THE GHOST
THERE WERE APPROXIMATELY fifty people who resided in the sixteen homes that dotted Sweetness Lane, and all of them had heard the joke at one point or another. Out-of-town relatives, visiting friends, and mail carriers would examine the gaping potholes and pale patchwork lawns and homes that seemed to sag into the earth and ask, Sweetness? Where? Residents would laugh or roll their eyes or, if you dared to utter these comments in the presence of Letty June Harding, tell you to shut the fuck up. It didn’t matter what Sweetness Lane looked like. Sweetness Lane was home. And home was always sweet.
Carole Cole had lived on Sweetness Lane since she was Carole Thompson. The blue brick ranch with the dogwood tree in the side yard was the only home she’d ever known. Darryl Cole had grumbled when he moved in after their wedding, complaining that grown men had no business moving into their mother-in-law’s house. He promised one day they’d leave. But since the house was there and Darryl’s funds were not, they stayed. They stayed after their first two babies were born, even though the eight hundred square feet became bloated with toddler screams. They stayed after Martha Thompson passed and left them the home in her will. They stayed even when the third baby took them by surprise. It wasn’t until their three children became two that Darryl finally made good on his promise and left.
Through it all, Carole remained tethered to Sweetness Lane like a life raft. Seasons changed. People came and went. Her youngest daughter braided flower crowns under the dogwood tree. Usually, Carole would gaze upon the lane and think, This is fine. This is good enough. Occasionally, she thought about the girl who used to live next door and wondered what she was up to. Sometimes she thought about writing her. It wasn’t until Letty’s third round of cancer that she finally did.
By the time Carole devised a letter she was proud of, she’d burned through four days and half a notebook. After several weeks with no reply, she’d almost given up hope. On a particularly steamy August afternoon, Carole was sweeping her kitchen and minding her business when a fancy silver car arrived on Sweetness Lane. Fancy cars on this block were not a common occurrence, so Carole stopped mid-sweep. She paid attention. And when a ghost from her childhood emerged from the driver’s side, she nearly dropped her broom.
2.
BY THE TIME I hauled the last bag inside, Mama Letty had retreated to her bedroom. I followed my parents’ voices into the small, sun-drenched kitchen, mind still swimming from Simone’s and Carole’s comments.
Mom was leaning against the chipped tile counter, eyes trained on the peeling yellow diamond wallpaper. Dad sat at a circular Formica table shoved up against the window, drumming his fingers along a glass of water. Above his head was a creepy black cat-shaped clock, hands stuck at midnight.
“I didn’t know,” Mom said. She scrubbed a hand over her face and took deep, labored breaths. It was the same technique she always used before a big speech, the one she taught me when I was losing sleep over a public speaking assignment in eighth grade: inhale on the one, exhale on the two, continue to ten, lather, rinse, repeat. I cleared my throat, and my parents looked up with fake, stretched smiles.
“Hey, Avery baby,” Mom said, too chipper. “Thanks for grabbing the rest of the bags.”
“Don’t mention it.” I took a step closer. “You okay?”
She nodded. “I haven’t seen your Mama Letty in a while, and it’s hard. I’m sorry.”
“You don’t have to apologize,” I said, but it was no use. She was already composing herself, wiping the emotions from her face like Windex on glass. Soon, she was Dr. Zora Anderson again—calm, collected, close to perfect.
“You’re in luck,” she said, pulling at one of my spiral curls. “You’re getting my old bedroom. Best room in the house.” She brushed past me before I could say anything and busied herself with the suitcases in the living room.
I looked at Dad. “What’s going on?”
“What’s going on,” Dad said, “is that we lovingly agreed to take the luxurious pull-out couch in the back den to give you some privacy.”
I narrowed my eyes. He knew that wasn’t what I meant. “Dad, seriously. What is up with Mom and Mama Letty?”
His smile dimmed. “They’ll be fine. It’s going to be a trying time, but remember what we talked about?”
