Chapter 1

PREFACE

 

     I move down the aisle, toward the stage.

     “Hello?”

     No answer. Nothing but the quiet hum of the screen. I stop in my tracks as goose bumps rise up my arms. Something isn’t right.

     “He’s not here. Just me,” a small voice says from the front of the theater and immediately my eyes scan for the source.

     A figure moves from a dark corner of the stage, slowly. My eyes strain to get a better look. Moving to center stage, underneath the obscure lighting, I immediately recognize her.

     No, something is definitely not right.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER 1

 

     I hate Kansas.

     Hate is a strong word. My distaste isn’t that intense, really. It’s nothing against Kansas, with its wide open prairies that expand until they seem to collide with the clouds. Lightening bugs, tall grass, wheat fields. Really, it is beautiful. Problem is my Kansas is none of that. It’s only everything I try so hard to let go of, but can’t seem to.

     Her question is about as pointless as they get. She already knows my answer. “No thanks, maybe next time,” I yell over my shoulder, trying to sound unaffected, as if she’s asked if I want to go to shopping or take a cooking lesson next week.

     I’ve been hiding out in the back of the RV all day, listening to tires treading pavement beneath me, doing a crossword puzzle in a bathroom reader I found this morning in the glove box. It has yellow ducks floating across the front claiming to be “The World’s Best Bathroom Reader!” Strange, but it’s provided hours of entertainment.

     From the passenger seat, Gram looks over her shoulder. “It’s not out of the way. You can take the car and be there in nine hours, at most. Avery, your mom would love to see you. I could go with you.”

     I don’t have to do this often but when I do, I hate every second of it. Gram can be so pushy when it comes to my relationship with my mother. She gets on this kick every couple of years where she tries to bring us together, thinking this will be the moment when everything clicks and we’ll all live happily ever after. It ends in disappointment every time and I’m not the only one left feeling it. I see it in Gram’s face after my mother leaves, when she’s the one left trying to mend things. Personally, I wish she’d just give up, accept the way things are. You would think my mother was her actual daughter, or at least her daughter-in-law by the way she pushes it, and not an old neighbor whose kids she and Grandpa fell in love with.

     I don’t want it to be this way, I don’t, but it feels like I’m some fragile bird that needs her mom to teach her to fly. I’m not, and thank goodness for it.

     I grab my bottle of water and head to the front of the RV to plop down on the center console, my unofficial spot. I want to look Gram in the eye so she knows that I mean what I’m saying. It’s the only way that ever works with her.

     “Thanks for the offer,” I say, moving yesterday’s newspaper aside and planting my butt in its place. “I thought about it, really, but no. I’m tired and I just want to get to there.” It isn’t a lie, I tell myself. I am tired " tired of this never ending road trip.

     We’ve been on the road for four days. Yes, four days of road tripping from our home in Gainesville, Florida, where we’ve lived since I was twelve. The University of Florida is a quick twenty-five minute drive away, past dozens of sprawling shopping centers and well kept subdivisions. I’ll start there in the fall, fulfilling my obligation to do something with my life. 

     From the passenger seat, Gram stares at me and I see her determination falter. I know I can relax.      

     As far as grandmas go, mine is a firecracker. She’s smart, opinionated, honest, and most of all, beautiful. It’s her smile. That wide, perfect smile that wins friends everywhere she goes. The kind that makes you do it in return, without even meaning to. It fills you up for a moment, leaving you to wonder just how empty you really are.     

     “Just as well. We’ll deal with it later,” she says, her styled, silver hair rustling against the seat as she shakes her head. She takes a weary glance at Grandpa, but he’s intently ignoring us. He likes the idea of visiting my mother as much as I do. He’s content behind the wheel, driving so slow that I’m sure it’s illegal.     

     Bored as I may be, I won’t offer to drive. Ever since the accident, Grandpa gets jumpy about safety. When he’s with me, I feel the tension in every push of the brake, every slight turn of the wheel. He has every right to feel that way, so I keep my mouth shut as a flitting image of dark hair and smiling, crooked teeth pass my thoughts. For a moment I can almost feel him beside me, his small hand in mine, the way it always used to be. Then he’s gone and all I’m left with is that familiar yearning in the pit of stomach.

     This is not the time, so I move my gum to the other side of my mouth and start chewing. It’s hard and rubbery and I know I should spit it out, but it’s the only thing keeping my thoughts from drifting into the dark. I lock my fingers together to keep still while I stare out the oversized windshield.

     We do this every summer, traveling in the RV since Grandpa’s retirement five years ago. We spend the season working, hosting and keeping grounds for various parks or campsites of my grandparents choosing. It’s their dream and I’m simply happy to come along.

     This summer we’re heading to the Great Sand Dunes National Park in southern Colorado, smack in the middle of the San Luis Valley. I’ve never heard of the place before, didn’t bother to research it either. I stopped doing that after our summer in the Black Hills, near Rushmore. I researched it so much that, while staring at the gigantic faces of our former presidents carved into stone, I felt like I had seen it all before.

     Grandpa, as usual, tries to lighten the mood. “Perfect timing, kiddo. We're only about twenty miles away. I thought you might stay in back and miss out on all this.” He smiles and uses his sleeve to wipe the sweat from his forehead from the mid afternoon sun that bears down through the window. It feels more like July, rather than the first day of June.

