Homebound Read online

  In Lake Redwood, there is a big hill leading up from its namesake, and a vast splatter of green trees just outside of the downtown area, where I grew up. Beyond that, it’s broad prairie land, only interrupted by a single highway and farmland.

  “How long has it been since you’ve been home, Connie?” Ethan asks.

  “A few years,” I reply. “Last time was right after graduating from college, and it was just for a week.”

  “I don’t know why you stayed away so long. It was boring here without you,” Beth says, typing away on her phone. “Mom and Dad are shocked about your Mark, by the way.”

  “Geez, Beth! You couldn’t let me tell them?”

  She shrugs, smiling sheepishly. “I didn’t realize it was a secret. They’re happy for you.”

  “Great. Awesome.” I glance up at the back of Ethan’s head, then away. I haven’t seen him in ten years; he’s basically a stranger. I don’t want to start arguing with him here.

  “They’re out right now, but they said they’ll be home in about half an hour.”

  Good. Gives me time to get my bearings.

  We pull up to my parents’ house. It’s an old Victorian home, with yellow paint and white trim, complete with a white picket fence. As always, it looks perfect. As always, it makes my stomach tighten in knots. Ethan pulls up the driveway to the disconnected garage.

  We get out, and immediately a mosquito lands on me. Scowling, I swipe it away. I forgot how many mosquitoes live here. I consider leaving my sleeve down for the extra protection, but the humidity is getting to me. Ethan’s car does not have very good AC.

  Ethan pops the trunk, and we start unloading my bags from it while I thank them for their help. Ethan slides one suitcase toward me, and I bend down to grab it, arms outstretched.

  He jerks back.

  Immediately, I wince as his head smacks against the roof of his trunk. He yelps, grabbing the back of his head as he curls in on himself, slowly maneuvering away from the roof into the safety of the open air.

  “You okay?” I ask, but Beth rushes over, crying, “Geez, Ethan! Here, let me see!”

  “I’m fine,” he grits out, but bends forward anyway and uncovers his head slowly so she can see.

  “I don’t think I see any blood,” she observes. I glance at the two of them, then take a step back. Poor Beth.

  “Mom and Dad probably have some ice, right?” I ask her, turning my attention to my things as I pull the last suitcase out and carefully close the lid of the trunk.

  “Good idea. I’ll be right back.”

  I was actually implying that I’d go get some, but oh well. I busy myself with pulling the handles up out of the suitcases, throwing my duffel bag over one and my backpack over another, trying to figure out how best to balance everything. After a moment, I realize it’s quiet between me and Ethan. I don’t think we’ve ever had silence between us before. Even if we weren’t necessarily talking to each other, Beth was always there, chattering away.

  “She’s taking a while,” Ethan says after a few minutes.

  “Probably checking which fridge has the ice. If Mom’s still the same, she’s probably still hoarding food.” I rub my arm, then pause. I forgot about my Mark. Immediately, despite the humidity, I roll my sleeve down as if hiding it will make it fade away.

  He chuckles weakly. That impact must have really hurt. “Gotcha. Yeah, my mom’s the same way.”

  “How is Mrs. Perry?” Ethan’s mom had him later in life, so since she was older, and I knew her when I was so young, I always called her Mrs. despite the fact that I could probably call her by her first name now that I’m an adult. I used to help clean their house since she struggled with MS. It gave me a little extra money, and she was surprisingly good company.

  Ethan’s blue eyes flash to mine. Some people with blue eyes have shades that are too empty and pale, or too bright and cold. His have always been a warm summer sky blue, the type that kept me from ever being too terribly upset over his taunts when I was a child. It’s a well-meaning look, and suddenly he’s not a stranger, not entirely, not anymore.

  For a moment, I remember a time when I adored looking in his eyes. It’s like it was a dozen lifetimes ago.

  “Her MS has made walking basically impossible now, but otherwise she’s doing good,” he says after a moment, like he’s searching for something in me that I don’t know whether to share or hide. “She’ll be happy to see you if you feel like dropping by.”

