FicWad

Sometimes doing the right thing is the most painful, and this was definitely the hardest thing I had ever done in my mere life. I shakily dial the phone number I had written in my diary years ago. I had never called Mom, she called me every Friday so there was no need. I wait nervously for her to pick up.

When she finally does my words are barely coherent. I am crying and babbling so much that everything comes out strung together. My cheeks are red with embarrassment and I couldn't meet George's eye as he stood guard, flicking his gaze between myself and the phone booth. When I finally get a grip on my emotions and tell her just what He has been doing, there is complete silence. Fear runs like ice in my veins as I convince myself she doesn't believe a word. Finally she asks me if I am telling the truth, and I can hear her voice shaking, knowing that she doesn't doubt me. I tell her I can't go back there ever again and when I tell her where I am she says she will call the police for me.

I hang up the phone, wipe my face on my sleeve and try to contain my tears. George pats me on that back and squeezes my hand as we sit on the bench seat and wait. About half an hour later a police car shows up and I start crying all over again. George lets go of my hand.

"You're doing the right thing. Everything will be ok." We stare at each other, both knowing he is lying, but not knowing what else to say, not able to say anything as the car pulls away from the curb.


I never saw Him again.

They must have taken Him away because the last night I spend in Summerlin is in my own bed with a police officer downstairs. Mom was coming in the morning to take me to Florida. George and I stare out our windows at each other, so close yet so far away. What I would have given for one more night in The Cubby with him. My tears run freely as he points to his chest, draws a heart in the air and points to me. I return his signs and blow him a kiss. Then he turns away from me for the last time, and I can see tear tracks forming down his cheeks.

I'd never see him again either.




The house gives me chills.

The smell. I can smell Him everywhere and I can feel the bile rising to my throat. There is a thin film of dust covering every surface, stains on the walls, and a brown soupy liquid in the sink that is covered in mold. I make my way out the backdoor and into the yard. The chairs that were once cream are now busted and caked in orange mud, what little grass there was has died along with all the plants.

And there is a weathered stump where Our Tree once stood.

I give the stump one last glance before heading upstairs with a sigh. With each step a new memory shoots to the forefront of my mind, and fear grips me as I enter His bedroom. It is much like the rest of the house, deserted, covered in dust, and smelling heavily of a mixture of mold and sweat. I force myself to open the closet, proving not only to myself but also to His spirit, that I am no longer afraid. I walk briskly along the hall to my former bedroom. I steel myself as the memories come flooding back, and it doesn't surprise me that every flashback is surrounded by emotions of fear and shame.

Instead of dwelling on the past, I return to my hotel and flick through the phonebook. I call builders and hardware stores, and organize getting the water, power and gas reconnected. The following day I have the decrepit furniture removed along with the carpet in all the bedrooms. The house is completely stripped, the sinks and kitchen cupboards are knocked out along with both of the upstairs and downstairs showers and the wall that separates it from the downstairs toilet. I spend the next day choosing a beautiful wood-look flooring for both the bathrooms, paints for the interior, replacement lighting fixtures and bathroom fixtures, new kitchen cabinets, and a deep slipper bath for the main bathroom.

Within a week there is no resemblance to the house in which I was repeatedly abused. The bathrooms and kitchen have been completely remodeled and modernized, all the walls have been repainted, the carpet has been removed and the floorboards sanded and sealed, even the back yard has had a makeover with turf and new plants. I also purchase a beautiful new king ensemble, and can't help diving onto it and laughing hysterically with delight.


I stroll happily over to the Smith's house that weekend. Over a cup of coffee Victoria bombards me with questions about life, my studies, Mom, the past, and the renovations to the old house.

"I hardly recognize it now." I say taking a sip, "Maybe I should have taken up interior decorating instead of architecture."

"So what are you going to do when you've finished with the house?" I baulk at the question.

"I think I might stay." I smile into my cup, "Ever since I've been back I feel more like myself than I have in years. Maybe it's having a project, or maybe it's just Summerlin. Who knows? I feel happier than I have in a long time." I take another sip as she nods enthusiastically.

"This is where you grew up after all, it's your home. All the happy memories and friendly faces ... This is where your whole life started." Of course, she doesn't know that most of my Summerlin memories fill me with disgust, and the only friendly faces I want to see are long gone.

"I don't have very many happy memories of my childhood. Apart from Spencer and George. They helped me out a lot, those two. Always looked out for me, even when they were getting teased for hanging out with a girl." I blushed, "They were my best friends. My only friends." I fiddle with my mug.

She pats my hand as she rises, "He would always talk about you, Spencer. Always 'Sammy and George' this and 'Sammy and George' that." She chuckles and rinses her cup, "Ryan. He hates being called George now."

"He'll always be Georgie to me. I remember he used to hate me calling him Georgie." I smile sadly, "It's so hard to believe they're famous. All those girls screaming for them. I wonder what they would think if they knew their Ryan used to run around the backyard in his underwear with a towel tied around his neck pretending to be Superman." I chuckle and quickly finish my coffee as I walk to the sink.

"I remember when those boys went through that phase." She shook her head and took my mug, "I don't think Spencer does though. At least, he pretends he doesn't. I wish he would visit more often." She sighs and hangs up the tea towel, "He flies in next week but only for two days. Soon it won't be at all." She smiles at me, "They can't be kids forever though can they. Have to let them leave the nest."

I laugh a little, "I felt the same about Mom, I had to let her leave the nest eventually."

"Are you sure you can't come around for Thanksgiving? No one should spend it alone." I brush a silky black strand back behind my ear.

"I don't want to impose really. I just wanted to catch up with Spencer. He -" I clear my throat, "He and George, they made such a difference, and I never got to thank them. Or say a proper goodbye." I was starting to tear up, all the emotions I'd pushed down inside started inching their way to the surface.

"You won't be imposing! Not at all! We already have Hayley and Ryan as extras. Crystal can't make it but Jackie will be here, she'd love a chance to gossip." She prattles on about Crystal who was in Europe and Jackie's studies but I'd stopped listening.

Ryan

He was coming back. I could feel my face pale and my skin erupt in goosebumps, my heart starts to thump wildly. I blink in an attempt to clear my mind and grasp the conversation.

"... over, but Spencer's Nan doesn't feel up to it, so we'll be visiting her at the home before dinner." I nod dumbly not really understanding, "So it won't be any hassle to add an extra seat. And Spencer is only in town for the two days, and you can see them both together, it would be easier than trying to track Ryan down at a hotel." My mouth twitches into a shaky smile, still unable to trust my voice. She continues to look at me expectantly and I clear my throat.

"Um ... I, don't know ..."

"You can't spend it alone." she says finally, "And we're just around the corner. And I always cook too much." She nods and walks me to the door, ignoring my stuttering, "We eat at seven." She gives me a once over, then a crinkled smile, "You've grown up so much, I doubt they'll even recognize you. Oh and you'll have to show me all the renovations you've finished."

I was still stuttering my thank you's and are you sure's when she closed the door softly on my face.




Nearly there folks! Hope you're enjoying it so far! Thanks for the reviews, it's nice to know people are reading this even though I'm not completely happy with it. The next chapter is a bit more exciting ... I'll try to have it up later tonight