That smell.

            I hate that smell.

            A combination of burning leaves, melting snow, and the lingering chemical scent of the paper processing plant that lies on the very farthest outskirts of town. Far enough away that you can't see it from Main Street, but not far enough to free us from that unwavering stench.

 

             The windows of the car are up, but I push the buttons anyway, hoping to close whatever microscopic crack that could let more of the aroma in. While the assault on my sense of smell is unsettling enough, my concern is how my body reacted the second the first waft hit. Like a punch to the sternum, forcing the air from my lungs, causing me to hunch over the steering wheel, hands firmly gripped at ten and two. The way the essence evokes hundreds of vivid memories upon impact always staggers me. I was here a week ago, and the fact that my reaction is exactly the same is unnerving. Shouldn't it have dulled at least somewhat having happened so recently?

            I guess the answer is no. No, once again, as before, I am sucked into my brain, cluttered with pictures from my childhood. Playing in the back yard of my parent’s house, chasing after a new kitten. Standing at the bus stop, huddled underneath my adequately warm, yet hideously unfashionable winter coat. Uncomfortably perched on metal bleachers watching a pep rally before a big game.

            But with those memories come the deeper connections and the coinciding emotions. The new kitten that my sister Gracie claimed as hers, and I wasn't allowed to play with ever after that day in the back yard. The coat that the other kids waiting for the school bus never ceased in mocking me for wearing. The pep rallies that I loathed attending, forced to sit on frozen metal while watching cheerleaders and football players, all engrossed in their private world of awesomeness, lapping up every drop of attention from the rest of us lowly, non-peppy students.

            The smell whips me back to those moments, and even though it has been a decade or more since their conception, I am suddenly experiencing every accelerated heartbeat, every butterfly in my stomach, every rush of sweat on my palms as though I was back in the moment, reliving the humiliation and disappointment. My first instinct is to rehash the anger I carry for those people, the ones from who the torment flowed, but I am always sidetracked by mentally kicking myself for being pathetic enough to hold on to that crap for over ten years. The fact that I have allowed each of those people to cast a shadow over my adult life is frustrating, and yet somehow still unavoidable.

            I can't believe I am back here. I don't want to be here. The only reason I have even come back to visit since the second I graduated was for Grams. And now she is gone. Which is ironically why I am here, driving down this painfully familiar roads, back to my home town.

            I miss Grams. She has only been gone a week, and it aches appropriately. The one soft spot within my traditionally hard as granite familial relationships. We were a team, the only two who seemed to get the inside joke. Everyone knew it, and resented us for it. If they couldn't get along with anyone at all, how were she and I able to actually be friends, and love each other? Never mind that it never occurred to any of them to actually be nice to her or me. No, we took our places as the black sheep with pride, rolling our eyes and snickering as they passed their judgments, and moved about with meteor sized chips on their shoulders.

            The funeral was a hideous blow up of it all. My mother and two aunts had stood united in the sudden glare of the public eye, presenting the illusion that they were dedicated children, torn apart by the loss of their beloved mother. Lies of course. None of them had even been to visit her in the last three years, no phone calls on Mother's Day, no cards on her birthday, no visits during the holidays. They were just happy she went quietly in her sleep at her own home, as opposed to dragging out in a hospital where they would have been forced to show up for appearances sake. Even worse, should she have needed to go to a home, and depleted their inheritance! Once the call had been made, she had been found by a neighbor the next morning, it set forth an embarrassing show of "Who loved her more?".

            It all skidded to an abrupt stop after the burial. We all convened back at Grams home, surrounded by people from town, those who actually did appreciate Ida Emerson, and family members who were eyeing anything valuable lying around in hopes of staking their claims before the rest of the piranha descended. I barely noticed a face there. People would walk past me, offering condolences, I knew most of them I was sure, but I couldn't make eye contact, let alone pay attention to their words. I look back and wonder who all I had run into, but haven't the faintest memory of?

            If losing the most important person in my world wasn't jarring enough, what happened as I raced to leave my apartment to catch my plane certainly did the job.

