Home Strange Home

by CeeCee James

  Officer Carlson’s dark eyes narrowed. He set the bag on the back of my car and pulled out a pad. “And no one at the scene thought to tell us this?”

  “I don’t think we realized it could be important.”

  “What else was said during the phone call?”

  I quickly described what I remembered. “Ian later told us it was his brother. In fact, I just asked Jasmine to find out for sure since it might be important. She said she would check the phone records to confirm it.”

  “We’ll get those records checked,” he growled, as his gaze swept across what he’d been writing.

  “So, do you have any suspects besides Jasmine?” I asked.

  “At this point, we are digging into anyone who may have had a motive.”

  “And you have a few?”

  He arched his eyebrow, and his eye sparkled like he was trying not to laugh. “Maybe a few. Anyone ever told you that you ask a lot of questions, Hollywood?”

  I bit my lip, struggling not to roll my eyes, reminding myself that I needed to tread lightly with him. “Sorry. I just can’t believe that one of us there had to have done it. It’s really shocking.”

  “And what about you? Have you ever met Ian Stuber before?”

  Oh, great. Was he just poking at me to punish me for handling the jewelry? Or was I really someone they were suspicious about?

  “Just as a client. The Flamingo Realty was selling his house. He was Uncle Chris’s old friend.”

  “Yeah, an old friend and racing buddy.” He glanced back at his paper. “It seems there was bad blood between them at one time.”

  A chill ran down my back. Was he accusing Uncle Chris of something? “I think it was normal that most race car drivers experienced animosity at one time or another.”

  His eyebrow lifted. “You’d describe it as animosity?” He quickly scribbled some more.

  What? No! “What I mean is that it was all in the competitive spirit of the racetrack.”

  He nodded. “They were competitive, huh? So it mustn’t have felt too good when Ian won the last three races that your Uncle Chris was in. In fact, they were the last races your Uncle ever competed in.”

  Whoa. This guy knew a lot more than I’d given him credit for. “That was years ago. They’ve been good friends ever since, like old fraternity brothers.”

  He snapped his notebook shut. “Thank you for your time and for giving us the clue. If you think of anything else, let us know. I’m always here, digging around.” He smiled, and it scared me. With a dip of his head, he stalked away.

  As he climbed in his car, I glanced over at the Post Office. There was my reflection in the window, with my mouth still hanging open. I shut it, realizing how it must look, a big ol’ fish gasping for air on the sidewalk. It was a moment later when I realized that Jan was on the other side of the glass. She had the phone to ear and was talking a mile a minute. When she realized she’d been caught, she’d grabbed her broom and hurried out of sight.

  10

  My thoughts were overtaking me by the time I arrived home. They were coming so fast, I could hardly remember which way was up anymore. From Officer Carlson’s jabbing questions, to Celeste asking about my mom, to Uncle Chris’s face of grief.

  Maybe it was his grief that was triggering all of this confusion. I sat in the car, too overwhelmed to even get out. The feeling was suffocation. I leaned my head to rest on my hands clutching the top of the steering wheel. I needed something… someone. It reminded me of another time I had the same need.

  When I was younger, I dreamed of being a ballerina. I was nine and hadn’t known that all real ballerinas had already been training for five plus years by my age. With crazy stars in my eyes, I’d tried out for the Pacific Northwest Ballet Nutcracker, thinking it was like a school play and that I would learn as I went. There were ninety roles available for children, everything from angels, to soldiers, dancing girls, to mice. The audition hall was filled with kids.

  I noticed the difference between them and myself right away. While I was giggling with excitement, they were stretching, faces serious. Arms posed, toes pointed. When I tried to talk to them, they’d turn their faces in the other direction.

  I didn’t even make it for a dancing candy cane. The whole experience was more than embarrassing, with one of the directors finally approaching me (with stressed eyes and an overly-patient face) to advise me that I take some lessons and maybe try again in a few years.

