Chapter 6 - THE HOUSE WITH THE BLUE BEDROOM
The Turners’ house was smaller than I expected.
For some reason, I assumed people willing to take in troubled kids lived in giant houses with extra rooms everywhere.
Robert and Helen lived in a two-story brick home fifteen minutes from the hardware store.
Their dog was named Walter.
Walter hated me for approximately thirty seconds.
Then he discovered I had been given dog treats.
We became allies.
The first visit was supervised.
My caseworker, Denise, came with me.
Helen showed me the bedroom.
Blue walls.
Twin bed.
Desk.
Empty bookshelf.
No inspirational signs.
No giant welcome banner.
Thank God.
“You can change it,” Helen said.
“What?”
“The room.”
“Why?”
“Because if you live here, it would be your room.”
If.
I liked that word.
Not when.
No false certainty.
I opened the closet.
Empty.
That frightened me more than if it had been full.
Empty meant somebody expected my things.
I owned almost nothing.
Three facility-approved outfits.
Two books.
A beat-up pair of sneakers.
A photograph of Mom when I was six.
“What?”
Helen was watching me.
“Nothing.”
“You hate it?”
“No.”
“Good nothing or bad nothing?”
“Just nothing.”
She nodded.
“Okay.”
She let it stay nothing.
At dinner, Robert burned garlic bread.
Helen blamed him loudly.
Robert blamed the oven.
The oven was apparently thirty years old and responsible for most problems in their marriage.
I listened.
Nobody shouted angrily.
Nobody slammed doors.
Nobody asked whether I was grateful.
After dinner, I spilled soda.
My body reacted before my brain.
I stood so quickly the chair scraped backward.
“I’ll clean it.”
Helen looked at me.
“Okay.”
No lecture.
No expression.
Robert handed me paper towels.
That was it.
Later Denise asked what I thought.
I shrugged.
“They’re weird.”
She smiled.
“Good weird?”
I hated that everyone kept asking versions of that.
“Maybe.”
The visits continued.
Then overnight passes.
The first night, I did not sleep.
I kept waiting for the house to change after midnight.
Homes always changed eventually.
Somebody drank.
Somebody fought.
Somebody came into your room without knocking.
Somebody remembered you were not really theirs.
Nothing happened.
At 2:17 a.m., I heard footsteps.
I sat up.
Robert passed my door on the way to the bathroom.
He saw me awake.
“You okay?”
“Yes.”
He nodded.
“Night.”
And kept walking.
May you like
I stayed awake another hour waiting for a second meaning.
There wasn’t one.
