Unsteady
We’d gone to Cape May every year for as long as I could remember. Even Mom had gone there since she was a kid. Her dad, my pap, had loved Cape May. He’d lived there for a bit when he’d been in the Coast Guard. He loved it so much that he brought his family there every chance he got. He’d moved there when he retired, and while his small, one bedroom apartment couldn’t hold us when we visited, I loved seeing him every year. He passed away from lung cancer before my freshman year of high school, but we never stopped going down to the shore.
My hand gripped the tan steering wheel tightly as I drove down the highway toward Philly, music blasting, windows down. I loved to drive, loved the feeling of the sun beating through the front window, how the wind caught my hair at just the right angle to whip my face. I loved the feeling of freedom it gave me.
The acoustic song I’d been listening to faded with a few strums of guitar, and another song began. The piano keys started out soft, beautiful. Every note rang out, and I could imagine the hands of the pianist drifting over the keys gracefully, every key pressed purposefully, but carefully, with reverence. There was a sort of joy in the way the pianist played. The melody drifted over my ears as his deep husky voice entered with the first verse. He was singing about love and pain, how they always seemed to be intertwined like the vines in his girlfriend’s backyard. A soft, female voice entered the fray, blending heartache with love and loss.
It was Chris’ favorite song and artist, “Lancaster” by Evergreen. We were supposed to see them perform in August. They were a brother and sister duo from just outside of Philly, probably not too far from where I was driving. The sister, Elenor, was on the keys, and her brother, Ethan, was singing and strumming his guitar softly. I wouldn’t be seeing them now that Chris was gone.
A month ago, I would’ve broken down in tears just hearing the opening chords.
I looked at the seat next to me, almost expecting Chris to be sitting there, but he wasn’t. Rather, there was a bag full of beach towels and coral bed sheets that Mom had insisted I bring, along with my rice cooker.
I could almost see him there, sitting in his favorite white-striped t-shirt and jeans, hole at the knee, long legs nearly banging against where the airbag lay, nestled in the dash. He’d have the window down and a tan arm hanging out, fingers playing the notes of the song against the black exterior of my Jeep. His brown eyes would be closed, and his head would be leaning back against the headrest. His blond curls would be peeking out from beneath the dark blue hat I’d bought him for his birthday the first summer we were together. He’d worn it ever since, and continued wearing it even after his dog, Jimmy, had chewed the end of it, and his baby nephew had stolen and subsequently puked on it, leaving a stain. He loved that hat for the memories it contained. He was buried with that hat tucked beneath his hand.
Chris slightly freckled cheeks would be flushed from the sun, the scar through his eyebrow red and angry, like always, and his pink lips would be slightly upturned in a small, barely visible smile he saved for moments when he didn’t know he was smiling. As the song would crescendo and quicken, he’d turn to me, and I’d look at him before turning my eyes back to the road. He’d sing me the words to the song he loved so much in a voice that should never sing at all, but he wouldn’t care. He’d belt it out as loudly and proudly as he could. He’d sing it to me passionately, hand clenched and pounding over his chest. I would try to keep my eyes on the highway, try to keep my gaze forward, but it was always drawn to him. I’d laugh under my breath and ask him, “Why the heck am I dating you again?”
And he’d respond with, “Because you love me.”
I’d roll my eyes, not telling him that it was true, and he’d go on singing until the end of the song. When it ended, his arm would somehow find its way back out the window and I’d think how it wasn’t surprising that his right arm had a weird tan line because of how much time it spent hanging out of the window. His eyes would drift shut again and we’d drive on, listening to whatever song came next.
I felt the tears prick at my eyes and tried to blink them back, but they began to fall anyway. I pulled my hand from the steering wheel and wiped the tears from my cheeks and eyes. I’d stopped wearing makeup after everything that happened. I learned that even waterproof makeup wasn’t smear-proof, or really cry proof.