  “You live with her still?”

  “Yeah. But I’m working a couple of jobs while I finish up my college credits, so I’m not a total loser.”

  My lips quirk up. “Nice. What are you going for?”

  “Education, but I don’t want to teach. I want to help create textbooks or other learning tools.”

  “Really?”

  He nods. “For math, preferably. Everything’s straightforward with equations.”

  “Are they?” I ask, pursing my lips.

  His smile is a little less shaky, now. “Oh yeah, I always had to help you with your math homework, didn’t I?”

  “At least I did mine. Beth just copied yours.”

  He snorts. “True.” Ethan looks away, then says, “Sooo, you’re Marked, huh?”

  I frown. “Yeah,” I grumble.

  “Don’t sound too excited.”

  “Did you have a girlfriend when you got Marked?”

  “No. I didn’t really see anyone in high school, and I didn’t have much time to date in the military.”

  “Oh. Well, Greg and I weren’t - aren’t - one of those couples who just get together in the meantime until you get Marked. We honestly thought we weren’t getting ours. And…he never did, so…”

  We hear a crashing sound. We both turn to the house, but it’s probably just Beth being Beth. She’s remarkably clumsy, and if it’s anything like I remember, the house is remarkably cluttered. We remain standing.

  “You really like him, then.”

  I glance at Ethan. He’s not looking at me, though, just across the yard, where a squirrel is skittering across the grass. “I love him,” I say firmly. “And I think it’s stupid that a random tattoo on my arm is going to ruin that.”

  “Even if you might be happier with your soulmate?” he asks carefully.

  “Not possible,” I say. “I hate him, and I don’t even know him.”

  He hums in acknowledgment just as Beth throws open the screen door. “I found peas!” she declares.

  “Mom and Dad don’t have any ice?” I ask.

  “Looked in all four freezers—”

  “They have four now?”

  “—and nope.”

  Beth tosses it to Ethan, who catches it seamlessly. “Thanks,” he says, pressing it gingerly against the back of his head. He winces, then settles. “Listen, I should probably get going. See you, Connie.”

  “Bye.”

  He and Beth hug, which I purposely look away for. It’s just depressing, knowing he’s Marked and she’s not.

  As Ethan opens his car door, I remember my manners. “Hey, Ethan!”

  He turns to me.

  I smile a little. I might be in a rotten mood, but I don’t want to be a complete jerk. “Thanks for the ride.”

  He stares at me a little bit, like a robot being reprogrammed. Then he grins brightly. “You’ve really gotten manners in the past few years, kid.”

  “I’m not a kid anymore. I’m a professional working woman, thank you.”

  His grin fades a little. “Noted.”

  He waves, and Beth helps me lug in my stuff as he walks away.

  Chapter 3

  Things go about as well with my parents as I’d expect.

  Mom flies in from work with a whirlwind of questions and an immediate desire to redecorate my old bedroom, which was serving - and, I suppose, still serves - as the guest room. I never know how she has this much energy. Beth must take after her. I mean, Mom’s a secretary - well, administrative assistant - so one would think she’
d be out of words by the time her day’s over. But one would be wrong.

  Dad is a bit of a grump, and I guess I take after him. He gives me a brief hug that feels brittle and cold, and he immediately goes foraging through the kitchen, looking for something to eat. Their Marks remain hidden under nice shirts.

  We end up having dinner together, which is not something we did often when I was growing up. It’s probably because it’s the first night all four of us are in town. I’ll be surprised if it keeps up by the time Beth goes back to her apartment tomorrow, even just with my parents and me.

  Mom mentions Greg only once, just a, “Who were you seeing, again, before you got your Mark?” She’s been dreaming of this day, the day when one of her girls got their Mark and rode off into the sunset. Like it did so much for her.

  “I’m still seeing Greg,” I return, keeping my tone even.

  “Well, that’s hardly fair to your soulmate, now, is it, Connie?”

