I head for the front door, again bracing myself for the pranksters to reveal themselves. Either that, or I’m locked in by some deranged kidnapper who’s wearing Renner’s face and imitating his voice. I turn the knob as the chilling possibility sets in. It’s open. I’m not being kept in this adorable home against my will. That’s a good sign. I squint into the sunlight as my bare feet hit the cool concrete of the shaded front porch.
I recognize the Craftsman style of the surrounding homes with their cute little porches and posh blend of siding and stone. Shiny, gleaming cars line each driveway.
I walk into the grass, relishing the cool morning dew against my blistered feet. It’s only then that I realize my feet aren’t aching anymore. In fact, the massive blisters on both baby toes are nonexistent. I lift my right foot, running a finger over what was previously a bloody, wounded heel. It’s perfectly smooth. My blisters are gone, even though I was cringing when I put my shoes on this morning. Unless . . . unless it’s no longer Wednesday? What day is it?
A man with a tiny Yorkie wearing bright-yellow booties strolls by and eyes me sideways, probably because I’m examining my feet in public while sporting silk short-shorts. I ignore him and head to the edge of the lawn to get a better look at the street sign. Bois Court. I’m in Kassie’s neighborhood. We’re in the cul-de-sac down the street from Renner’s place.
Nothing makes sense except my overwhelming urge to go home, crawl into bed, and avoid reality. So I run. Barefoot.
I only make it a couple strides before I hear Renner. “Where are you going?” he calls from the end of the driveway. He’s wearing joggers now, though he’s still shirtless.
“Home!” I shout into the wind, not bothering to linger.
I know this route well. I’ve been to and from Kassie’s a million times. I break into a jog whenever I pass by Old Lady Brown’s house on the next corner. She’s a miserable woman who spends her days screeching at passersby and journaling life’s injustices in her “disappointments diary,” which she’s requested to have published after her death. A massive oak tree has practically eaten up her entire yard. The shadow of the spindly branches scares the shit out of me at night.
As I round the corner toward the house, I come to a full stop in the middle of the street. The tree is gone. Am I losing it? Am I forgetting which house had the scary tree? I question my sanity until I spot the disturbing cloth doll that always sat in the window. It’s definitely the same house. As much as that tree spooked me, the lawn looks like a barren wasteland without it.
A horn pierces the air and a fancy car lurches to a stop a few feet from flattening me. “Watch where you’re going, lady!” a red-faced old man hollers out the window.
Lady? Who does he think he’s talking to?
As Mr. Road Rage peels off, I note that there’s barely any sound. No loud revving of an engine. Now that I think of it, the cars in the driveways look different—sleeker, somehow. This is a middle-class neighborhood, not a high-end, luxury-car kind of neighborhood.
Even more confused, I pick up the pace to a full tilt.
I’m a sweaty mess when my street comes into view. It’s lined with smaller, older brick bungalows.
Mom’s sedan isn’t in the driveway. A collection of wilted red and yellow spring tulips catches my eye. Those weren’t there before. I try to open the door, but it’s locked. I peer through the window into the living room, but the blinds are drawn.
Maybe she’s at work. The pharmacy is at least a fifteen-minute walk and I’ve sufficiently tired myself out. I head to the backyard to grab Mom’s bike since mine is still being repaired.
The shed leans slightly. I don’t recall it being in such rough shape. Maybe the recent windstorm knocked it over. I peer in. Mom’s silver bike is propped against the shed wall. Upon closer inspection, it’s almost rusted over. I wheel it into the driveway and timidly hop on, bracing for it to collapse under my weight. When it doesn’t, I pedal as fast as my legs will take me.
I don’t even bother to lock the bike when I get to the pharmacy. Stacey, Mom’s longtime coworker, is behind the counter, rooting through the prescription bags in the pickup bin. She’s changed her hairstyle since last week. What used to be a brunette angled bob is now a sassy pixie cut streaked with gray.
“Stacey, it’s you,” I huff, resting both elbows on the counter.
She leans back slightly, probably scared I’ll drip sweat on her. Then she peers over the counter, appraising my PJ shorts, as well as my bare feet, which are now black from my journey here. “Are you okay, Charlotte? Do you need to sit down?”