The Truth About That Summer

fifty-three

The rest of the week followed the predictable pattern I've become so familiar with over the handful of years since Casey passed.

Nightmares. No sleep. A lot of ruminating on the things I can't change.

But today, today is the worst. Not just because it's his actual birthday, but because my parents have come to visit. Mom says it's important to be together on days like these.

Days like these.

Glaring out the window of the backseat of Mom's SUV, my gut clenches as we pull onto our old street. She thought it'd be a good idea to drive by our old house.

I told her it wouldn't be. What's seeing a bunch of wood and stone, a new family inside it, to make matters worse, going to do for us?

I've been avoiding our old street all summer and it's been easy enough to do as it's a pretty private neighborhood. Simply driving through, catching sight of Mr. Jimenez in his slippers, grabbing the daily paper, or Jane, the nanny down the street, cleaning the yard of her charges' toys, brings back a swell of emotions.

And when we pull in front of the house, my heart aches, taking in the sight of the large beach house. Because it's not just wood and stones - it's our home. The one where I spent the summers, growing up with my brother.

"We should go inside." Mom turns in the drivers seat, eyes urgently scanning my face.

"Are you nuts?" I roll my eyes, staring through the front windows of the home, nearly exposing the entire living room to us. Mom loved natural light. "Someone else lives there now, we can't."

A teenage boy lounges across the sofa, feet up on the cushions. I wonder for a moment, if he took Casey's old room, the thought making me nauseous immediately.

"They won't mind." Mom shakes her head, grabbing Dad's forearm as he silently looks through the passenger window. "Given the circumstances, and everything."

As if Casey's death gives us a pass to do what we want, when we want to. I roll my eyes again.

At Mom's request, Dad removes his seatbelt and slips out of the car. They wait for me, eyeing me expectantly until I shake my head.

"I'm not going." It's not a question.

Expression souring into a scowl, Mom decides not to argue, simply turning on her heel and marching up the front walkway as though she still owns the place. Dad follows, like the sad, lost puppy he's become.

I watch as she raises a manicured hand to knock at the door. Three times. Aggressive.

The teenage boy appears a moment later, followed soon after by a man who can only be his father given their similarities, and watching the shared confusion between them finally makes me look away.

When I turn back, my parents are no where to be seen, the front door closed again.

Mom always gets what she wants.

My eyes trail to the side yard, a narrow strip of grass really, pushed all the way to a white fence lining the entire property. Dad did a better job keeping the grass alive, it's now a faded yellow, the blades stiff and dried out.

Curiosity, I convince myself, leads me to unbuckle myself and hop out of the SUV, carefully closing the door behind me. I follow the grass path into the backyard, finding the tree house instantly at the far corner.

I step forward, the dry lawn itchy against the sides of my feet, but get stuck in a memory, unable to approach any closer.

I'm in our childhood treehouse, surfing posters plastered to the walls, board games lining the shelves, and a big multicolored rug covering the dusty, planked floor.