Amy
Mia slows the SUV as we descend the slope. Through the tinted lenses of my sunglasses, I spy Deadwood below. I squint in the late afternoon sun, attempting to make out the structures. The tiny town lies nestled between mountains. Its short buildings and houses, a stark contrast to the tree-covered mountains that fence it in. Similar in size to the town of Athens I grew up in, Deadwood bustles with the swarm of tourists it draws. The vehicles driving by hold plates from a wide variety of states, verifying its tourists hustling around this little burg.
“Photo op!” Mia announces, turning on her blinker at the Welcome Center.
In our two-day trek from North Missouri to Deadwood, South Dakota, I've grown accustomed to her need for cute photos with the twins at everything from a green dinosaur at a gas station to the Corn Palace. This time, part of me worries once the boys are out of their car seats, we won't be able to get them back in for the short ride to the house.
My legs are stiff from our travels over the past two days. Opting to avoid an eleven-hour drive, we broke it up for the boys. First, we drove three hours before taking a break in Omaha. Our next section of the trip was three hours, and we spent the night in Sioux Falls. On the second day of our journey, we drove just under three hours to stop in Chamberlain. Finally, we drove four hours here.
I unbuckle William at the same time, Mia pulls Harry from his car seat. Both attempt to wiggle from our arms, insisting to walk on their own. There's too much traffic to allow them to move about without holding our hands near the busy street. They are little Houdinis, often out of arm's reach before we know it.
“Should we grab the stroller?” I suggest, unsure of Mia's plans.
“Maybe,” she agrees. “That way, we could walk a bit before we climb back in the car.”
With skilled practice, I pull the tandem stroller from the back of the vehicle, popping it open with a flick of my free hand.
“No! No!” Harry protests, shaking his little head.
“Ride in the stroller, and we'll find a treat,” Mia coaxes with the ease of mother of four-year-old twins, instead of an aunt that recently became their guardian.
“O-tay,” Harry agrees, clapping with his brother.
I secure the five-point harness around both boys before we begin our short walk to the sign that reads, “Welcome, Historic Main Street, Deadwood SD.”
Mia stands proudly behind with the stroller, under the sign, and I snap several photos.
“This time, everybody wave,” I suggest, and they comply for the next picture.
“Your turn,” Mia calls, waving me to return to the twins, but I shake my head.
“Let's explore a bit,” she urges, turning the stroller towards the busy downtown area.
I take the stroller handle from her, pushing the boys. As we walk, I regret not reading up on this place on the internet. I vaguely recall watching a series set in Deadwood with my mother years ago, but I didn't pay close enough attention to keep any of the information, though.
I'll have to learn as I go.
The boys point at random things as we walk, talking to each other in a language I can't understand. Mia calls it twin-speak and finds it adorable, while it confounds me.
“Treat please,” Harry prompts, tipping his head back to look upside down at Mia.
William mimics his brother’s pose.
They’re too adorable for their own good. Their wavy dark-brown hair and bright green eyes add to their cute factor.
“When I was a little girl, Grandma brought me here to Main Street for ice cream,” Mia shares.
“Ice cream! Ice Cream! Ice Cream!” Harry chants, throwing his fists into the air, and William follows his lead.
“Okay. Okay,” she attempts to calm them. “The ice cream shop is down the street. Let’s play eye spy until we get there.”
“I spy with my little eyes,” I begin. “Something brown.”
The twins call out items, pointing all over the place, attempting to guess the correct answer. Mia grins at me, pleased we successfully distracted them from their chanting, if only for a little while.
* * *
Hours later, I stop marveling at the town when Mia parks in front of a quaint, two-story house. It’s olive green and has an adorable porch swing. The beige and muted red accents on the post spindles, window trim, and eaves complete it perfectly. It reminds me of what a grandmother’s house might look like in a children’s book. Knowing Mia’s grandmother owned it makes perfect sense.