            They stood there, watching me, keeping their distance, I thought to give me the space I needed before I lost it. I was hurt by the lack of comfort from them both, but I justified it in my head that they just didn't know how to behave around my loss.

            The reality was that Carmen and Eric had been sleeping together, and for quite some time, and that tends to present the aura of guilt.

            I was darting around, looking for my plane ticket, too busy to allow myself tears for Grams just yet, when they moved together in front of me.

            "Max, we need to talk to you.” Eric began.

            "Guys, really I'm fine," I insisted, not really paying attention, "But could you help me find my ticket? I am going to miss my flight."

            "Listen, we were going to tell you the other day, but then Grams died, which was really bad timing.” I thought that her dying at any time was bad timing, but hey, that's me. "And we decided to wait until you got back, but we don't think we should have to live with the guilt anymore just because you have a lot going on."

            I was sorting through a stack of bills, hoping that maybe my ticket had wandered in the pile. My stress level had retarded the absorption of the sentence, but I remember feeling stung by the words, not really knowing why at the time. Now, looking back, I can't see how I didn't turn and punch them both in their guilt filled mouths. As the sting radiated, my absent mind put together just enough to know that I needed to stop what I was doing and look at them.

            The way they stood there was the most gut wrenching part. Side by side, holding hands, fingers deeply intertwined, looks of determination and annoyance dominating their faces. Annoyed because the death of my grandmother had altered their plans for coming clean.

            "Look, we know the timing sucks, but we have been planning this for a while, and it isn't fair to us to have to put our lives on hold anymore." Carmen spoke, her satin voice ripping into my ears, "We are going to live together!"

            I just stared, the stack of bills clutched softly in my hands. They kept looking at me, I was supposed to figure something out on my own, but my brain was having a hard time reconnecting synapses to sort through the information given to me.

            "You want to live here.” my brain concluded. It wasn't a question.

            More staring. I was very aware that my throat was painfully dry.

            "Max, you need to move out.” He announced bluntly, emotionless.

            "But I live here. We live here.”

            "You know what Max, this is my apartment anyway, my name is on the lease." he snapped, "I am not going to let you make me feel bad about keeping my own apartment."

            "We'll let you keep your stuff here until you come back though.” She smiled. And it wasn't even a mean smile, it was the same friendly smile she had given me hundreds of times before. Completely oblivious that this was not a friendly thing to do to a person that a smile like that would normally accompany.

            I was frozen in place, not feeling, well, anything, staring at my fiancé, and my best friend, unsure of what to say, and confident that even if I could, my mouth would not power up enough to force them out audibly. I stared at them for so long that they eventually became hazy blobs, in the shapes of people I used to love. I blinked hard to readjust, and when I opened, I noticed that my ticket was laying on the end table behind the no longer hazy blobs. I was very aware that I was still late, later in fact than I had been, so I quietly walked forward, towards the table. I had to reach around them, I suppose in the essence of proving their resolve, they decided moving out of the way would have gone against the illusion. I replaced the ticket with the stack of bills I had been cradling, turned silently to the door, gathered up my bags, and walked out.

            And that was it, I haven't spoken to either one of them since. Eric left me a voice mail on my cell phone, timed perfectly to coincide with the funeral when cell phones are generally shut off. Certain that wasn't coincidence. Cowardice has always been an Eric trademark, apparent during the time we thought we were being mugged after walking home from dinner one night, and he pushed me in front of him towards the attackers. Turns out they were just some friends of ours joking around, but it was nice to know where I stood. Bait.

            The voicemail was informing me which day I could come retrieve my belongings, since they didn't want to have to deal with the drama of me dropping by when they were home. I cringed hearing the word "home". It was their home now, not mine. In one swift instant, I was alone, and homeless.

            I listened to the message on the way to Grams house after the burial, the place where dozens of people that I am sure I was supposed to know wandered by, at first attempting conversation, but soon realizing they would get better responses from the microwave.

            After what could have been eons, but was more likely just hours, the mourners thinned out. The house still smelled like a buffet, counters covered with dozens of covered dishes brought by thoughtful neighbors and friends, I couldn't remember the last time I had eaten, but my state of perpetual numbness also seemed to apply to my stomach.