  Of course, he’d known that I’d never come back. I did actually take a few lessons, a giant fifth grader clumsily looming over the tops of the little kids in that beginner class. It was especially stinging and awkward because even those kids had been able to follow the dance moves better than I had.

  At my last lesson, I’d gone to the car wanting to cry. Craving a mom to talk with. Instead, there was Dad, a real ‘pull yourself up by your bootstraps,’ and ‘never give up on something you’ve committed to doing’ kind of guy.”

  I didn’t know how to tell him I didn’t want to go back. As it turned out, I hadn’t needed to. Apparently, the teacher had had a little talk with Dad while I was waiting in the car.

  Dad never brought it up again. The next week, when it was time for my dance lesson, Dad sat in his favorite spot on the couch and turned on his favorite cop show. I’d watched from the doorway with my ballet slippers and my jacket. When he didn’t move, I snuck back into my room and hid the slippers under my mattress. And I’d cried, needing… something. The same need I had right now.

  I never took the slippers out again. In fact, they probably were still stuffed between the mattresses. Dad never asked. I don’t think he knew how to deal with a daughter, in some ways. Especially how to deal with the emotions of a broken dream.

  As I thought about that now, I realized then my mom must have had dreams as well.

  What had she dreamed of? This woman who I barely remember. Surely, she didn’t dream of having a daughter and then never seeing her again. Did she? What had happened to her?

  I drummed my fingers against the steering wheel as the feeling grew. What had I done to deal with all of this before? Was it the running? Had it helped me that much?

  I used to run. Not in the way that many people did. I definitely didn’t do it for exercise, but for sport. I was insanely proud of my record time and had developed a disgusting habit of slipping it into conversations with a little humble-bragging. That had been another dream of mine, to one day try out for the Olympics.

  All that ended in college when I came up against people who’d wiped the floor with my best times. I’d given up the sport and, to be honest, I hadn’t run again. We’re looking at nearly ten years here.

  I don’t know why I quit. Pride, I guess. The utter humiliation to lose race after race after being the all-star for my school. The fear of facing my father.

  Slowly, something was occurring to me. Here I am trying to dig out my identity from Dad’s expectations, and even my own self-imposed rules. And thinking about childhood dreams made me realize that, yes, I had been addicted to the competition and the winning highs. To my dad’s approval.

  But, at the heart of it, there was a real love for running. Something about the way my feet hit the ground rhythmically, my heart and breaths coming in controlled gasps, well there was an indescribable soothingness about it all. Probably that endorphin stuff. I realize now that it had helped me through those angsty teenage years, even though the wins blew up my head and ego.

  Running had been a space in time where I could think.

  You’d think I have lots of space and time at the moment, rattling around in this old house by myself. I climbed out of the car, feeling drained and tired.

  The truth was, I was starting to feel stagnant. Somehow, since I’d moved back, I’d slumped into a habit where I was only leaving the house for work. In fact, if I was being honest, Ian’s party had been the first time I’d been out in a while. That couldn’t be healthy. Heck, at work I’d become some morphed version of
super realtor Stella, instead of the authentic person I was trying to figure out. Had I substituted my uncle for my dad, trying to make him proud?

  I walked into the house and somehow ended up at my bedroom closet. On the floor was a sad pair of tennis shoes. I picked one up. It was a little worn, but the arch support inside was still okay. The wear-and-tear was really only on the outside.

  My heart thumped with anticipation… excitement. Yeah, I was ready to run again. I needed to quit doing things to make someone else proud. I needed to figure out what makes me happy, and do it, even if it means I’m not the best.

  I laced up the shoes, found my old gray college sweatshirt and pulled it on with a smile. It was cold outside, but I knew I’d warm up pretty quick. I walked outside and eyed the road. The frost was heavy on the ground and my breath puffed in white dragon clouds. I was doing what I wanted. Just to make me happy.

  Wow. It made me feel alive.

  Okay, first, stretch. After the first hamstring stretch, I slipped into muscle memory. Calves, quads. I shook out my legs.

  It was time.