“We’re here for support,” I parroted. “And this situation is temporary.”
“Exactly. All of this is temporary. We’ll stay out of Mama Letty’s way, and everything will be fine.”
I wanted to press further, but based on Mom’s disappearance and the return of Dad’s wisecracking smile, I was out of luck for now. So I nodded, the ever-dutiful daughter.
Dad clapped my shoulder. “Anderson family motto?”
“Focus forward.”
“Focus forward!” He pointed down the hall, past Mama Letty’s closed door. “Your room’s that way.”
* * *
Entering Mom’s old bedroom felt like stepping thirty years back in time. Dozens of textbooks and sci-fi novels crowded the built-ins along the wall. The dingy yellow carpet smelled faintly of mildew. Posters of Janet Jackson and Whitney Houston covered the wood-paneled closet doors. Above the bed was a glossy diagram of the solar system, poor little Pluto hovering at the edge, unaware of her fate.
I tossed my duffel bag on the floor and wandered over to the rolltop desk wedged in the corner. I gave the plastered window two strong pulls, sneezing as dirt and dust drifted into my nostrils. With a final push, the room flooded with sunlight. I had the perfect view of the side of the Coles’ house. The image of Simone’s finger trailing her lip flashed through my mind. I quickly shut it down and plopped into the desk chair.
I would not—could not—go down that road. Not after my breakup with Kelsi, not on this MAGA turf. Besides. Simone was probably straight. Probably dating some buff guy on the football team—if Beckwith Academy even had a football team. I took a deep breath and grounded myself like Mom taught me, replaying my conversation with Dad.
Focus forward. The Anderson family motto had gotten me through every roadblock in my life. When Grandma Jean died in eighth grade, I kept the sadness at bay by crafting the perfect life plan to make her proud. I set my sights on straight As and a Georgetown acceptance—focus forward. During the pandemic, I gritted my teeth as I watched my high school experience slip away one canceled plan at a time—focus forward. I clung to the motto as I watched the nightly news in horror, telling myself things would eventually get better, that they had to. I had to keep my focus forward. Same as I had to see this stint in Bardell through.
Get in. Get out. No drama. Focus forward.
My phone buzzed in my pocket, and I rolled my eyes. Kelsi and Hikari hadn’t stopped texting, even though I hadn’t replied since a rest stop in Virginia. They were making good on their promise that our friendship wouldn’t change after Kelsi and I broke up, even though things were clearly not the same. They were trying to re-create the magic that had glued the three of us together since freshman year, either unaware or choosing to ignore my icy aloofness. I scrolled through the new messages and felt nothing.
Hikari: Yooo I got Lentz for AP Comp fml.
Kelsi: She gives great rec letters tho.
Hikari: Avery where you at? Have you made it to the land down under?
Kelsi: I still can’t believe you won’t be here this year.
Hikari: Kels who did you get for AP Chem?
Kelsi: Jones for Chem. Toth for AP Physics.
Hikari: Can’t believe you’re taking both.
“Neck gone get stuck staring at that phone all day.”
I looked up to see Mama Letty leaning against the doorframe. Her eyes combed over my new bedroom, somehow ending on my lip ring again. I awkwardly stood.
“Hi, Mama Letty. How are you feeling? Anything you need?”
“I need a lot of things,” she said, crossing the room in light strides. “None of which yo ass can get.” She stopped at one of the bookshelves and grabbed a small wooden box with a gold clasp from the top shelf. She didn’t look at me as she ran a hand over the lid. Staring at the side of her face caused another splotchy memory to appear, as soft as a bubble blowing from a wand.
Christmas lights. Mama Letty’s hair more black than gray. Her wrinkled brown fingers clutching a box like this one. Screams.
“What’s in the box?” I asked.
She shot me an icy gaze. “Your mama raise you to be this nosy?”
I folded my arms over my chest. “Didn’t realize it was a secret.”