            Once it was down to just immediate family, Gracie, Mom, Aunts Julie and Alice, and my cousins Bette and Dana, the real fun began. Snide comments tossed between Ida's daughters made ways for snide comments between granddaughters. No one even spoke of Grams, other than to pick at her taste in home decor.

            "God, most of this stuff is so hideous, I doubt we could even sell it. We'll have to throw most of it away.” Aunt Julie muttered.

            I maintained invisibility as much as possible, curled up in a chair by the window. Across from me was the chair Grams would sit in when I visited so that we could chat, and we would do so for hours. Drinking tea, watching the bird feeders she had positioned right outside the glass. She could name every single bird, and I never got tired of hearing her enthusiasm for them. She was partial to goldfinches, she loved their bright yellow against the greens and brown. Her favorite however were blue jays. They were gorgeous to look at, but not known for being great singers. What she appreciated about them was that they were tough little birds, they didn't take a lot of crap from other flyers, and they just carried themselves with attitude. A lot like Grams actually. I always giggled thinking that the reason she liked them so much was that she saw herself in them. I know I did.

            I couldn't figure out why everyone was hanging around, the conversations ended quickly, and we all just sat about in awkward silence. Uncomfortable awkward silence.

            Everyone perked up when the door bell rang, and Mom darted for the door, her black dress billowing behind her as she ran. I was confused by her speed until I saw who walked inside. A little man, bald, save for the faint half moon of gray hair wrapped around the back of his head, glasses with lenses of an impressive thickness. Martin Vaughn, a man I had seen many times throughout my childhood in various places in town. He was a kind, soft spoken man, well liked by everyone. I was grateful for the friendly air he brought in with him. Martin Vaughn was a lawyer, and I realized he was there on official business.

            He was there to read the will.

            My heart ached at the thought of her will being reviewed. It was like a final reminder that she was gone. I didn't want her to be gone.

            I stayed in my chair, wrapped tightly under one of her quilts, and watched the vultures circle. I knew that while Grams wasn't ever what you would consider wealthy, she was never less than comfortable financially. Grandpa Emerson had done well for himself during his years at the electric company, working his way up from line repairman to management, to vice president in charge of development. And even though Grams was happily set as a stay at home mother, she was in charge of the finances, and wise with their investments. When grandpa died years ago, she never was in a position to worry having taken such meticulous care of their income.

            And there they were, her children, her supposed "loved ones" who hadn't given a damn about her in years, their greedy hands outstretched, waiting to snag every available penny that Grandpa and Grams had worked so hard to accumulate. They would use it carelessly of course. None of the three daughters had inherited Grams fiscal responsibility, and it was well known that they were all looking for a slice of the inheritance pie, so that they could buy useless crap that they couldn't afford otherwise. I hated them for that, for biding their time to swoop in and steal what they had never earned, when all it took was showing love to a woman who deserved so much more than they ever even thought to give her.

            We listened as Martin read through his paperwork, pausing periodically to apologize for our loss, each time treated to a group eye roll from the hyenas in front of him. I maintained my window perch, watching the birds congregate, ignoring the greed, and embracing the numbness to keep me from screaming at their selfishness. First he listed charities that Grams had gifted. The American Heart Association, in honor of her husband who had succumbed to a massive heart attack. Ten thousand dollars to the local Bird and Wildlife refuge. Ha. That's my girl. That will look after quite a few finches. I could see the group flinch at the high number, damning the birds for taking their cash. I chuckled softly.

            "Okay, could we get to the specifics please, I have a flight to catch.” Alice griped at Martin, "Good for the heart people and all, but I don't really care."

            I shook my head, a pained expression pulling my face. How could I be related to these selfish, horrible people?

            "Well, alright then," Martin stuttered, clearly appalled by the lack of humanity. Her mother dies and she only cares about how much she gets out of the deal. "Let's see. After her charitable donations, she has her home, which was owned, no mortgage anymore, and with her investments, savings, and insurance, the total comes to 734,859 dollars."