  Now, which way? There was a creek down somewhere past the neighbor’s field. I’d seen the dark smudge of bushes outlining it when I’d driven up to the house. From that direction, I could hear the croak of frogs.

  I started jogging and gasped as unexpected emotions exploded inside of me. Suddenly, I was brought back to the shame of the loss at my last college race—was that the last time I ran?—when I finally accepted that I was no one special. My feet hit the ground even as my cheeks heated.

  I realized now how much of my identity and value rested on me having a label. To be known by the label. Honor roll, track star, entrepreneur, go-getter, motivated.

  And when I couldn’t achieve it, it nearly crushed me. Again and again. So I’d try harder. Harder to have value.

  It occurred to me, I’d never told Dad that I’d quit track. He would have freaked out. My breath came out in frosty clouds as I remembered. In his eyes, an O’Neil never quits.

  I wondered if he thought me moving back to Pennsylvania was quitting.

  The rhythmic smacks of my shoes against the road had a calming effect. I enjoyed this. How had I forgotten?

  And what had brought back this stifling feeling so strongly?

  Ian’s death. That’s what it was. He woke up that morning with plans and by that afternoon, his life was over. He thought he had time still to achieve his hopes and dreams.

  I didn’t want to miss out on what was important to me because of fear that my dad would think I was failing. That’s why I’d moved out here. Wasn’t it? Wasn’t it?

  Anger fueled my steps, and I pounded my feet harder on the road, eating up the asphalt. All right, so I got a little complacent since taking the big plunge to move out here. I was ready now. Ready to fight for what I wanted.

  And right now, I wanted to know more about my mother.

  Was her hair the same color as mine? Did I look like her? Did she die, or was she still out there… somewhere?

  Was it possible that I’d already run into her? Had she spied on me while growing up, like my FBI retired Grandfather admitted to doing? Or did she truly just walk away, not caring anymore about the little girl she’d left behind? And how had I locked her memory up so tight that I’d never tried to answer these before?

  I knew why. Because I still had one identity that I didn’t want to give up. Being loyal to my dad.

  My foot caught on a patch of ice, and I tumbled across the icy pavement. A yelp escaped out of me in the whoosh of breath. I lay there, crying, on the cold ground.

  My tears weren’t from pain. Falling was a welcome relief to finally let them free. I hugged my knees and cried.

  For her.

  For me.

  For my dad.

  Then I examined my ankles, but they were fine. My hand had a few scrapes from landing. Wincing, I stood and started to limp home. But, despite the physical pain, I was feeling better.

  As I looked down the long, lonely road, I noticed a black truck. It looked mean, with a bulky grill, like teeth, and a silver frame around the license plate that glinted in the light. The vehicle had stopped dead smack right in the middle of the road.

  Just as if the driver were watching me.

  11

  The truck rumbled, not moving.

  A chill trickled up my arms, and not from the cold temperature. He’d been coming up like that behind me while I was running. My brain tried to come up with a rational explanation. Was he looking for something? Trying to map somewhere?

  Any of those might have worked, but I could see the driver wasn’t moving. He sat like a statue, staring ahead.

  Straight at me.

  That’s weird. Where did he come from and what the heck is he doing? I tested my ankle and started to jog again, feeling the need to get home.

  The gravel and ice crunched under my feet. As I ran, I realized how isolated I was. This road was long. There was nothing but flat fields on both sides, tilled-over and snow-covered at the moment, with a dark hedge of trees in the distance.

  The truck’s engine continued to idle, the driver still watching me. I tried to see inside the windshield, but the reflection was too strong to make out details.

  It was at that moment I realized my house was too far away. I made a crazy decision and turned down the driveway I’d passed every day since I’d moved there. I’d always wondered who'd lived in this little frame house that sat all summer long like a white postage stamp on a green envelope of waving wheat that surrounded it. But today, I was looking for a little neighborly support.

