Away Home

chapter 1

I want to go home.

I paced nervously at the airport watching all the families going by and I'm suddenly homesick. Again.

I looked at my phone with no service over here and I wonder why I brought it. Stupid phone. The pay phones beckon me but they take phone cards, which I don't have. The airport is crowded with travelers and I can't help but think someone in this crowd is my new “family.” At least for the next year. My nerves are jangled as i pace again circling my luggage which is piled next to a row of plastic seats that are as about as comfortable as sitting on cement. I plop down in one of the chairs and sigh. Who's idea was this anyway? Digging through my carry on, I grab my ipod. I start to put in the earpieces but think, what if they call me over the airport speakers? I cram the ipod back into my bag.

“Brandon? Brandon Kyle?”

I look up. I recognize her from her photos. Mrs Willingham her smile hesitant, stands at the other end of the row of seats. I'm sure I look like a scared rabbit or something, ready to tuck tale and run. I nod.

She steps closer, her steps small, like she's approaching a scared little animal, one of her hands coming out to reach for me.

She's pretty, her smile warm, her eyes warm, her cheeks a little ruddy. I stand up and take a step towards her. I can smell her perfume, a floral scent that calms my nerves. It smells very maternal.

“I'm sorry I didn't get here earlier. We got a late start.” Her apology is sincere and I smile with what I hope is reassurance.

Her accent is charming, but I've always found british accents a bit welcoming. It's not a harsh accent, but rather soft and disarming. We stare at each other for a moment and then she looks down at my luggage.

“Let's get you home, shall we.”

I reach down for my luggage grabbing the handle for the large bag and lift, but this sends my carry on bag to the floor. Several things fall out, my ipod for one clatters across the floor to the big window through which I can see airplanes taking off. I wish for a moment that I'm on one of them, heading home instead of just arriving.

“Here, let me help you.” She takes the large bag from me as I run over and grab my ipod. I grab my other bag and heft my carry on, adjusting it till it hangs comfortably and isn't digging into the soft part of my shoulder.

Her car is one of them Smart cars that just started showing up in the states and I head for what I think is the passenger side. I open the door and see the steering wheel and feel an instant of disorientation. She smiles and lifts the hatch and heaves my suitcase in the back. I drop in my other suitcase and close the hatch, holding my carry on like a security blanket.

“How was your flight?”

Our small talk keeps me a bit occupied. I'm hesitant with my answers and she nods with each one, but she looks like she's contemplating her next question, trying to put me at ease. Looking out the window, I marvel at everything. The people walking to and fro, they all seem impeccably dressed, mostly dark and fashionable. I feel a moment's excitement for my first shopping excursion. Then I shake my head. Don't be gay.

The first roundabout puts me on edge. The circle of traffic zipping round and round and cars seem to dart in and out of the traffic lanes and Mrs Willingham seemed oblivious to my concerns that we're both about to die. I think I left a hand print on the armrest.

“Home” reminds me of the nicer brownstones of Boston, ornate stairs leading up to ornate doors, except most of the doors are painted different colors, one bright red, another a garish green and the one we were walking up to was a brilliant blue door with an ornate brass knocker.

The door opened before we reached the porch. “They're here! They're here!” The little girl hollered back into the house.

“Elizabeth. Don't make a spectacle.” Mrs Willingham looked back at me and reach for my hand. “Come along.”

I took her hand and followed her in, looking at everything. Sensory overload. The smells, the sounds, a television to my left, the sound of Elizabeth's shoes on the wooden floor, the wheels of my luggage clattering along behind me. I looked up the narrow stairs as we walked past and they seemed to go up forever. At the top of the stairs, like three stories up, I saw a mop of dark hair and a pair of blue eyes peering over the railing. I felt a jolt in my stomach as they disappeared from view.

The kitchen was small and sparse and there, Mr Willingham sat with a newspaper. The newspaper was the color of salmon. The Financial Times, I read.

“George. George. The tea. Get him some tea.” Mrs Willingham gestured to one of the chairs around the table. “Sit.” She fussed with the tea service, placing a couple of cups and saucers, spoons, sugar, cream onto a silver tray. She placed a small plate of cookies next to the saucers. She eyed her husband with reproach as he folded the paper to the next page. “George.” She hints

“Oh, yes. Very well.” Mr Willingham folded the paper into his lap and looked at me, startled as if I had just appeared out of nowhere. It was clear he was uncertain as to what to say. He cleared his throat several times and looked back at his wife who nodded her head in my direction.