            The gasp was almost deafening. Smiles exploded onto their faces, their soulless faces, as they sat up in their seats, minds racing with all the things they were planning to do with their newly acquired wealth. My stomach ached at the sight.

            "So how is it divided?" Julie salivated, "Is it between the three of us?"

            "Or did she leave stuff to us too?” Dana chimed expectantly. Her mother flashed her a quick glare, and so did my mother and Alice at the thought of their daughters taking parts of their money away from them. Seven hundred thousand dollars is a lot less fun divided between seven people than it is between three.

            "Well, you see," Martin began nervously, "That isn't exactly how she laid out her wishes."

            Bette, Dana, and Gracie scowled. Nope, nothing for us grand kids. Suck on that you greedy leeches. Ha.

            "So it is just us then!” Mom squealed, "That is over two hundred thousand a piece!"

            My stomach lurched. For god sakes, it wasn't like watching lotto numbers pop up. I don't think I had ever been as disgusted with the bunch of them, which was an impressive record to break.

            "Well, no not exactly.” Martin's voice shook as he spoke, noticeably nervous.

            "Well, how exactly?" My mother growled at him, her face melted into impatience.

            Martin Vaughn cleared his throat, adjusted his glasses carefully, and began reading from his stack of papers again. "It is the desire of Ida Mae Emerson, written in sound mind and body in her last will and testament, that the remaining sum of her liquid assets, in the amount of 734,859 dollars, as well as her home and the contents within, be given in their entirety to her granddaughter, Mackenzie Anne Emerson."

            Several clichés hit the room at that moment. Bugged out eyes. Jaws dropped. Deafening silence. If looks could kill, and so on.

            "Are you kidding me!" screeched my mother, flying out of her seat towards poor Martin, who cowered in his chair. "She can't do that!"

            In a heartbeat, they were all up, descended upon the aptly terrified Martin Vaughn, screaming, arms flailing, obscenities flying freely. While they carried on, I sat, glued into my chair by the word she had spoken. The synapses hadn't quite found all their ways home, and I was having a slow time processing everything. Anything, really.

            "Well, she clearly didn't know what she was doing! She was old, that will doesn't mean anything!” shrieked Alice, "We can prove that right, that she wrote it right before she died, so she wasn't in her right mind!?"

            "Yeah, this is the stupidest thing I have ever heard, clearly she wasn't aware of what she was saying!"

            It went on and one for several minutes, the screaming, the panic, the never ending greed.

            "ALRIGHT THAT IS ENOUGH!” bellowed Martin Vaughn so loudly, that every mouth snapped shut, Bette even sat down, as if he had yelled "Sit!" to a dog. I wondered if I could get him to yell "Roll over!" what would happen?

            "This will was written four years ago, and has been updated every year, by me, and she was very clearly in sound mind and body while making her arrangements!” For such a small man, by then standing in front of them all, he carried an incredible presence of authority when he spoke. "Now these were her wishes, and I will see to it that they are followed.” I was glad to see that someone else was as appalled by their unfathomable behavior as I had been. "Now, speaking not as Ida's lawyer, but as her friend, and someone who loved her dearly, I believe you should all be ashamed of yourselves! I have never seen such ungrateful vultures in my entire career!"

            Well, go on with your bad self Mr. Vaughn.

            Through all the petty arguments I had seen between those women, I have never seen them so quickly silenced. They stood, stunned by his words and condemnation. I toyed with the idea of bringing him to family reunions to have on hand when things took the familiar turn, but then remembered that we don't have family reunions. Happy families have reunions.

            "Well fine then." huffed Aunt Julie. "If that little brat gets all of it, she can just take it."

            I waited for my mother to pounce for calling me, her daughter, a brat, but there was nothing. Wishful thinking at its finest.

            "Sure." Alice snarled at me, "Since you were just her perfect, special little friend, then you can just take care of it all.” She stomped across the room, yanking her coat off the rack by the door before turning towards me again, "You can deal with all the rest of this nonsense. Pay for the funeral, sell her house, throw out all her hideous crap that she owns, you can do it all!” She whipped the door open, "Come on Bette, we are leaving. I knew it was pointless to even come!” And out the door she raged, Bette following closely, not missing the opportunity to shoot me a look of death before she was gone.