“We’re here!” Mia cheers, and the boys clap.
This picture-perfect abode will be our home for the next four to six weeks. It’s much smaller than Mia’s farmhouse, and I worry about what my future holds, keeping the boys quietly entertained so Mia may finish her book on time. I pray for many sunny summer days ahead.
That reminds me. I need to look up the local weather to see how May and June compare to Missouri.
“Yo, Amy!” Mia calls for my attention.
I blink away my thoughts as I open the passenger door. Smiling, I help William from his car seat, placing him on the sidewalk and pointing him toward the porch swing. I watch closely as he hurries to beat his twin to the wooden swing.
“Win!” William shouts triumphantly, hopping onto the cushion.
“Let me on!” Harry demands, stomping his foot.
William’s little legs do not reach the floor of the porch, so his brother must brave the moving swing, climbing on as it continues its motion.
With both safely swinging and entertained for the moment, I assist Mia in unloading suitcases and the cooler. We make quick work of carrying the items to the porch steps. The wall of items ensures the boys remain fenced in on the porch while we continue.
“You didn’t tell me your house was the cutest house in the world,” I state.
“Grandma took great pride in owning this property,” Mia shares. “She met Grandpa in Deadwood. She insisted he buy a little place for them to visit each year on their anniversary.”
“Ahh. That’s romantic,” I coo.
I love that like me, Mia was close to her family, and it saddens me she has no living family members other than the twins. I can’t imagine being alone at my age. Mom’s my best friend, and I talk to my brother or his wife every week. If they didn’t live in Chicago with a busy Major League Baseball schedule, I’m sure we’d talk or text daily.
“They were a sweet couple,” Mia adds, bringing me back from my thoughts.
“Did you come here often?” I ask.
Mia smiles fondly. “We spent a week or two here every year. Sometimes Mom planned a girls’ trip for just the three of us. Luna would love knowing the boys were here now.”
I place my hand on her forearm. “She’s smiling down from heaven right now.”
Mia fights tears at the mention of her dead sister.
“Mia, you’re an amazing mother for them. The twins are happy and healthy. They enjoy spending time with you, and love hearing stories you share about Luna,” I state, hoping she realizes she’s a great parent to her nephews in the absence of their parents.
“Miss Amy, I need to pee!” William informs, both hands cupping his privates.
I cringe, knowing he’s waited too long to tell me. I pray we unlock the house and find the bathroom in time.
“Me, too!” Harry chimes in, hopping up and down.
Mia makes quick work of entering the four-digit code into the door. The lock disengages, and we scurry inside.
“Down the hall on the left,” she calls after us.
I’m thankful the boys wear elastic-waisted shorts today, so they can pull them off without the delay of a button.
“Look at us!” Harry calls over his shoulder.
The boys smile proudly as they pee simultaneously from the sides of the toilet. I understand the male species less and less with each passing week I spend with these two little guys.
What makes them want to pee together and cross streams?
The inner workings of their little male minds befuddle me almost daily.
Boys really seem to be from Mars and girls from Venus.
“Hey! Aim at the water,” I scold when they wield themselves like swords, with urine splashing everywhere.
Great. Now I’ll have to clean this bathroom on our first evening here.
“Excuse me,” I chide. “Hands.”
The boys freeze at the doorway and pivot towards the sink. Their four hands splash water over the entire vanity.
I love these messy monsters.
When the doorbell chimes, and the boys sprint from the bathroom to investigate.
Who could it be? Everyone that knows we’re here is in Missouri or Illinois. Mia didn’t mention knowing any residents of Deadwood. I hope it’s not a neighbor coming over to say hello.
I try to listen as I dry the vanity with a nearby bath towel.
“Oliver!” Mia greets. “Boys, come meet Oliver. He takes care of the house for me.”
Ahh. She mentioned knowing one person in town from her many emails, texts, and video calls regarding the Airbnb.
I guess it’s time I go meet the locals.