I grabbed my phone from the cupholder I’d perched it in, and untangled the auxiliary chord from the gearshift, and opened my music app. I’d been listening to my Favorites playlist, forgetting, of course, that I’d added some of his favorites to it, too. I hadn’t listened to music in a while, hadn’t done much of anything in a while. I quickly tapped Songs to Sing in the Shower and tossed my phone and the attached chord on top of the towels, trying to force my mind to focus on the road.
I managed to make my way through the traffic-ridden sections of Philly and down the Jersey Turnpike, but not without channeling Dad, while yelling profanities out my window when some Jersey driver tried to cut me off after I had attempted to go around him. When I’d switched onto the Garden State Parkway, the final leg of my journey before I actually hit Cape May, I’d managed to focus on other things. Namely, questioning how the hell I was going to survive the summer away from everyone and working as a waitress at Jim’s Pizza. It was my favorite pizza place in Cape May, but still.
Jim had been a blessing. Besides hiring me at his pizza place, though I’m sure they were at staff capacity, he’d called around to all his friends trying to help me find a place to live. He’d told me that had I asked a month prior, he would’ve rented out his basement to me rather than his sister’s annoying son. I laughed at that. Jim had ended up finding me a place in the Villas, one of the smaller towns neighboring Cape May on the bay side of the peninsula. It’d be a fifteen-minute drive to the Washington Street Mall where his shop was located, but I didn’t mind all that much. It was a fully furnished apartment, kitchen unit and all, converted from a garage, owned by Jim’s wife’s friend Judy.
“She’s a real nice lady,” he’d said to me on the phone when he’d called to tell me the news a few days after he’d given me the job. “She’s just a little . . . odd.” He lingered on the word like it was something he wasn’t quite sure of.
I raised an eyebrow, though he couldn’t see me. “What do you mean by odd?”
“You’ll see what I mean when you get there. She’s real nice. Just don’t mind her miniature doll collection if you ever end up in the main house.”
I blinked. “Miniature doll collection?”
Jim brushed it aside. “Don’t worry, kiddo. I wouldn’t steer ya’ wrong.”
When I pulled up in front of the house, I immediately understood what Jim had meant. The one story house, just three blocks from the bay, was well kept with a white picket fence and a garden of pink roses out front. The house, however, was bright pink. It wasn’t some subtle pink similar to what you’d paint a baby’s room. No. The house was pepto bismol pink, blinding with the reflection of the mid-afternoon sun. It felt like a Barbie Dream House on steroids.
I wasn’t sure I wanted to get out of my car.
I saw the front front curtain move slightly before the front door swung open to reveal a woman in her mid-seventies, clad in a lavender bathrobe, her hair pulled up in a twisted towel.
Quickly, I grabbed my phone from the passenger seat and slipped out of my jeep, hurrying up to the cobblestoned walkway that led to her house.
“Judy Lewis?” I asked as I approached. Up close, I could see the gray hairs peeking out from beneath the white towel. I could see her blue eyes and wrinkles etched into her skin.
“You’re Indy Jacobs, I presume?” Her voice was like a chain-smoker’s, raspy and deep, but I couldn’t smell the tell-tale scent of cigarettes.
“Yep, that’s me,” I said with an awkward laugh and even more awkward wave.
She ignored it. “I thought you weren’t coming for another hour.”
We’d talked on the phone twice, once to discuss payment and once to discuss my arrival. Both times, the conversation had been less than five minutes. I’d made sure to mention that I would arrive between three and four in the afternoon. It was three fifteen.
“Traffic was . . . uh . . . light?”
She took a step back into the house. “Well, that can’t be helped. Come,” she gestured toward me. “I’m assuming you’d like to know where you’re living for the summer.”
I nodded, following her inside.