            They all followed. Alice and Dana quickly gathered their things, avoiding eye contact with anyone, and stormed out in silence.

            My mother stood, motionless, her eyes dripping with rage. Gracie was up and moving zombie-esque around as she retrieved her purse and coat from the kitchen table.

            "What an ungrateful bitch.” Mom muttered, loud enough for us all to hear. Martin shook his head, disappointment radiating off of him.

            With Gracie standing by the door, shooting the "if looks could kill" rays at me, Mom pulled her head back, stood up straight, determined to look as dignified as possible with her exit. Her brown eyes were clouded with anger, darkening them, they appeared almost black. She carefully smoothed her chestnut hair out, and brushed her hands lightly over her dress. My mother was a beautiful woman, but you could never see it, hidden beneath her grudges, and her selfish sense of entitlement. I have always looked somewhat like my mother, and I live in fear that I would ever look exactly like her. I don't want to be that person.

            "Mackenzie." she glowered at me, her voice steady and calm, but the hatred was clear. "I hope you are happy with what you have done.” What did I do? "That money should have gone to us. You don't deserve it. And now that it doesn't belong to the members of this family, neither does the person who stole it."

            One corner of Gracie's mouth turned up in a spiteful smile. My mom's eyes narrowed one more time, as if to drive the point home that she no longer considered me her own, and that I had committed some heinous crime against our family, and then they were gone.

            I sat there for the longest time, silent and attempting to process the previous twenty minutes of my life. Martin finally made his way over and sat in Grams chair across from me. I felt happy to have him sit there. That chair was always occupied by a wonderful person, and he fit the description enough to bring back the ease that those chairs represented to me.

            "Are you going to be alright?" he asked softly, reaching over to pat my hand gently.

            "I think so?” It was a question, not that I expected him to answer.

            "She loved you so much you know.” he sighed, "She always said that you were her favorite person in the whole world. She was very proud of you."

            "She was my favorite person too.” My voice cracked with the words. But I wasn't ready to let Grams tears out yet.

            I looked around the room, taking in all of Grams as I went. The couch, adorned with one of her many quilts, draped carefully over the back. Her coat, still hanging on the coat rack by the door, bright purple wool. She looked beautiful wearing that coat. Above it sat one of her hats, fancy, a shade of pink that most certainly doesn't exist in nature. Worn with the coat, she was a spectacle to be seen, admired, awed. Her confidence in herself is what pulled it off. My eyes wandered to the kitchen, the walls covered with green flowered wall paper, time stamped from the seventies. The avocado refrigerator, bought to compliment the wallpaper, naturally. Her stove, the only completely modern appliance, (even the microwave was bordering on antique) as she took her cooking very seriously, replacing it every few years for more exquisite models, made to create the most eye pleasing and mouth watering meals ever tasted. And above the stove, hanging on the wall was a painting of a blue bird.

            "I miss my Grams.”

            Martin stayed with me for the next two hours, mostly in silence, offering a comforting pat on the shoulder or hand periodically. I appreciated him so much, not for what he had announced, but for knowing what it was like to love her, to love Grams. He told me he would take care of everything laid out in the will, and if I needed anything to call him immediately.

            When he asked where to send paper work, I froze. I had no address anymore. I had no home, no fiancé, no friends, and now apparently no family. I didn't know what to do, or what to say. I wanted to look over and see Grams in her chair, and I would tell her all of the insanity of the last few days. She would smile at me, tell me there was nothing that I couldn't handle, give me a gentle pat on the cheek, and make me some raspberry tea. Then we would sit together, watching the birds flit about, and talk it all through. She would never tell me what I should do, she would guide me through the discussion until I realized what I needed to do. She was brilliant that way, always giving you just what you needed to come to the right conclusion on your own.

            I watched Martin in her chair, fantasizing about getting to have just one more of those conversations with my Grams, he studied me thoughtfully, allowing me to find my thoughts.

            Suddenly, the final synapse found its way home. And so did I.