  I ran down the driveway, my heart pounding. The black truck revved its engine. With a tight maneuver, it started to turn around. Smoke plumed from its exhaust as the driver stomped on the gas, making the tires spit up gravel and slush.

  I felt a little foolish. Maybe he’d just stopped to read a map. Stopping in the middle of the road was odd, but you never knew. Still, I wasn’t taking any chances. This was as good of a time as any to meet my neighbor.

  I knocked on the door.

  A woman, somewhere in her late sixties, came out to the porch. She had on a heavy fisherman’s sweater and thick jeans.

  “I’m sorry,” I heaved. “This is so odd, but I was out here running, and there was this truck on the road that kind of creeped me out.”

  “Oh, my heavens!” she exclaimed craning her head to stare down the road. The truck had managed to complete the tight turn and was already nearly at the T in the road. With a screech of his tires, he disappeared.

  “Well, isn’t that—she paused, looking confused. “Dang it. I can’t remember his name. He lives around here somewhere. Well, why don’t you come in for a glass of water.”

  She led me into her kitchen, my heart thumping since I hadn’t had time to cool down. I hoped she’d remember who the person in the truck was.

  Her movements were slow, and it appeared that her joints hurt. With a small muffled sigh, she got down a glass cup—prism cut, with a heavy bottom—and filled it at the sink, the whole time with her brow puckered in thought.

  “I’m Stella O’Neil,” I volunteered. “I live in the house up the street.”

  “Right!” She smiled, appearing relieved. She brushed back a graying wisp that had fallen into her face. “The old Crawford’s house?”

  “Yes,” I nodded.

  Unexpectedly, the back door flew open with a bang. I jumped and tried to recover. A man walked in, wearing ripped jeans and an olive green t-shirt. A t-shirt that fit quite nicely, I noted. Both were covered in smears of black grease. He stared at me in surprise. Green eyes too, matched his shirt. I quickly took a sip of water.

  “Richie, this is our neighbor.” The woman looked confused again.

  “Stella,” I offered.

  He nodded, dark eyebrows raising, and held out a hand, before flushing when he realized how dirty it was. His hair was long as well, brushing the edge of his collar. “I guess I won’t shake.
I’m working on the old beast. The car, I mean.”

  “She’s our neighbor,” the woman said proudly.

  “That’s great, Ma,” he said. “You’ve been a good hostess, I see.”

  She turned bright eyes toward me. “Since you’re here, would you like to see my dolls?”

  It was then that I realized the poor woman had some senility issues. I glanced at Richie, who seemed embarrassed. He walked to the sink to wash his hands. “She doesn’t want to look at your dolls, Ma.”

  The woman’s face fell in the most heart-breaking way.

  “Of course,” I rushed to answer. “I’d love to see them. I love dolls.”

  Her face lit up and she walked to the entrance of another room. “Come just this way,” she beckoned.

  I walked through the doorway and into the living room. Immediately, I was slapped in the face with the fact that I didn’t love dolls nearly as much as I’d just professed.

  Walls, shelves, and display cases were filled with the smiling toys. Some dolls stared with tipped heads, some had eyes that could open and close, but something wonky had happened, and their eyelids were uneven in a half wink. But they all felt like they were staring straight through me. Like ‘don’t turn your back on them’ staring.

  I rubbed my arm. “Wow! These are nice. You’ve been collecting for a while?”

  “Oh, yes. This one is from my childhood.” She pointed to a doll with worn nubs for hair. “And that one over there Richie got me for Christmas.” This was a doll in a white princess gown, covered in glitter. The woman’s face shone with pride.

  “That was a sweet gift,” I said. And I meant it.

  We talked for a while, as she pointed out her favorites. Richie stood uneasily at the doorway until I finally said I needed to go. She seemed disappointed, so I promised I’d come back for a visit. Satisfied, with that promise, I left her fluffing one of the doll’s ballgown.

  Richie walked with me out onto the porch. He wore cowboy boots that looked like they’d seen better times. “Thank you for that,” he said, dipping his head in the direction of his mother. “She loves to have company.”