One
From the darkness of my room, I could see the faint outline of the cliff rising above the layer of thick trees in the space between my home and the ocean. When I was younger, I used to climb to the top of the cliff. I no longer climb cliffs. I no longer seek adventure. That girl left eight years ago; in her place, I now exist.
I lowered my gaze. He was there—as he had been every night for the last two weeks. Why? Why did he watch our windows? He was a strange boy, though in truth he wasn’t a boy. He had turned eighteen the week after moving onto our property. That was three weeks ago.
I didn’t blame him for coming here; he had nowhere else to go. Did I blame Sam for bringing him here? This troubled boy who spent his evenings watching our windows. No, I decided I didn’t blame her, either. He was her nephew, the only child of her dead sister.
My face and body were shielded from his view by the long drapes which hung on either side of the glass panes. With the light off, he couldn’t see me. I took a step back when his face turned toward me, as if trying to determine which room was mine. My heart beat faster from fear and curiosity. Why was he there? Why was he always there?
He stood now and backed up into the shadows of the trees. He’d spend a few more minutes there and then disappear into the woods between my home and his.
Sam and her husband, Jason, lived on our land. Jason’s parents were squatters, the land their son and his family now occupied stolen from my grandparents. Jason’s parents were never any good—or so I was told—but Jason was different. He was good, and so was Sam. They were like family. Their nephew was not. He was a threat. A threat they brought into our sanctuary, the one place in this world I used to feel safe.
My grandparents built the house this troubled boy now lived in, on the land which would one day be mine and my sisters’. I was used to threats and attacks from the outside world, but not from within my sacred space. It’s why I hid here.
The rest of the world had proven its evil and danger when it took my mother from me. I didn’t recognize the danger then, as my father did. He was wise to see it, wise to protect us. I was nine, too young to understand.
Now, at seventeen, I knew the outside world was not a place I wanted to be.
At times I wondered if I was hiding. That’s what my grandmother thought. She didn’t approve of the way my father was raising us. She thought we should be out spending time with others our age, or at least not hiding in our castle. But she was wrong. She didn’t understand. No one could understand.
Yes, her mother had died when she was young. She died of sickness, not murder. Losing the one you love most to violence … is not something that ever leaves you.
In that small way, the troubled boy, Luca, and I had something in common. I lost my mom to the violence of another, and he lost his to his mother’s violence against herself. Did it matter if the person who killed the one you loved was the same one you loved? Yes, I decided.
His wound went deeper.
I held no anger toward my mother. Only regret that she was serving at the food pantry that day—no, it wasn’t her fault.
Luca couldn’t say the same about his mother; her death was her choice.
“A car accident,” was all we were told at first. Sam was too upset to tell us more. Once the body was buried and Luca was here, Sam told my grandmother the truth. Gigi told us later. She wasn’t the sort of grandmother to keep secrets from us. I was grateful for that. She spoke her mind. A suicide note had been found, and Sam was devastated her sister had left Luca alone in the world. Sam also blamed herself for not being closer to her sister. They were different, she had explained, and separated from one another long ago.
It was true, Gigi added when she relayed the story to us. No one from Sam’s family came to their wedding. And in all the years since their wedding, Sam only mentioned once to Gigi that she had a sister and a nephew in Florida. Gigi said she asked once, and Sam changed the subject. That thought brought me peace in some strange way.
Sam hadn’t been involved in Luca’s life. How could she know he was the type of guy who stared at girls’ windows? No, this wasn’t her fault.
I stepped in front of the glass, my breath creating a film of fog on the panes closest to my mouth. He was gone now, crept back to his house.
I drew the drapes; the heavy material covered all three windows. The thickness of the fabric helped block both the light and the cold. I touched the stone wall beside the drapes and pulled my hand away. As beautiful as the stone walls were, they were not good at keeping out the cold that overwhelmed Maine for most of the year. That’s why my father and mother had drywall and insulation added to most of the rooms of the house. This room had not originally been my room and, so, did not have these modern additions. When Avila, the youngest of us, was born, I lost my room to her and moved to one closer to my grandmother. I preferred the look of the stone, and this room came with its own fireplace, which more than made up for the lack of drywall.
I turned the lights on and opened my bedroom door. I had kept it closed so I could watch Luca without my being watched.
From the hallway, Avila popped into my room.
“You scared me,” I said, holding a hand to my chest.
She laughed. “Siena, you scare so easy.”
“Maybe I do, maybe I don’t,” I countered.
“Oh, please, you are the biggest scaredy-cat I know!”
“You’re eight. You don’t know that many people,” I said, teasing her. Her words didn’t hurt me. They were the truth, and I didn’t hide from the truth.
“I know plenty of people,” she protested with a shake of her head. Her wavy red hair was a tangled mess, as always.
“Did you come to the other side of the house just to scare me, or was there some other reason?” I said, kindly.
“Oh yeah, I forgot. Want to watch a movie with us?”
“What’re you watching?” I asked.
“Gigi said she wants Sound of Music,” Avi answered.
Of course, that’s what my grandmother picked. It was her favorite, and we watched it at least once a month.
“No, thanks,” I said. “I need to get some schoolwork done.”
“Are you sure?” she said, making her eyebrows move up and down in the goofy way she did.
It was impossible not to smile when Avi was around. She was the life of our family.
“I’m sure, but thank you.”
“All right,” she said, skipping off. “I’ll tell them.”
She was a baby when Mom died, and had no true memory of her. Only memories her mind created after hearing stories of our mother. I supposed that was both good and bad. She never had a chance to experience a normal life, and she grieved for a mom she never knew. It had to be better than grieving for a mom you did know and losing a life you once had.
When our mom died, I had been a regular fourth-grade kid. I went to school, played soccer, had friends. After her death, all of that changed. Lisieux, who had been in the first grade, and I began being homeschooled. We never went back to soccer. Even now, the ball, deflated after years of neglect, sat in the garage.
Right after Mom died, Dad wouldn’t let the three of us out of his sight—terrified he’d lose us too. After a year or so of us staying home, except to go to church, I got used to the silence. I no longer wanted to be with friends; their concerns were so trivial. I couldn’t relate and stopped trying. They were no better; they couldn’t understand what life without a mother was like and they didn’t try. They took their moms for granted. I had no patience for that and I told them so—which marked the true beginning of my seclusion.