            "Here.” I smiled, "You can send it here."

            He grinned at me, understanding my intent. "I think Ida would really have liked that."

            And so here I drive, breathing through my mouth to avoid the familiar smell as much as possible, driving to my Grams house. Driving home, it seems, to my house.

            The movers delivered my feeble belongings this morning, the boxes will be waiting for me, the items inside ready to find their place among Grams belongings. I don't know how long I will stay, but I know that I want to be there so badly I ache. With everything around me crumbling as they are, I want to be in the one place that I have good memories of. Grams may not be there in the physical sense, but she will help me through all this.

            I turn on to Lavender Road, a street so aptly named for her to live on, and see her, um, I mean my, house come into view. Just outside of town, enough in the country to have privacy, the nearest house is a quarter mile away, but close enough to still get delivery from one of the two pizza places in our little town offers. She liked the bustle of living inside the busy part of town, but her desire for wildlife and nature won out for her to live out here. She and Grandpa Emerson were so giddy when they moved here. I was four, but I remember falling in love with the house so hard when I saw their faces in it.

            Pulling into the driveway, my driveway, is an odd sensation. I haven't had a driveway since I moved out of my parent’s house at eighteen to go to college. Since then it has been dorms and apartments. Now, I will have a driveway. And grass. Oh dear, I hope I remember how to work a lawnmower...

            The birds by the front window scatter as my car makes its way into it's now permanent parking spot. I have been gone for five days, but the bird feeders remain oddly full. Do the birds just loiter without eating or something? I would have thought the seeds to have been gone by now. I will keep a watchful eye on those feeders to make sure they are always full. That is what Grams did, and I will keep that for her. I know she would appreciate it.

            I take a deep breath and shut my car off. It is taking a serious amount of pep talks to remind myself that I am "home". I spent the first eighteen years of my life praying to any god that would listen to get me out of this town, and now here I am, desperate to be a part of this house. The sad reality of having nowhere else to go is always lingering in the shadows of these pep talks.

            I hop out of the car and grab a box out of the back seat. I figured I would keep a few things with me, in case the movers got lost. The essentials of course. This box contains DVD's and a DVD player. As I said, the essentials.

            I suck in another deep breath and head to my front door, with my house key in hand. It feels so strange to open the door, like it is some monumental moment in my life, and I should focus on it, but all I want to do is hurry inside, to hide away from all the dreadful people of the real world. This is my safe place, my happy place.

            I scurry inside and shut the door behind me quickly.

            Once standing in the living room, I sigh. Home. I am home.

            Slowly turning around, I appraise the room again, admiring the pictures on the walls, many of me and my childhood, depicting those awkward teen years in fine form. I am going to have to hide those somewhere.

            I cast my gaze over the room quickly, enjoying the moment, and turn back to the kitchen, the sight of the stove always makes me giggle. But when I turn around, my eyes are not drawn to the stove, they are locked on the man standing in front of me.

            I scream and instinctively throw the box in my hands in his direction, and back towards the front door.

            "Max, wait!" the man calls.

            "Who are you!? What are you doing in here? How do you know my name!?" I shriek, top decibel, suddenly very annoyed that the nearest house is a quarter mile away. In town, at least people could hear my screams.

            "Max, calm down, don't you recognize me?"

            His deep blue eyes were wide with concern, his hands out in front of him just enough to show that he was not there to be harmful. Do I recognize him? I watch him carefully, taking note of all his features, all the while in a sort of self defensive crouch by the door. He certainly doesn't look like a scary attacker, although he is large enough to make me keep my crouch. Easily over six foot, impressively muscular, and yet lean and long. His caramel colored hair, tousled into that perfect bed head look, the kind that people take an hour in front of the mirror trying to get just right, but this looked effortless, like he really did just wake up that way. What little of his arms I could see peaking out underneath his charcoal pullover were tanned, his hands had the look of labor, his long fingers showing their use, this man clearly spends time working outside, which would explain the impressive highlights speckled throughout his hair.

            "Don't you recognize me?"

            Not yet I don't buddy....

