asks.

“I knew.”

The birches grow thinner, the lane widens. Trimmed hedges appear. Tidy flower beds. And we are still on the driveway.

“Is this the drive just to your house?” Aidan asks.

“Yes.”

The birches are finally pushed back and lawns appear. Still farther ahead, the house finally looms.

“Holy—” but Seth doesn't finish his sentence.

“I knew you came from money—heck, we all do—but this . . .” Aidan doesn't finish his sentence either.

The grandeur that cut me off seems to have cut everyone else short too.

“That is some house!”

Except Mira.

“Yes, Mira, it is. Or was.”

Baaa. Baaa
.

Seth reaches over and rubs Lucky's head. “Yeah, fella, there's plenty of snacking to be had on those lawns.”

Mira lays her hand on my shoulder. She knows I don't like such displays. “Des, you okay?”

“Of course I am.” Now kindly remove your hand. No. Keep it there. Please keep it there.

“You're hardly breathing,” she says. “And, look—your knuckles are white.”

I look down at my hands, balled into tight fists, and I force them to relax. I breathe as Mira instructed me. My house. I am at
my
house. For the first time in nine years.

 

 

 

W
E FOLLOW THE ROAD
around to the house. Past fountains that no longer run. Past an apple orchard. Past flower gardens long past their bloom. Past arbors, pathways, and gazebos that were once my playground. The wind whips my face, my skirt, throwing dust in my eyes, like it is telling me to go away.

Close your eyes.

Don't look, Destiny.

Don't look
.

But I did.

I do.

I dab at my eyes, trying to rub away the grit that makes them tear. But I don't stop looking. Because I never have. Looking forward. Looking back. Wondering how many
steps, minutes, days, and breaths add up to just the right number. There has to be a way to make things right. There has to be. I won't run away. Today they will listen to me, and I will say all the things I should have said long ago.

Seth stops off to the side of the house just before we reach the front portico and the intricately inlaid drive of slate and brick. “Still want to do this?”

Mira leans forward, her face contorted like she just received bad news. “Des, dear, I'm afraid no one is home. It looks deserted.”

“Let's go in.”

Seth puts the car in park and turns off the engine. “What about Lucky?”

I nod toward the southern lawn. “Let him graze. The hedges will keep him in.”

“Come on, boy.” Seth picks up Lucky and carries him to the lawn that is overgrown just enough to be a little lamb's paradise.

Aidan slams the car door behind us, and the sound echoes off the deserted landscape.

“Quiet out here, isn't it?” Mira is obviously spooked by the loneliness.

We walk up the rest of the driveway, up the three curved steps, and I try the door. It's unlocked. I push it open.

Seth catches up and, along with us, peers inside. For a moment, time is suspended, held back by the threshold of the massive door. I hear the heart of the house.
Thump, thump, thump
. It beats in my chest.

“Wow,” Mira says, breaking the spell.

“Should we knock?” Aidan asks.

I look at him sharply. “It
is
my house, Aidan.”

I step inside and they follow. I look up at the ceiling, the double curving staircase, and at the vase of fresh white gladiolas on the pedestal to the left. I smile. The flowers had to be the Realtor's touch—a stab of warmth in a cold empty house. Or could it be Mother's idea? In honor of my birthday? Is it possible?
Today could be different. It could add up to everything right
. I snap off one flower and tuck it behind my ear.

The living room is unchanged, except for one piece of missing furniture, the white grand piano along with its bench. Mr. Gardian saved that for me.

“Anybody home?” Mira calls sheepishly. “Mrs. Faraday?”

“Shhh,” I tell her. “Let's go upstairs. I'll show you my room.”

We move toward the stairs, Mira's peep-toed platforms
click, click, click
ing on the marble tiles.

“Why am I not surprised to see you here, Destiny?”

Mira jumps. I turn around.

I recognize the voice before I even see him. “You know me too well, Mr. Gardian,” I answer.

He takes a few steps closer, joining us in the foyer. “I suppose after all these years I do. And this time I see you brought some partners in crime.” He sighs quite deliberately to make his point. “So, how much is this one going to cost me?”

“You mean me, don't you?”

“Yes. You.”

“Probably a bundle. My parents about?”

“Destiny. Please. You know it's not good to—”

“Never mind. Not surprised they're gone. It's only my birthday. Typical.”

Seth steps forward. “Sir, very sorry about the intrusion. The day just got started off on the wrong foot. Destiny's aunt Edie had some problems with her tires—”

“Aunt Edie?” Mr. Gardian looks from Seth to me. “
Destiny
. She's not back in the picture, is she?”

