True Intentions Page 2

  Chapter Two – Another Sunrise

  It's been over three months since the accident, yet sometimes it seems like only yesterday. My world has changed. It has no resemblance to my life before that October day.

  I desperately miss my dad and especially Aiden.

  How I miss Aiden . . . .

  I want to see him so badly, to speak to him, to hear his laugh, or even to have a drag down fight with him. Each night, I wake up crying after having another dream; all i nvolve him. The dreams are scattered all over the place without any common themes.

  The only consistent part in my dreams—Aiden is alive. Sometimes he is walking away from a burning car wearing dirty and torn clothes, and even though blood covers him, he is standing upright, appearing strong. Other times he is doing normal things like watching TV or eating breakfast, as if nothing ever happened.

  My thoughts constantly go back to the male stranger who checked Aiden's pulse and then took off. Had he not seen Dad and me in the car? It seemed practically impossible not to notice us in there. So why didn't he check on us? Why would he just walk away after assessing Aiden?

  The guilt makes me want to throw up. My brother and Dad are gone forever, but I survived with only a stupid concussion and a dislocated left shoulder.

  Even though I internally sulk every minute I possibly can, maintaining a strong, outward appearance is essential.

  Mom quit working at the hospital right away. She had been "more together" at their funerals than she has been lately. Now, she just sits around in her pajamas all day and night looking through photo albums and staring into midair without saying a word.

  It's painful to watch.

  People have been constantly calling our home wanting to check on her status, concerned they haven't heard from her.

  I stopped answering the phone since I'm tired of lying to everyone all the time.

  Even though I see her daily, she hasn't been what would be considered "mentally accessible" since the accident.

  Today, she surprises me more than she has over the last three months.

  A knock on my bedroom door causes me to jump. I'm nestled under the warm covers trying to sleep without the constant dreams— or nightmares—that take over my nights.

  My door creaks as it moves into a slightly open position.

  "Ava, are you awake?" she whispers, her head peeking through a crack.

  "Yeah, sure." I respond. I hastily push the covers off my torso and sit upright, attempting to appear alert. It seems like an eternity since she's started a conversation with me. In recent times, I've been the one to approach her. I find myself secretly yearning to talk with her.

  "We need to discuss something." She sounds more cautious than usual.

  I nod, unsure of what she means by this sudden need to discuss something. She begins walking across my bedroom sluggishly, with the speed of a turtle. She quietly steps over the clothes scattered over the bedroom floor.

  I can't remember the last time she asked me to clean my room. Without her constant nagging, picking up my stuff is not a priority. Even now, as she walks over the multiple piles, she says nothing. She finishes crossing the minefield, then sits on the edge of my queen-size, poster bed, looking around the room like she hasn't seen it for quite a while.

  "Let me first apologize," she finally says.

  That comment alone helps ease some of my built-up tension. Her tone is pleading; her eyes are red and swollen.

  "I haven't been a good mother to you lately. I realize that, and I wish I would have behaved differently during these last few months. You don't deserve isolation.

  You deserve a mom to be"—she looks around the room once again, and then continues—"supporting you."

  Her lip is quivering.

  "What I'm trying to say is . . . I should have been supporting you while you recovered from the accident and grieved. I haven't."

  She continues to look down, struggling to make eye contact.

  I consider interrupting her—telling her she is all wrong—but deep in my heart I know she isn't wrong. I decide to remain silent and wait to see where this conversation goes.

  My bed moves slightly as she exhales. "I have done a lot of thinking over the past few months. I believe it's very emotionally unhealthy for us to remain here in this house. It's just . . . well, we've had tons of wonderful family memories here, and I can't seem to move past that fact. Maybe it would be best if we—"

  "Move?" I interrupt, finishing her sentence.

  "Well, yes." She seems surprised. "That's right, I think moving is the best option for us right now. We need to start fresh. We will never forget Aiden or your dad, but we can't stay here surrounded by the constant memories of them in this house. I don't believe I can emotionally move on while remaining here. It is just . . . too difficult for me," she finally says.

  Personally, I love our house and don't want to imagine being in a different one, but I understand and am willing to sacrifice if it means helping her.

  I nod. "I understand, Mom. I will move if you feel it is the right thing to do."

  She smiles slightly at my response and wipes her eyes, which have filled with tears.

  "I know it will be right for us, and your grandparents will love having you close again."

  A gasp slips out.

  Did I hear her correctly?

  "What?" I exclaim, my body stiffing up at the very notion.

  "You're planning to move us to California? You just said moving, you never mentioned out of Chicago."

  My face flushes from the adrenaline.

  How can she even suggest such an idea? Is she insane?

  She sees through my outrage and quickly places her left hand on my leg.

  "Honey, Lake Arrowhead is a great community. It will be a real fresh start.

  Remember, I grew up there, Ava. We need to go someplace away from here, somewhere around supportive people to help us through this grieving process. Your grandparents are ecstatic to have me, well actually us, back home again."

  "We have supportive people here!" I throw out.

  I stare at my open closet door, trying to fight back the tears. My eyes burn.

  Without thinking, I fire back.

  "Do you even realize how many people have been calling for you while you sit in your room practically—" I realize my comment is completely rude and out of line. I instantly regret making such a harsh statement.

  She stands up and glares at me. "I do understand that people are trying to be supportive. I get that and appreciate it, more than you think I do. I need this change. Try to understand this is what I want for us."

  Those are the last words that come out of her mouth. She proceeds to stand up, turn around, and walk quickly out of my bedroom without looking back.

  I stare blankly at the back of the door. My hands tremble as the nausea sets in. I want to throw up. The mere thought of leaving Chicago, my friends, my life, and starting a new school in the middle of the year in California is unbearable.

  Can't there be another way?