She snorted and left the room as quietly as she arrived. Her bedroom door slammed seconds later, and I slumped in the chair again. I had a nagging feeling that Dad’s definition of a “trying time” wouldn’t hold a candle to Mama Letty.
“Temporary,” I whispered. “All of this … is temporary.”
* * *
I spent the next two days unpacking and settling into the small, strange quiet of Bardell. In DC, my life was loud and expansive, full of Mom’s domed planetarium lectures and Dad’s jazz piano melodies padding every corner of our row house. The gridded streets of the city hummed with busy people, honking traffic, and pulsing energy, whereas the noises that comprised Mama Letty’s home could be contained in a thimble. Crickets chirped all night. Mama Letty’s coughs blended in with her groaning rocking chair. Mom sighed loudly from the den every fifteen minutes.
I was lonely. As an only child, I was used to finding ways to entertain myself. In DC, that usually meant going around the corner to Hikari’s house to lounge by her backyard firepit. But in Bardell, there was nothing but me and my thoughts and a growing resentment toward Hikari and Kelsi I still couldn’t name. My silence toward them finally broke when I texted them my class schedule the afternoon before the first day of school. They ridiculed my course load, like I knew they would.
Kelsi: 10th grade called, Hicktown High. They want their classes back.
Hikari: Only 3 APs???
Kelsi: you think Georgetown will still take you?
Hikari: Totally. It’s not Avery’s fault she had to change schools.
I thought about texting something snarky back. Something like, hey bitches, my grandmother is DYING. There were more important things to worry about than stupid AP classes. But I stayed silent because although they were annoying me, I understood why they cared so much.
COVID had taken a giant shit all over our grand high school plans. As starry-eyed freshmen, we imagined becoming officers in important clubs. We thought about the volunteer work that would push our college applications over the edge and made bets on who would get the highest PSAT score. Instead, what we got were clusterfucked virtual classes and half-hearted attempts at online extracurriculars. The experience ignited a fire that burned in the three of us equally to make the most out of senior year and beyond.
We had a plan. Three Georgetown acceptances, a triple room. Kelsi and Hikari were going pre-law, inspired after too many binges of How to Get Away with Murder. I was supposed to follow in my mother’s footsteps and study the stars. But somewhere between the needle sinking into my lower lip and Kelsi’s “We Should Just Be Friends” speech, my spark for academics—and Kelsi and Hikari—had extinguished.
There was a swift knock on my door, and Mom poked her head in. Her tight coils were covered in a gorgeous royal-blue headwrap. “Hey, Avery baby.”
“Hey, Mom.”
She swept into the room, ivory linen dress swirling around her ankles. “Love what you’ve done with the place,” she said, and we laughed because there wasn’t much that would improve the unremarkable room short of tearing it down and starting all over.
“No point in getting too comfortable, right?” I asked.
She looked around the room, eyes softening when they landed on the bookcases. She pulled a tall, skinny book from the shelf and joined me on the bed. She smelled like she always did—jojoba oil, vanilla, summertime. It was nice to have this small, familiar thing when everything else felt off-center.
“I’m surprised you haven’t uncovered this yet,” she said, leafing through the pages.
“What is it?”
She showed me the forest-green cover. Bardell High School Yearbook, 1984–1985 was etched in silver block letters.
“Baby Mom!” I examined the senior class pages, hunting for Mom’s perfect white smile and almond-brown eyes. After mistakenly searching for Zora Anderson, I found her under the Hs—Zora Rayla Harding. Over thirty years later, and she still looked the same. I traced her maiden name with my index finger. “It’s so weird to see you with a different last name.”
“What was weird was changing it when I married your dad. I was a Harding longer than I’ve been an Anderson, you know.”
I turned the page, giggling at the hairstyles of decades past. “Is Ms. Carole in here?”
Mom didn’t say anything as she flipped to the Ts. Carole Judith Thompson beamed proudly in the center of the page.
“I don’t remember her from when we visited last time,” I said.
“You were only five.”
I thought about hazy string lights and shiny gold presents. “Did we come around Christmas?”
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