“Relax, Mr. Gardian. She didn't show. I just came to give my friends the nickel tour. Can you please just give us a few minutes?” He folds his arms slowly across his chest and throws in a frown for good measure. “For old time's sake?” I add.

His arms drop to his sides, and he finally nods. He moves awkwardly toward me and kisses the top of my head. “Happy birthday, Destiny,” he whispers. I close my eyes briefly, which allows the ache in my throat to spread to my chest. He steps back and shakes his head. “I had a little something delivered for you to Hedgebrook today. I'm sorry you weren't there to receive it.”

“You know I don't celebrate my birthday.”

“But I think it's about time you did.”

“We'll be going back soon. I'm sure Mrs. Wicket has set it aside for me.”

He smiles. “Just a few minutes now. Escrow closes today. The Realtor will be here shortly to sign the last papers.” He lowers his voice to a whisper. “And I don't want any scenes or anything, all right?”

I whisper back to him. “My friends can still hear you, Mr. Gardian.”

“Right.”

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Gardian.” Seth reaches his hand out to shake like they are old buddies. Smooth.

“Edward. Edward Farrell,” Mr. Gardian says. “Mr. Gardian is just Destiny's pet name for me. I've gotten used to it.”

“Oh. I see.” But it is clear he doesn't see. Smooth Seth is
caught off guard. I love being me sometimes. Not often. But sometimes.

Aidan and Mira say their hellos and good-byes too, and they follow me toward the stairs.

“Why do you call him Mr. Gardian when his name is Farrell?” Seth asks.

“He's lying. His name
is
Gardian. Even my parents call him that. You can't believe everything people tell you.”

“He seemed like a nice man,” Mira says. “I'm surprised he would lie.”

“He is a nice man,” I tell her. “But nice people lie too. You should know that by now. Come on. Let's hurry before we all get thrown out. It's a habit around here.”

I start up the stairs, noting the grain of the marble that's been etched in my memory for so long, remembering the pictures I thought I saw in the patterns when I was a child. A horse. A witch. An airplane. I don't see those pictures anymore, only a blurry swirl of gray and white. The others trail behind, but nevertheless I can hear the gasps from Mira and the whispered comments from Aidan. A few from Seth too.

“This place is huge.”

“Did you see the living room?”

“More like a ballroom.”

“It was a ballroom.”

“All of Hedgebrook could fit in this place.”

“Why would they move?”

“It looks like they moved a long time ago.”

“I don't think so.”

“Or their housekeeper is lousy.”

“Did you see that cobweb on the chandelier?”

“Shhh. Her parents might be here and hear you.”

“I don't think anyone's home. Except that Farrell fellow.”

Mira catches up with me. “Where are we going, Des?”

“I told you. My bedroom.”

We walk down a hallway. Past Mother and Father's room. Past the nursery. Past the playroom, and we arrive at my door. That is, if it is still my door. If the contents haven't been thrown out the way the occupant was.

I fear I might crumble or do something else just as embarrassing as I turn the knob and push open the door, but instead just the opposite happens. I am infused with the energy and life the room once held, lifted like a child onto someone's shoulders. The room is just as it was. Just as I remember it, but better. Not a piece of furniture has been moved. It is a shrine to a child who was supposed to make the world whole.

I cross to the bed, an elaborate canopied affair with wispy sheers as sweet and pink as cotton candy, tied back with pink bows at the posts. I slide my hand over the vermicelli quilted spread, pink roses bordering the edges, not as soft as it once was, stiffer with age, but still beautiful. I sit on the bed and bounce. I laugh. The dust swirls in my eyes again, making them burn and water, and I use the heel of my hand to wipe the tears away.

“This room is very . . . pink,” Seth comments.

“What's with all the ruffles and bows?” Aidan adds.

“It's . . . sweet,” Mira says, but the way she says
sweet
is distasteful, like saccharine sweet. Not-quite-right sweet. Aftertaste sweet. This from a girl with flashy peep-toed platforms and a poodle skirt.

There is nothing wrong with this room. Nothing. But the moment has passed. Now I see it through their eyes. I run across the room to the shelf that once held my Madame Alexander dolls. Gone. I glide my palm over the dusty shelf. Maybe in a moment of guilt, someone thought to pack them away. Or maybe they were discarded when I was. My fingers curl, gathering the shelf dust into my fist. “Seth, do you really believe there's no such thing as a fair day?”