The Awaited

The Awaited

  Copyright 2012 by Lundy Burge

  On the other side of a high and gently rising hill, there was a house with two stories, an attic, and no basement resting somewhere halfway between the peak and the base. It was far off the road, but it was large enough so that, standing at the far end of the driveway, you could see its darkening wood, a mix of brown, black, and gray whose gloominess rivaled that of the overcast Seattle sky, and you had the impressions of a front door, some windows, and a chimney by their shapes and shadows, but you couldn’t see whether or not the door was open, unless the hallway light was on, and you couldn’t see the young woman, dressed in whatever was the first outfit she found, with nearly white hair flowing in swirls down her back, standing in the doorway.

  Danielle often stood there for hours on end, just staring with blank apathy at each blur that zipped past the driveway, the first flies she ever saw that went in only two directions. Sometimes she would think, other times she would try to count the cars for a time, but she would mostly just stand there and be spirited away to what she thought was her secret place. She thought that because even she didn’t know where it was and, when she came back, could never remember where she went.

  On some days, she would forget why she was even out there in the first place and either go back inside or continue to stand there because there was nothing else to do.

  Usually, she would clearly remember why she was there. She was waiting for them to come back. She was looking for their car to pull up.

  They would, and she’d be there, waiting with the door open. It’d be awhile, but they’d come back.

  Surely.

  ***

  The halls were empty. The whole house was empty.

  But then, what else would it be?

  They hadn’t been back for five weeks. Why should things change now?

  Danielle walked down the empty hall, slowly as if she was afraid of waking someone. The naked oak floors chilled her naked feet, and the sunlight creeping through the windows chilled her arms. All her cold, thick blood chilled her head.

  Why am I walking down here?

  She stopped, trying to remember what she was doing. She hated when she forgot petty little matters like that, and she seemed to be doing that a lot lately.

  Oh, she remembered, I heard a noise at the door.

  She began walking down the hall again. As she began, she heard the noise again.

  It sounds like knocking.

  Why knocking? Of all the sounds that could be heard at this house, birds, crickets, creaking boards, far away, forlorn train whistles, why knocking? Even before they had left her, Danielle had never heard anyone knocking on the door. Who on earth would come here, now of all times, and knock? She decided that it wasn’t knocking. It just couldn’t be. It was a bird, or another sort of animal, running into the door again and again and again.

  The noise started once more.

  At this rate, it’ll be dead soon.

  She found she had made it to the door. She opened it.

  No bird flew in. No four-legged beast ran in. Nothing stood in the doorway.

  She stepped out of the house, onto the little inch-high concrete platform directly after the door. She wasn’t sure if this would change or help her find anything. She didn’t even know what she was really looking for, but she stood on the step just the same. She spun around and saw nothing but the driveway and the grass surrounding her house. She spun again and again, each time seeing nothing. She staggered, and then collapsed against the wall, watching as the hill swayed and rocked like a neurotic ship.

  Even after the hill stopped quaking she stood there, staring at the road like she’d always done. She felt herself being taken away, ebbing slowly out of the world, when she heard his voice.

  “Good morning, Ms. Danielle,” he said.

  Danielle turned around so swiftly she felt a little of her dizziness returning.

  The man was much older than her, at least in his forties, and had a neat, flat cap of ostentatiously orange hair, which seemed to contradict the overall nature of his appearance. He wore a stiff button up shirt, navy, and a pair of khakis Danielle thought would have looked nice in a Sunday church, and his shoes were a luxurious brown, non-melting Swiss chocolate over his feet. His face was tense with the effort of keeping his relaxed smile. It was the kind of smile business men wore when clawing their way through a sticky deal.

  “Are you a social worker of some sort?” she asked, her voice monotone except for the changes in pitch etiquette demanded.

  “Not exactly,” he said, his voice not much different, except in trying to be slightly happier, “but that’s one possible definition for me.”

  “Then how do you know my name?”

  “I’ve been sent to find you.”

  “Did I do something wrong?”

  “No. You haven’t done anything wrong in any way.”

  Danielle’s breath caught short for a second, and for the first time in nearly a year, her eyes flashed a bright spark of life. She felt her entire body spring up as if an alarm had been sounded. Her eyes opened, her skin prickled, her nose awakened, and she took in all of the world that her senses could haul in. Her brain, however, being out of practice, couldn’t process half of it and sent the messengers back to sleep, but she still had a slight sparkle in her eye as she spoke.

  “Did—did they send you?”

  “Yes,” he said, “They did. Can we go inside?”

  She nodded jerkily, saying, “Yes, Mr. ..?”

  “Corder.”

  “Right this way, Mr. Corder.”

  She led him down the hall and into the dining room. All the light in her eyes was gone now, and her eyelids drooped to their usual position halfway down her eyes. She pulled out a chair for him, and her fingers left behind their dark shadow in the dust. Mr. Corder dragged a finger across the table. He couldn’t even feel the wood through the dust.

  “I think I’ll stand, if you don’t mind,” he said.

  Without saying anything, Danielle reached out a blind hand and brushed the dust off the seat. It puffed up in a cloud like a cranky animal awaken from a nice dream. Mr. Corder sat down quickly before the dust had a chance to settle again.

  Danielle sat down in the chair directly across from him. She propped her head on her elbow, watching as her finger drew things in the dust.

  “What were you sent for?” she asked.

  “They were worried about you.”

  She looked up at him, her eyes peeking past her forehead and through the pale, delicate curls that had drifted in front of her face.

  “Why did they send you?”

  “They want you to leave this house,” he tried to be as gentle as he could, but it still sounded too blunt in his ears.

  Her finger stopped drawing in the dust like it was in freeze frame. She aimed her head to Corder, and her eyes settled on nothing, like a pair of doll’s eyes, blinded by dust. Strings of hair hung over her face like dying vines.

  “They know I can’t.”

  “You can,” Corder said, “You have before, remember? Many times, with them.”

  “Then I won’t leave. And I never liked it out of the house, even with them, not really.”

  “Now really,” Mr. Corder said, expertly missing any chastising, “What reasons are there for you to remain in this house?”

  “It’s my house,” she sounded a little chastising in the way she said this so flatly and matter-of-factly.

  “They don’t think it’s right for you. They think you should get a job, get out in the world.”

  “This is my world.”

  Corder rubbed his temples vigorously. He felt a headache blooming just beyond his eyebrows. He had had many headaches appear recently. He took a deep breath, a
nd dove back in by saying, “How old are you?”

  “Twenty-three.”

  “And you still want to live here? Don’t want to leave the nest?”

  She said nothing, but stared at the air like she was under anesthesia, unable and unwilling to focus on anything.

  “They’re worried about you,” Corder said, “They’re worried about what being in this...house for all your life will do to you.”

  What Danielle said came out like a bullet, quick and unexpected, yet the words had the same, flat fatigue of all her other sentences.

  “They’re not coming back, are they?”

  He exhaled again and shook his head, downtrodden as if he had asked that question. Danielle was back to tracing in the dust. Some of it floated up in tiny puffs like cigarette smoke.

  “They don’t want me to be with them,” she said, a little more tired than before, as if she had been yelling.

  “That’s not true.”

  “Right,” she stated as a simple fact, “my father doesn’t want to be anywhere near me, but my brother... he does, and he doesn’t. Always indecisive... They don’t want to be with me.”

  “Danielle—“

  “They’re afraid.”

  “Now—“

  “Why are they so afraid