Not Our Summer by Casie Bazay (android based ebook reader TXT) 📗

“Did he tell Jackie the same thing?”

She nods. “He told us both.”

“I wonder if she’s already been there.”

Mom purses her lips. “There’s no telling with her.”

On the far outskirts of Siloam Springs, we turn onto a gravel road, and a wave of nostalgia washes over me. We didn’t come to Grandpa’s often, but it makes me sad knowing I likely won’t ever be coming back here again. The Jeep rolls to a stop in front of the rusted red gate, and I jump out and open it so Mom can drive through. The grass along the driveway is tall and scraggly. Grandpa didn’t like to cut it. He said taller grass was a good habitat for all the insects, so he only kept the area right around his house mowed short. The small, brown clapboard house comes into view, and I swallow back the lump rising in my throat.

“How’re we gonna get in?” I ask.

A grim smile tugs at Mom’s lips. “I know where a spare key is.”

I hope she’s right; otherwise, we drove all the way out here for nothing.

She kneels beside the potted plant on the front porch and pokes her fingers into the dirt. Several seconds later, she pulls out a key and wipes it off on her jeans.

“That’s a strange place to keep a key.” Then again, it’s exactly something my grandpa would do.

The house still has the faint smell of chicken noodle soup, and I realize it’s a smell I’ll forever associate with this place. Mom flips on the living room lights, and we both wander around as if this is the first time we’ve ever been here. A thin film of dust covers the coffee table and TV cabinet, only adding to the deserted feeling of the house. Mom moves down the narrow hallway that leads to the two bedrooms, pausing to examine the pictures on the wall. I know them all by heart. There’s a prom picture with my mom and dad, and one of me from fifth grade. Another of K. J. around the same age with a weird, bowl-type haircut. A photo of Ricky in his karate uniform. Aunt Jackie’s senior picture in her cap and gown, and also an old family portrait. It’s the only one I’ve seen with my Grandma Charlotte—taken back before Grandpa developed agoraphobia and my mom and aunt were little pig-tailed girls.

“I don’t think Jackie’s been here yet,” Mom says quietly. She disappears inside Grandpa’s bedroom. I trail behind her but stop in the doorway, my hand resting against the doorframe. Mom touches the dresser and glances around the room. The bed is still unmade and dust motes dance through streams of light let in by the blinds.

“Is this where he died?”

Mom gives a solemn nod.

Something tugs hard inside my chest, seeing the last things Grandpa saw before he died. A weight settles over me as the reality of his death hits all over again. Right now, the whole Grand Canyon experience seems far away. I can’t be mad at Grandpa for making me do that while standing in his room. When I look back at Mom, tears glisten in her eyes. “Is there anything you want in here?” I ask her.

She moves toward the wall, where two framed handprints hang side-by-side. She takes the slightly larger one off the wall and holds it to her chest. We return to the hallway, and Mom takes the pictures of me and Ricky, but leaves all the others. I don’t have to question why she doesn’t take her prom picture. She hates my dad as much as she hates her sister. I’m surprised it’s managed to stay up there all these years.

While Mom goes back into the main part of the house, I step into the “Bug Room,” as we always called it. It was the room Mom and Jackie shared when they were kids, but now it’s filled with encased collections of insects, some hanging on the walls, others sitting on shelves or on the floor, leaning against the wall. My favorite has always been the butterfly collection, with the bright rainbow of colors and different-sized wings. Some look too beautiful to have been real, but I know they are. I was with Grandpa when he found a few of them. He was always careful to take dead or injured insects for his collections and just observe the ones that were still alive. The Entomological Society will be lucky to get all of these. He spent years working on them.

“You ready?” Mom calls, and I follow the sound of her voice. She’s back in the living room with two more items—a coffee mug she’d given Grandpa for Christmas one year and a painting my grandma made long ago. We step out onto the porch, and Mom locks the door before pushing the key back into the dry soil in the pot.

“Should we give that key to Mr. Sisco?” I ask, but she shakes her head.

“Jackie might still come.”

We climb into the Jeep in silence. Tears stream down both our faces as we travel along the bumpy driveway. I stare into the woods that Grandpa loved to spend his days scouring. When we stop, I get out to open the gate again. As I’m pushing it closed, I spot a walking stick insect clinging to the top rail, only a few inches away from my hand. Diapheromera femorata. I’m not sure if I learned the name in biology class or from Grandpa, not that it really matters. As I’m pushing the lock into place, the insect raises one of its spindly arms, almost as if in a wave. I suppose some girls might scream or be grossed out, but I just wipe away my tears and smile. I can’t think of a more fitting creature to bid me goodbye.

CHAPTER 11K. J.

FOR THE LAST FEW YEARS, I COULDN’T HAVE CARED less about