“Ahem. So... How was your flight?” He started to lean forward to put his elbows on the table, but Mrs Willingham cleared her throat and he straightened up again.

“Fine. Thank you.” I hoped that everyone I saw didn't ask me that question. I decided I was going to start making up things. Well, fortunately I was able to overpower the terrorist and I garroted him with my ipod earphones. Fortunately, thanks to the flight simulator combat video game I was able to land the plane after they had subdued the pilots.

Elizabeth had situated herself right next to me, staring up at me like I might have a mask on. I was waiting for her to reach out a solitary finger to touch my cheek to make sure it was real. I could feel her eyes on me. I could see her in my peripheral vision as I looked at her father, waiting for another question. He looked back at his wife, as if he had done his duty and welcomed me properly. He shook his paper out in front of him again and started to read.

“Elizabeth. Go up and get your brother.”

“ADEN!!” My ear rang as she yelled for her brother, she was that close to me. “Mum says come down!”

I winced.

“Elizabeth!” Mrs Willingham was scandalized. She looked at me. “I think my Elizabeth is taken with you.”
I blushed and looked over at Elizabeth. It was her turn to be scandalized. “Mum!”

I heard footsteps coming down the stairs. They were plodding as if each step was a struggle

I knew the sensation. I hated meeting strangers. Even worse, I was going to be living here for the next year in his house, having to share his things. I was an interloper and he had to come and make nice. I looked at the stairs expectantly and it was an eternity before his legs appeared. Long and lanky, clad in a dark pair of jeans. Then I saw his hand on the railing, silver rings on three fingers. His t-shirt was black with what I assumed was a band. I recognized the hair, dark and straightened and covering his forehead and his eyes were intense even in his complacency. He looked at his mother and then at me. He eyed me up and down, and then the scene around me; taking in my luggage, his father behind me with his paper, his mother holding the tea service and his sister still staring all googly-eyed at me.

“Isn't this just the picture. The perfect family unit.”

“Aden, we talked about this.”

I tried not to look at him too intently, tried not to recognize the scorn in his eyes as he looked at me again. There was a distinct animosity to his glare and I couldn't help wondering why.

“No. You talked about it.” Aden looked back at his mother. “Nobody asked me. Nobody gives a good bloody damn what I...”

“Aden!” Mr Willingham had slammed his paper to the table and stood abruptly, the chair scraping back across the floor. “You'll not speak to your mother that way.”

I jumped. I tapped my heels together. There's no place like home. There's no place like home. I think I might have been rocking a bit back and forth because suddenly the kitchen was quiet and calm and everyone was looking at me. I leaned forward again till all four feet of the chair were on the floor. “Sorry.”

I heard a door slam and I turned and Aden was gone.

“Shite.”

“George!”

“Sorry Beatrice.”

I turned and the two of them were staring at each other, Mrs Willingham's eyes shining. She looked over at me, suddenly remembering I was there. “You must be tired.” She looked at Elizabeth. “Could you show Brandon his room.” She busied herself with something on the countertop behind her, wiping at her eyes, the tea service forgotten. Mr Willingham put a hand on her shoulder. I looked away, embarrassed at catching them in an intimate moment.

Elizabeth hopped up from her chair beside me and grabbed my hand and tugged me along with her. She practically ran up the stairs,two at a time first to the second floor and then to the third. The house seemed awfully narrow as we worked our way up until we got to the third floor landing. She opened the door to the left. Like the kitchen, the room was sparse, the walls bare. A small twin bed and a wardrobe were the only furniture. There was a window behind sheer curtains that looked out onto a “backyard” and another row of houses on the other side. An ornate fence surrounded the backyard which seemed to be shared by all the row of houses on both sides. An intricate gate seemed the only other way in. I saw Aden sitting on a bench in the center of the garden.

“He likes you, you know.” I looked down and saw Elizabeth standing next to me by the window. “He puts on a show of not liking you. But he's been waiting for you to come since we found out we'd be hosting you. It's just since...”

“'ere's your bags.” Mr Willingham

I turned, startled. “If you need anything, Aden's across the way. Bea and I are on the second floor with Elizabeth. Come along Elizabeth. Long flight and the airport probably knackered 'im right out.” He looked over at me. “It seems we've made a real dog's dinner of you're arrival.”

I looked at him, an eyebrow arched quizzically.

“Botched things up good.” He reiterated.

I could only nod.