            Back to the eyes, deep blue, perfectly set on his face, still pulled with worry, waiting for me to make the decision to either relax and remember who he is, if I even know, or to turn and run screaming into the front yard. His face is impressive, maybe the most handsome I have ever seen, aside from models or movie stars. His face is so perfectly proportioned, his nose angled just right, his lips pillowy, impressive even when tensed up as he stood.

            But it is the eyes, I feel like I do know those eyes, at least they look familiar. I relax ever so slightly to allow myself to filter through memories, to find those eyes from some time long ago. I am suddenly aware that staring into those eyes brings back the same stomach tightening feeling as the smell driving into town did. I know this man.

            "Ben?" I gasp, "Benjamin Stevens?"

            He smiles and relaxes his face, letting his arms drop to his sides. "Yes! Max, I am so sorry, I didn't mean to scare you, I didn't know you would be back already!"

            "Why are you here!" I yelp, shocked into a frozen state at the thought of Benjamin Stevens standing in my kitchen.

            "I was looking after the house while you were away. Making sure the pipes don't freeze, watering the plants, feeding the birds, you know, that kind of stuff." he explains, and leans against the wall that partially separates the kitchen from the living room, clearly comfortable with the situation at hand.

            "Why, why would you do that?" I ask. I wish my voice wouldn't sound as hysterical as it does.

            "I always help Ida with things around here, and Martin asked if I could keep an eye on the house until you got back." His voice is impressive, calming and yet effervescent at the same time. I remember Ben. "I saw the movers this morning, and they told me you were coming in today, they thought, so I thought I would get everything in order before you got here."

            "You always helped her with stuff?" I ask, hysteria waning.

            "Sure, I live just right behind her, and you know how it is when people get older, they have a hard time with certain things. So I always came over to help her. Like the bird feeders, the bags were too heavy for her to lug around, so I would come by every day and fill them for her."

            I am staring silently.

            "Max, I am really sorry about your Grandmother." His voice now comforting and sincere, "I really loved her a lot, she felt like my Grandma too."

            "I never saw you when I would visit!" I am talking way too loudly.

            "She always told me when you were coming, I didn't want to disturb the two of you."

            I never knew Grams wasn't able to feed her birds anymore. When I was here, I would insist to help out and do it for her. She always protested, eventually giving in, but I never even thought that she wouldn't have been able to on her own. The thought of her not being able to do something is completely alien to me.

            I can feel my heart lurching at the thought of my dear Grams being weak and needing the help. She was always the strongest person I knew, she never showed me otherwise. Why wouldn't she tell me that she needed help? Well, she wouldn't want to worry me of course. So very Grams. I never imagined that she would become one of those old and feeble people, and she didn't, but this crack in her facade, knowing that she kept it from me for my own peace of mind, is breaking my heart.

            Breaking because I wish I would have seen so that I could have been with her to be the help she needed. Breaking because I know she loved me that much to never let me see her that way, knowing that being perfect and fearless and able was the image she wanted me to have of her.

            Breaking because I miss her so much.

            Breaking because I need her, and she isn't here.

            I feel the tears stinging at my eyes, but no, I am not ready to cry Grams tears just yet. Especially not in front of Benjamin Stevens.

            "Are you alright?" he whispers, clearly aware of the mental breakdown before him.

            "No." I snap, "I think you broke my DVD player.” I remember hearing a less than pleasing crunch as the box I threw at him hit the floor.

            Note to self:  Stop throwing boxes when surprised.

            He bent down quickly and picked up the now mangled box setting it on the table beside him. Without asking even, he tears into it, digging out my DVD's.

            ""Hey!" I yell, "What the hell do you think you are doing! That is my stuff!"

            He pulls out the DVD player, now brandishing a large crack on the top, and missing a large chunk of the corner.

            Should have bubble wrapped that I am thinking.

            "Yeah, this isn't looking good." he sighs. "I am really sorry, will you let me replace it for you?"

            "What?" Genuine surprise in my voice, "No, whatever, it was my fault anyway, I threw the stupid thing."

            "Yes, but I scared you, I shouldn't have been here when you came in. I meant to be done by then.” He turns and smiles gently at me, "I insist. Please let me replace it."