  I almost choke on my food, but I do choke on a lump in my throat. Just like when I was a kid, just like always, really, I feel that old sensation of my skin being too tight for my body, my bones tightening over my lungs.

  I shove it down, merely asking her the name of the recipe she used. I don’t think she realizes I don’t cook.

  Despite being wide awake, I bid everyone goodnight early on. It’s a relief to enter my room and shut the door behind me. My bedroom has become dull since I moved out, a generic quilt resting on top of the full mattress, the heavy metal posters replaced by gentle platitudes of “Keep Dreaming” and “Home Is Where the Heart Is”. Usually, I’m the type of person that just dumps clothes on the floor, then hopes and prays no one notices my wrinkles at work. Tonight, I have so much nervous energy that I hang them immediately in the closet, shoving my suitcases one inside the other like one of those Russian dolls and pushing them under the bed. As I take out my laptop and chargers and toiletries from my backpack, the room feels a little like my own again. I’m not into heavy metal anymore, at least not as much, and I’m certainly no grandmother. This feels more like mine. The energy dies down, appeased.

  After brushing my teeth and throwing on my nightgown, I throw myself upon the bed. Immediately, I grab my phone and check for messages. There aren’t any. I send Greg a simple Goodnight and turn off my lamp.

  * * *

  I’m surrounded by children. I should be weirded out; I’m not good with kids. But I hug them close and look up at their father. Greg holds out his arms, and they rush up to him. I can’t stop my joy.

  It fades away.

  I wake gradually, and as I do so, the joy is replaced by something else, something that strengthens with every breath. My eyes squint in the darkness, and to my horror, they start to grow damp. I’m slipping down, down, down, and I don’t know how to climb up out of this, or if I want to.

  I swear to God, I can see my Mark glowing in the darkness, taunting me.

  Greg and I had been talking about marriage. Greg isn’t the type of person who talks about something if it’s not firmly on his mind.

  My future, which had been as wide and clear as the sea, has been snuffed out.

  I’m going to marry some stranger, maybe pop out a few kids, and die miserable. I mean, look at my genes. The media wants to portray that soulmates are oh-so-happy, but my parents are far from it. I doubt they even sleep in the same bed anymore.

  Ew. Abolish that thought, brain.

  Sighing, I grab my phone. My hope had been that I’d relax and sleep hard and well throughout the night, but clearly that isn’t going to happen. I’d gone to bed at nine, and it’s only 10:30.

  I lay there for a long time, playing solitaire and Diner Dash on my phone before watching various gaming videos on YouTube, chuckling a little despite myself as the players rage at each other and the game itself. After a while, it occurs to me that maybe I should just give up on sleeping at all. Besides, it isn’t NYC. It’s Lake Redwood. I could wander for hours at this time and probably not even feel the inkling to take out my pepper spray.

  The house has much thicker walls than I’m used to from apartment living, so I creep into the shower without worrying that my family will wake up. Besides, I used to sneak out all the time as a kid, and in some of my less-coordinated moments, I’d thumped against something or other, one time knocking over a ton of books. I hadn’t woken up anyone then. I’m sure I’ll be safe now from disturbing anyone, especially since my room and bathroom are on the other side of the house from the master bedroom and my sister’s room.

  The warm water helps relieve some of the tension as I relish in it, scrubbing my scalp and shaving for the first time in a week. I used to hate it if even a stray hair remained near my ankles when I shaved every day. Lately, I hadn’t cared what I looked like. But it feels good now to clean myself up a bit, wash away the stress. I pour some body wash into my hand and start rubbing it everywhere - my legs, my arms -

  My Mark.

  Dizziness and nausea slowly sweep over me. The shower is too confining. While I can still breathe, and I know I still can, my throat clogs up with invisible nothingness. The familiar panic surges up through me, but I just make myself wash up faster rather than shutting off the water and stepping out. I know there isn’t anything physically wrong with me.

  “Knock it off,” I growl to myself, as if scolding a noisy dog.

