Vivian and I look silly at this long dining room table with our take-out food. This thing’s meant for eight people with crocheted place mats.
I spear a bite of ravioli from the plastic container and offer Vivian some. She shakes her head. My dad’s the chef in the family, which kinda makes sense, since he’s a spice importer. Vivian doesn’t cook much. And when she does, it’s always steak and potatoes, and I’m a vegetarian.
“Your father always used to talk about his childhood here,” Vivian says.
“Not to me.” He never wanted to talk about Salem, especially in the past year since my grandmother died. I didn’t even know we still owned this house until a couple weeks ago.
“I guess he and Meriwether were longtime friends,” she continues with a tinge of judgment.
“I think she’s sweet.” I take a bite of garlic bread.
Vivian crinkles her nose. “Too sweet. I bet she’s nosy as anything.”
“I don’t know.” I’m not going to agree with Vivian about Mrs. Meriwether, who seems perfectly nice.
“Watch, she’ll be sending her son over to gather information for her.” Vivian shakes her head. Then, with an eye roll, she continues, “But I bet you wouldn’t mind that.”
I stop mid-bite. “I really don’t care one way or the other.”
“Uh-huh. Well, it wouldn’t hurt you to try to make friends here.” She dabs the corners of her mouth with her napkin and a small amount of cranberry lipstick marks the linen.
My fingers tighten around my fork. “You know it ends in disaster anyway.” It’s only a matter of time before someone gets hurt or their parents forbid them to spend time with me.
“People are disappointing. Still, you’ll have to curb the attitude a bit. Smile, even.”
Vivian’s subtle judgments poke at my fears that this place will turn out to be just like the City. “Maybe I’ll visit Mrs. Meriwether.” I watch for a reaction. “Learn by example.”
Vivian raises one perfect eyebrow, trying to assess whether I’m serious. Four months ago, she would have laughed at that, and I would have meant it as a joke.
I close the ravioli container with a sigh. As a child, I used to follow Vivian everywhere. My dad called me her personal fan club. Vivian loved it. She’s always her best self while being admired. But since my dad was admitted to the hospital, there’s been tension between us. And since I found out we had to move, it’s ballooned into something I don’t know how to step back from.
I push my chair away from the table and Vivian winces as it scrapes against the floor. I don’t say anything as I exit the dining room, which looks like it was plucked from an old British movie. The only things missing are white-gloved servants and pleasant company.
It’s a short walk to the stairway. I pass a bathroom with dark mulberry walls and another room I can only describe as a lady’s tearoom, which looks out over a rose garden.
I grab the railing and take two steps at a time. When I reach the top, the only light is the one coming from my room, which glows a soft yellow at the end of the hallway. Vivian’s room is at the end of the other hall, probably her way of trying to get as far away from me as possible. Vivian and I were never the cuddly types or people who worked things out with a heart-to-heart. But I can’t say this divide doesn’t bother me, either.
I wish my dad were here. These old rooms must be filled with his memories. Maybe being here is good in a way. Distracts me from constantly worrying. I push open my door.
“Seriously?” My once neatly folded clothes in my armoire are now in a heap on the floor.
I inspect the armoire latch to see if it’s broken. It seems fine. Maybe I just didn’t close it all the way?
“That’s one way to unpack,” Vivian says, standing in my doorway.
“These were all put away an hour ago. Must’ve piled them too high.”
“Maybe we have a ghost who doesn’t like you.” Vivian smiles. I’m sure she’s trying to lighten the mood, but this move to Salem has left me a little raw.
“Hilarious,” I say, and she turns down the dimly lit hall and away from me.
A pair of black sweatpants rests on top of the pile of clothes, and I trade my jeans for them. As I straighten the mess, I assess my new room. Pictures of my dad rest on the old trunk under the far window, and my mother’s jewelry box is on the vanity. I try to imagine my parents hanging out in this room when they were young.
I put the last folded shirt back in its proper place and close the armoire, tugging on it to make sure it’s latched. I pick up the small golden picture frame off my trunk before plopping onto my down- and lace-covered bed.
In the picture, I’m four years old and sitting on my dad’s lap outside a café in Paris. His cheek rests on the top of my head as I hold my cream puff with both hands. He’s just smeared a bit of cream on my nose, and I’m laughing. This was the trip where we met Vivian, before I started going to school and stopped traveling with him as much.
“How can I start school tomorrow without you here to give me a pep talk?” I ask the picture. I’m really not looking forward to it. “These kids have to be nicer than at my last school, though, right? Sleep tight, Dad. I’ll love you for always.” I kiss my dad’s picture and put it down on my bedside table near a slender vase holding a single daisy-like flower with a dark center. Looks like my doorknob. I turn out the light.