            "Really, don't.” I mutter, "It's no big deal.” A comment he had just made pops back into my head, and I snap my head up to look at him. "Wait, what do you mean you live behind her? I mean, me? Um, here?"

            "I have a house right behind you."

            "There isn't a house for a quarter mile." I insist.

            "There wasn't, but I built on the land right behind Ida about five years ago.” He is staring at my quizzically, "Haven't you looked out the back door?"

            I squint my eyes at him. No, I have not looked out the back door, as it seems. I walk past him down the hallway, through the laundry room and fling open the back door. It takes me a minute to see through the trees, but after a second I find it. Sure enough, maybe a hundred yards away is a beautiful brick home. I can only see slivers of it through the thick grouping of trees in the forest behind Grams house, but there it is.

            Aw, man. Ben Stevens lives right behind me.

            Flashes of high school smack into me, knocking me a bit off balance. It's like having a locker next to his, having to pass him every day in the halls.

            He has invaded my happy place!

            "Seriously, are you alright?" his voice startles me. I turn and he is standing in the doorway of the laundry room. Looking just as gorgeous as he did in those hallways. More so now actually, the last ten years have certainly done well for him. "You seem really upset."

            "I'm fine." I murmur and start sulking out of the room.

            As I get to the door, I freeze dead in my tracks when I feel his hand on my arm. Ben Stevens is touching my arm. The gasp I take locks itself into my lungs, which now feel over full, but I am unable to exhale.

            "I know this is a really hard time for you, and I know that you must be terribly upset," his voice is so gentle, "But I want you to know that I am just right out the door if you need anything. If you need help getting settled, unpacking or anything, I am completely at your disposal, alright?” On his final word, he puts his hand softly on my back, I nearly jump out of my skin, and he lightly brushes his hand back and forth. So soothing, and yet so wrong, like crime against nature wrong.

            I unfreeze my eyes just enough to make eye contact with him. The sincerity from those ocean hued eyes is unmistakable, and I can see the genuine sorrow he feels for the loss of his friend, my Grams. For a brief instant, I want to hug him, to console his pain for the wonderful Ida Emerson. He had obviously been kind to her, his affection for her as crystal clear as those eyes.   

            And then I come to my senses and realize this is Ben Stevens. The Ben Stevens that I watched through anguished teenage eyes. Watched his perfection glide through the halls, flanked by those who brought the pep at the rallies. They were not kind people. Ben was never unkind, not to anyone actually, he was the perfect specimen of what I high school boy should be. Those he associated with, not so much with the nice. All of my traumatic high school pain comes from the people in that clique. And as captivating as those eyes are, and as much as I want to be grateful to him for his kindness to Grams, every time I look at him, I feel as though I have been sucker punched and flung back into the tenth grade.

            "Thank you.” I manage finally. I also find the strength to make my legs function again, and I slide out and away from the hands. Of Ben Stevens. That were touching me.

            "Well, hey." he grins, "You have already had a really rough day, so I better take off so that you can catch your breath. Unless you need help with anything, I would be happy to stay."

            "No!" I squeak a little too loudly. I clear my throat and try again. "I mean, no, that's fine. I will be alright.” And because it is the normal thing to say, "But thank you."

            One corner of his lips curls up into a friendly half smile. "It's really nice to see you again Mackenzie.” He walks to the front door and grabs his coat off the rack. "I really hope we can spend some time together and get reacquainted."

            I am unnerved to feel my cheeks burning.

            "Yeah, sure. Okay.” I sputter out.

            "Remember, if you need anything....” He smiles that full smile, the one that makes his eyes positively gleam, and the burning on my cheeks spreads to the rest of my face.

            "Thanks.”

            "Have a good evening Max."

            By this point I can only nod. I feel like an idiot that I am standing there, practically in shock, eyes dangerously close to popping right out of my head, mouth agape as if a horrible case of lock jaw had hit hard and fast.

            And then he disappeared. Ben Stevens.

            Benjamin Stevens just touched my back.

            Welcome home, Mackenzie.