  I hurry up as quickly as I can, feeling the humid air grow thick and heavy around me. Within a minute, the water shuts off, I step out, and I dry myself off before sitting down against the tub and wrapping the towel like a safety blanket around me. Before long, despite the fact that the room is much warmer than my apartment, I start shivering. But I can’t move. I practice my breathing. Deep breath—one, two—and exhale—one, two.

  I tap my fingers on my lap. Staying here crippled isn’t the best idea. If I can move my fingers, I can move my hand—I shake it to prove it to myself. And if I can move my hands, I can shake out my arm. I continue until I get my entire body up and off the damp mat, wiping myself one more time before donning some capris and a t-shirt. I even bother to put in small hoop earrings, the most I’d decked myself out in what felt like five lifetimes. It makes me feel better, somehow, seeing myself looking like this. Like I’m normal. Like my entire life hasn’t just hit the fan. Like I’m average Abby, lounging around on a Saturday evening, getting ready to destroy her boyfriend at the new Super Smash Bros.

  And really, if we’ve survived this many Super Smash Bros. tournaments, we should be able to survive this.

  After brushing my hair and teeth, I decide this is good enough. Now that I can move, I can act on my instinct to escape—at least, as much as I can at the moment. I can’t take a trip halfway across the country every time I feel like I’m losing my grip.

  I decide to go for a walk instead.

  Chapter 4

  It’s silly, but I climb out my window.

  Which is stupid, especially now that I’m older and there’s no way I’d get in trouble for leaving the house this late at night so I might as well use the front door. But I’d always snuck out this way. The branches of the tree in the backyard have only grown thicker over the years, and I just want to feel like I’m 17 again. I don’t want to think about soulmates or Marks or what awaits me in New York when I go back in three weeks - well, two weeks and six days. I just want to relax again.

  So I climb out of my bedroom window, just to see if I still can, my purse draped across my body. I’d done this dozens of times in the past, but it’s been so long that as I step out onto the roof, a jolt of fear rushes through me.

  When I was little, I used to watch Pollyanna, which is funny in hindsight because I’m nothing like the main character except for maybe our hair color. Anyway, at some point she falls after trying to sneak out - or maybe sneak in? - and becomes paralyzed. Even though this really should be a memory that latched onto me when I was a teenager and doing this all the time, it only comes up now. Sliding across the roof toward the tree branch
, I visualize myself slipping and splattering on the ground. Well, I won’t splatter. Our second floor isn’t that high up. But maybe if I fall the wrong way I’ll hit my head on the stone path down below leading through my mom’s garden, and -

  “Calm down, Doyle,” I tell myself, shifting carefully onto the branch and shuffling closer to the trunk. The tree is bulkier than I remember, and my hands no longer have the callouses needed to make this less painful. But it feels good to do something, my damp hair drying in the breeze. Soon, even though I’m still tense, my movements become more certain. It’s only a minute later before my feet land on the ground, grass dampening my sneakers from a brief rainstorm I slept through.

  The quiet is a little unnerving, even though it’d be weirder for there to be a commotion in Lake Redwood. Years of living in New York have made the noise of the city my lullaby. Maybe that’s also why I couldn’t fall back asleep. It’s not totally silent here, though. Insects buzz and chirp as I move toward the front of the house and down the driveway. I could probably see if my old bike is still in the garage, but I’m not in the mood to try and pump the tires if it is. Instead, I let the soft footfalls of my sneakers against the pavement fill my ears and let the slight chill in the breeze relax me.

  I make a left when I leave the driveway, walking down the broken sidewalk toward the shops. Maybe I can go to a bar. O’Malley’s is probably still open. I used to sneak in with a few of my friends back in high school to snag some drinks from some legal young adults, but Mr. Walter O’Malley (known to everyone as Mr. Walter; Mr. O’Malley was his dad) always caught us and sent us on our way before we got more than a few sips. Although now that I think about it, I’m pretty sure Nick Keith always got at least a few gulps. He guzzled beer like he was a fish rediscovering water. In any case, after we were kicked out, we would usually smoke a few joints by the lake.