Paraplegic (COMPLETED)

Chapter 18

The entire drive to the Ardenaux's house, I silently beg and plead for some unlikely event to take place that will prevent us from seeing them: a flat tire, a spontaneous tornado, August breaking out into hives. I'd even be happy if King Kong himself fell out of the sky and blocked the roadway.

None of those things happened. Obviously.

We pull up to James and Parker's house; a quaint, little yellow cottage-style house with sky blue shutters bordering every window, nestled between a forest full of pine trees and a pond in the backyard that always had far too much algae for Aurora and me to swim in. The memories that I've tried so hard to suppress instantly come flooding back, as do the tears.

Mother lowers the ramp and guides me down it, somehow knowing I don't have the energy to do it on my own. My arms feel as if they're tied to one-hundred-pound bowling balls; I can hardly lift them on top of the wheels. Maybe it's just a side effect from surviving Desiree's boot camp, or maybe it's because I fear the conversation that's sure to come when we enter that house. Either way, mother continues to push me towards the front door, following father and August closely.

Everything looks the same: the flowerbed that Aurora and I picked lilacs from every spring, the porch swing we sat on while we drank Parker's homemade lemonade each summer, and the maple tree we sat under as the red and orange leaves rained down on us in the fall. But everything isn't the same. Aurora isn't here.

There's a series of odd-shaped stones placed on the grass in a sporadic pattern leading up to the porch. The wheels of my chair climb up the ridge of each stone, then drop off on the other side, repeating the process and making for a very bumpy ride. If I wasn't so emotionally vacant right now, I would probably be irritated.

At the base of the stoop, father curls one hand around the armrest and the other on the wheel, while mother does the same to the other side of the chair. With a slight heave, they hoist me up and over the two porch steps. August stands to the side, curiously watching while sucking his cherry Tootsie-Pop, eagerly waiting to devour the chocolate center.

Father presses a finger to the doorbell; my heart plummets to my stomach as I hear it ring on the other side of the door. A moment later, James slowly opens the door. His image is a little distorted from the screen door in front of him, but I don't need a magnifying glass to see the agony that's burned into his face. He forces a small smile; one that clearly says a lot of effort is required. "Thank you all for coming. Please, come in." He shoves the screen door open and we enter.

No. No! You can't do this. You can't! You killed their daughter. You killed her! Why are you even here, McKenzie? How could you have the nerve to show your face here ever again? You don't deserve to be alive. You don't deserve it! You should have never come here.

James nods at each one of us as we pass through the front door; his eyes seem to linger as they meet mine. I tear my gaze away from his, unable to bear the misery that swarms inside his hooded eyes.

It doesn't look like they've changed things around much since I was last here. The walls are the same mint and crème color, only a little dirtier from years of being lived in, and the beige colored carpet is a bit more worn than I remembered. Over the recent years, Aurora spent more time at my house than I did hers, mainly because we have more space. But the early part of our childhood was spent here in this house.

A pile of cardboard boxes is stacked in the corner of the room. A few of the boxes are open and I can see household items and other personal belongings protruding from the open flaps.

Are they moving?

James motions for mother and father to sit on a floral pattern sofa, while he takes a seat on an old, wooden chair. Most of their furniture looks like it came from a secondhand shop. August, still sucking on his Tootsie-Pop, sits down on the carpet and I roll up next to him in my chair. No one speaks for a long while. James exchanges empty glances with mother, then father, then me, but quickly looks away. He can't bear to look at me. I probably disgust him.