by Angie West
***
“How was school, peanut?” I asked Ashley an hour later. I gave myself a pat on the back for somehow managing to keep a light tone of voice and a steady hand while going through her backpack.
There were two perforated ABC 123 homework sheets that her teacher had torn from a workbook.
“That’s my homework!” she chirped.
“I see that. Do you know what you have to do?”
“Yep. It’s matching. I’m good at that. Mrs. Harris said so.”
“I know you are.” I sighed. “Today it’s matching, tomorrow it’s Stanford.”
“Your school?”
“My school.” I grinned. “You remembered that story?” It was difficult to keep the surprise from my voice. I had only mentioned my alma mater once before to Ashley and that had been more than eight months ago. I shouldn’t have been surprised. My daughter had a fantastic memory. Her ability to recall both events and conversations was becoming somewhat legendary in our family. My mother frequently consulted Ashley on a number of important matters. Where she put her car keys, for instance. Or what was written on the disappearing grocery list. Their newest game, television remote finding, had begun over last Christmas break.
Megan had suggested having I.Q. tests administered, but I was reluctant to do so…not so soon at least. The past year had been hard enough on her. I wanted to give her the chance to have a real childhood.
The chance to be a normal kid. To run and play and watch cartoons, and take hour long bubble baths.
From what I could discern, normalcy had been a rare commodity throughout most of Ashley’s young life.
But for the most part, her past remained a mystery. Strangely enough, she couldn’t seem to remember much of it. It was as though her early years were a slate that had long since been wiped clean. She had told me that her parents were dead, killed by the “bad men,” and that a woman had been caring for her.
But she claimed not to know the caretaker’s name, what the woman had looked like, or even where they had lived. My best guess was that she had come from Haelport, where I’d found her on the streets. After all, how far could a child her age get on foot? Especially in Terlain, where the dangers to children left unattended were multiplied tenfold. At any rate, for a child who had a photographic memory, she couldn’t remember a lot. I had suspected from day one that she was simply too scared to say where she had come from or how she had gotten her bruises. In the early days, she had been quiet and withdrawn. Now she was blossoming. So maybe it was better if she did eventually forget her past.
“Mama?”
“Yes? Sorry I was thinking about something. What were you saying?”
“I’m gonna go play outside, okay?” She was already reaching for the sliding glass doors that led to the back patio and yard.
“No!” the word burst forth vehemently. I took a deep, calming breath and tried again. “What I mean is, I had other plans for this evening.”
“But I always play on the swing set after school on Fridays.”
“I know you do, but I need to drop some things off at your Aunt Megan’s. How would you like to go see Grandma and Grandpa tonight?”
“Why can’t I go with you?”
“Because I’ve got grown up business to go over with Aunt Megan, that’s why.”
“Oh. Okay.” Bless her heart, she didn’t question it beyond that.
“Why don’t you get your bag and some toys and books?”
“Sure.” She ran down the hall and into her room.
“Take your homework too!” I called after her.
“I’m ready!” she announced several minutes later.
“Me too, let’s go.”
I called my parents en route and told them I would be dropping off Ashley. The next call I made was not to Megan but to my brother.
“Can I meet you at the house in twenty minutes?”
“Yours or mine?”
“That’s right, twenty minutes.” I glanced in the rear view mirror at Ashley. There was silence on the other end of the line.
“Your house, then?”
“Yes.”
“Is everything okay?”
“No,” I replied breezily.
“I’ll be there.”
“See you then.”
We pulled into my parents’ circular driveway ten minutes later. Bret and Angel Roberts may not have had the largest house on the block, but what it lacked in size, it made up for in character. Although the home was by no means small, it didn’t possess the same towering qualities of the majority of homes in the upper class neighborhood. Morrisbrook was one of the oldest sections of town and it showed in the graceful lines of the neighboring homes. The lots in the neighborhood were absolutely enormous and the homes for the most part were original. All had been well maintained and many had been updated over the past hundred years. But the original designs had remained largely unchanged. Two-story colonials and three-story Victorians graced the landscape as far as the eye could see. Eighteenth century moldings and towers stood as proud reminders of days long gone. Ashley always called them castles whenever we drove past.
Then there was the Roberts’ house. Dad was an architect; Mom was now an architectural designer, and it showed in every inch of their property. My parents bought the house at 404 Elm in 1978, and to the neighbor’s collective horror had the original structure razed to make room for their dream home—a single-story masterpiece that Mom referred to as “neo Spanish Colonial.” I never did quite understand what that meant, but the house had always reminded me of a Spanish villa with its red slate tile roof and white stone walls. The grounds were beautifully landscaped and professionally maintained.
Growing up, the yard had been my favorite part of the property, my own private sanctuary. While Mike had been poring over National Geographic and Megan had been playing softball, I had been outside memorizing every detail and nuance of every bit of plant life I could get my hands on.
The Japanese maple trees with their red-purple spring blooms were always my favorite, because no two were ever the same. The pushia tridentate was another favorite with its white flowers in the summer.
I used to call them “wedding flowers.”
“It’s beautiful here, don’t you think?” I opened Ashley’s door and lifted her from the car, swooping her into a hug as I did so.
Mom and Dad’s red front door opened almost as soon as our feet touched the porch.
“Well, I was wondering when you were going to show up!”
“Grandma!”
“Hi, Mom. I can’t stay. I’ve got some business to attend to, but I’ll be back tonight to get Ashley.”
“Take your time, dear. We’re going to have lots of fun here, aren’t we, Ashley?”
“Yep! Bye, Mom!”
“Love you, be good.”
“I’m always good.”
“I know you are,” I whispered, long after the front door had closed behind them. “I know you are.”