     How have I missed most of Colorado? Scanning the terrain, I can't believe I have wasted so much time in the back. The valley that surrounds us consumes everything. The earth is flat and dry, enclosed by walls of dark mountains that keep the rest of the world at bay. Each mountain terrain varies, revealing everything from barren, brittle rock, to shrouds of thick evergreen and aspen groves. It all seems so desolate, set amongst the dry San Luis Valley.

     I scan the area. “So, where are the dunes?” 

     Gram gestures ahead, toward the base of the tallest mountain, the one that’s a bit snowier than the rest. I haven’t seen snow since Kansas. “At the bottom. See that line of orangish-red?” 

     I strain my eyes and sure enough there, at the base, is a faint red haze. I lean forward and squint for a better look. “That’s it?” They look smaller than I thought they would be.

     “They’ll get bigger,” Grandpa says with a laugh.

     He’s right, every mile we drive closer to the park, the dunes seem to grow. They almost seem fake, like a mirage conjured up from the heat of the road. The sands, the color of sunset, melt into the valley at the base of the western slopes like an oversized orange blanket strewn across the range. I find I can barely take my eyes away.

     “Beautiful, isn’t it?” Grandma says. I can feel her looking at me.

     “It doesn’t look real,” I mutter, trying to digest my new summer home.  

     I only look away when I hear the blinker. “Home sweet home,” Granpa sings, as he slowly and carefully steers the RV into a wide gravel driveway. A few impatient vehicles whip onto the shoulder to pass, but he doesn’t notice. He never does.

     A crooked wooden plank hangs loosely on thick metal chains above the entrance. “The Lodge at the Great Sand Dunes Welcomes You,” is written in faded red letters. The Lodge, I’ve heard that name so many times. It's the place we’ve been talking about for the past month and a half, nonstop.

     The Lodge itself is a wide pine cabin, angled just off the road, with the sand dunes towering strangely behind it. The building is weathered, yet charming, blending in with its surroundings. Juniper trees speckle the area in sparse patches, providing little shade from in the diminishing sun.

     Two small children play outside an old RV, one of only three parked. They watch us pull up near the front, where a wraparound porch shades expansive windows, and I get that familiar feeling.

     It’s definitely beginning to feel like summer as my feet hit gravel, the three of us piling out into the warmth of the retreating sun. As I stretch my limbs, I notice an older couple already approaching from the rear of the building and I know it must be Mr. and Mrs. Jones, the owners. They look just as solemn as they sound over the phone, and twice as old. Long story short, they’ve owned the place for over a decade and have never left. Well into their golden years, they’ve decided that it’s time to stop taking care of people on vacation and become one, themselves.

#

     The sun has set behind the mountains, casting everything in red and purple by the time we’re done hooking up the RV. I unhook Gram’s car by myself and drag most of our belongings out of storage. By nine o’clock my grandparents are already in bed but I keep working. I pull out the last bit of lawn furniture and situate it under the awning of the RV where Gram likes to nap.

     When I’m finished, I roam around the Lodge to get a good look at our newest summer home. From what I can see in the dark, it’s typical of every place we’ve hosted so far. The public restrooms at the back of the building are cold and dark, with only one fluorescent bulb flickering over a row of sinks, and three shower stalls that smell like mildew. Next to it, the laundry room is barely big enough to hold two sets of ancient washers and dryers and a small plastic folding table. The dining hall makes up the rest of the Lodge, but it’s locked for the night, a shame since it’s where I will spend most of my time.

     It’s getting colder by the minute so I only glance at the twelve small log cabins that line the gravel road at the rear, built from the same light pine as the Lodge, with the same white shutters.

     The faint chatter of a family sitting outside a cabin fades away as I make my way back to the RV in the dark. I don’t want to go back to the solitude of the RV, but it’s cold and I’m restless to start a new day.

     In the doorway, the cool breeze blows gently through my hair as I take one last glance over my shoulder at my new and oddly captivating backyard, completely unaware of how this summer will change everything.

Author's Note

Sock it to me! Please don't hesitate to be honest. I can swallow criticism quite well. I am concerned about grammar, of course. I love that "duh, me" moment when something is found. Most of all, I would like to know how you feel when you finished these chapters.
I added the preface. Not sure if that is customary, or not?

Thank you so much for taking the time to read this. I feel so lucky to have found this outlet.

Reviews

[Maria Mercurio]

What question is she answering in the beginning? It threw me off a bit.
I love the description of the grandmother - gives a real sense of the character.
Also your depiction of the dunes to an orange blanket is just great.
Nice beginning - I can see myself where your character is - and understand she lives with her grandparents for various reasons.

A few spag issues:
It ends in disappointment every time(,) and I’m not the only one left feeling it.
I’m tired(,) and I just want to get to there.
Gram stares at me(,) and I see her determination falter.
Then he’s gone(,) and all I’m left with is that familiar yearning in the pit of stomach.
I notice an older couple already approaching from the rear of the building(,) and I know it must be Mr. and Mrs. Jones, the owners.
It’s getting colder by the minute(,) so I only glance at the twelve small log cabins that line the gravel road at the rear