She led me in through a carpeted hallway. It was muted and white with absolutely no decorations, nothing to give me a glimpse into who Judy Lewis actually was, save for the slight smell of sandalwood that radiated throughout the house. I peeked into the rooms off the main hallway as we slipped by, each looking more normal than I’d expected, given the outside of the house. Simple furniture, simple colors, nothing quite as bright as the outside. And certainly no miniature doll collection. She led me to the kitchen that was nestled in the back of the house. It was muted and white with a tile floor and just a tiny kitchen table by the window. It was small, compact, and the only pop of color was a rose in a white vase placed on a table.
Judy picked up a set of three colorful keys with a fuzzy, pink rabbit’s foot off the white counter and dropped it into my hands. She placed her hands on her hips and looked at me intently. “The rainbow key is for the back door of your apartment. That’s the door you’ll probably use most often. The red one is for this door here.” She gestured to the white door, tucked away next to the refrigerator on the back wall of the house. “I don’t expect you to be using that one too much, except to do laundry. The laundry is also down in the basement so when you have to do it, you’ll use that. Just go down the steps and it’s to the left. And the pink one is for my front door. That is only to be used in case of an emergency.” She stared deep into my soul when she said emergency. I nodded.
She listed a number of rules I had to abide by while living there. Mainly it included never venturing anywhere but to the laundry room and kitchen. I assumed the dolls were hidden elsewhere. She led me through the white door into what would be my living space for the next three months or so.
The space was small and looked more like a studio than anything. The garage doors had been taken out and replaced with a wall and a fairly large window that overlooked a line of tall trees. Like the rest of Judy’s house, everything was painted a soft white. It was sparse, but it would work with just a bed, dresser, and couch. There were a few cabinets, a range, and a mini fridge making up the so-called kitchen.
“Well,” Judy said, barely looking at me. “This is it.”
“Uh,” I started, not really sure of what to say, only that I knew I really wanted to be alone and didn’t know how to tell her to leave. “Yeah, thank you . . . it’ll . . . work well?”
I felt awkward and nervous and wished someone other than Judy was there with me to make this whole thing feel better, to sit me down and tell me that this wasn’t a mistake. I wished Chris was there with me.
“There’s a Wawa and a CVS down the street if you need anything quick, but if you drive further down you’ll hit a grocery store,” Judy said, turning to me. “If you have any questions about the Villas or anything, just ask.”
“Got it, thanks,” I said quietly, staring out over everything, and wishing I could blink and wake up and be back in my bedroom at home.
“I’ll let you get settled, then,” she said, turning around and sashaying through the door, closing it behind her. I heard the click of the door behind me.
And then I was alone.
I hadn’t really been alone in the past month since hearing of Chris’ death. I found out from a phone call with his sister¾I was with my college roommate. When I’d taken the rest of the semester off, because I couldn’t function in my classes and had gone home, Mom had picked me up and didn’t leave my side. I was always so surrounded that I began to feel suffocated. Even when I’d been alone in my bedroom, I knew there was someone else in the house, paying attention to me and what I did. There was always someone worried for me.
But now that I was alone, I realized what that really meant.
I sent Mom a quick text letting her know that I had arrived and that everything was okay and that my landlord was interesting. She’d responded with a smiley face emoji and said to call her if I needed her. I told myself that I didn’t need her. I was strong enough to do this.
Even though it was only midafternoon, I slipped the coral sheets that I had brought onto my small bed by the window, cursing under my breath for forgetting a comforter, and then changed into the old t-shirt Chris had given me and a pair of black gym shorts. I tucked myself into the soft sheets with my phone in hand. All I wanted to do was text Chris, like I would have if he were alive.
I wanted to tell him that the apartment was a mistake, and that going to Cape May for the summer was a mistake, and that I should’ve just stayed home with my family. That I would’ve been happier there. But Chris wasn’t there, and I couldn’t just text him like I was so used to doing. Since he had died, I would often find myself picking up the phone to text him, or call him, when I saw things he’d like or things I wanted to tell him.
But I couldn’t.
Not anymore.