  * * * * *

  Against my adamant wishes, we arrive in San Bernardino County mid-February.

  Lake Arrowhead's multiple communities are nestled in the mountains within the San Bernardino National Forest. It's definitely not a place I would have pictured as our permanent residence, yet, according to the last census report, it is home to approximately nine thousand families.

  Grandpa used to tell us stories of how the Serrano Indians originally inhabited this land. Although I'm not thrilled in the least bit to be living here, the Indians were right: this place is extraordinarily beautiful.

  We exit the plane, and I notice how different the airport looks from my memories of the last time I visited my grandparents in California when I was nine years old.

  We walk with the speed of snails down the ramp, heading to the airport terminal. Grandma and Grandpa are standing there with smiles. Thank God they didn't bring a stupid sign.

  "Cheryl, Ava" Grandma s
houts, waving her little hands in the air. Her small frame is like that of an older child, maybe around the age of twelve. She looks pretty good for her age, considering she's in her late sixties. Her silver hair falls slightly short of her small shoulders. There are a lot of wrinkles on her face, especially around her eyes. She looks happy, an emotion I haven't seen for a while. Immediately after the accident, my grandparents travelled to Chicago and helped my mom with all the funeral arrangements. I feel guilty since I barely remember seeing them during that brief time. Most of those first few days after the wreck are a complete blur to me.

  It seems as if I'm looking at her for the first time.

  My grandpa stands beside her, appearing tall compared to her tiny frame. He is six years older than grandma, but is still in really good physical shape from cutting wood around their log home since his retirement a few years ago. His skin appears to be much older than my grandmother's is, maybe from being out in the sun all the time back when he worked construction. His expression looks very serious, but, as we approach, the corners of his lips turn into a half-cocked smile. My mom scampers over to my grandparents and proceeds to hug her mother so hard, I think she is going to break my grandmother in half. I can't remember seeing her happy since . . . .

  "Ava, darling . . . . We're so happy you guys are here. We've missed you so," my grandmother says, interrupting my thoughts. My focus turns back to the present.

  "I miss you too, Grams," I confess while I try to squeeze her tightly, mimicking my mom.

  "Well, don't you worry dear, we have plenty of time to catch up," she reminds me, winking. A sincere smile sweeps across her face. At that moment, my mother grabs my hand and squeezes tightly.

  My grandfather stands with his hands in his pockets, waiting for his turn to embrace me. He grabs me tightly before I have the chance to say hello.

  "Hey there, Pea," he laughs, rubbing my head.

  He always called Aiden and me his sweet peas, since we were twins. I guess the saying "two peas in a pod" is where he got that silly name. While hearing my grandfather use that nickname, flashbacks enter my mind, memories of being younger and Grandpa playing with us on the floor. And times like learning how to water ski and Grandpa yelling from the boat, "Come on Pea, you can do it." That was the first time I attempted to get up on skis, and if I'd have my way—my last. Of course, with my athletic abilities, I wasn't very successful. Aiden accomplished the task of skiing the very first time he tried. It was depressing, but that wasn't the first time he'd demonstrated he was more physically gifted than I was.

  Thinking back to that day reminds me how much I loved being at this lake that summer. Grandpa called Lake Arrowhead the "Alps of Southern California." The natural peacefulness has always lured people to these mountains for relaxation and as a weekend getaway from Los Angeles. To me, Lake Arrowhead is a great place to visit, but Chicago is my true home. This California community isn't about to change that lifelong feeling.

  "Ava, are you nervous about starting a new school?" my grandma asks, interrupting my vivid flashbacks.

  Unfortunately, the schools in Lake Arrowhead—two elementary schools, one middle school, and one high school—are very small. It's an everyone-knows-everyone kind of place. That makes it way too easy for teachers to keep tabs on all the students.

  At least in Chicago it was easy to get away with things, like skipping class. Does she actually think I'm looking forward to a major culture shock going from more than two thousand students to a mere fraction of that number?

  "I guess," I mutter while shrugging and picking up speed toward the baggage claim area. Even though I just got off the stupid plane, I miss my friends, especially my BFF Mallory. She has been the one friend who was extremely supportive through the last few months, always looking out for me through this entire mess. I feel guilty leaving her after all she's done for me. I feel like I'm a traitor for abandoning her. We promised we would keep in touch through email, texting, and calling one another often, but it wouldn't be the same as seeing her almost every day.

  Sometimes when I think about everything that has happened, anger builds up inside me like a raging volcano ready to erupt. I get angry at Aiden and Dad for leaving me, angry at myself for not stopping them from going that day, and angry at God for letting this happen and ruining my life.

  What did I ever do to him?

  I'm going to start to cry if I don't do something, so I try to refocus and stop my negative, whining thoughts and shift my attention to Mom's conversation with my grandparents over house hunting. It's not like I have much else to do while waiting for my overstuffed suitcase.

  We're planning to stay with my grandparents while we check for available houses in the area. They live in a modest, log cabin, so I assume it will be cramped there while we look for a place of our own. According to my mom, I will have the entire loft upstairs to myself since all the other bedrooms are downstairs. At least that will guarantee me some privacy. I am completely clueless on how long we will be sharing a living space with them. Since they have lived across the country my entire life, I'm not sure how this arrangement will work. It's totally different spending one week a year with your long-distance family members verses moving into their home.

  As we approach the claim area, my mom continues to explain details of our trip.

  "Our flight wasn't bad at all. Even security was much easier to get through than I anticipated."

  "That's good. We were worrying you would have trouble and miss your flight,"

  Grandpa says with a snicker.

  My mom is known in the family for always being late to absolutely everything. It is a family joke to tell her to be somewhere thirty minutes prior to the time you actually want her to arrive.

  "Very funny, Dad!" she exclaims, laughing at his comment.

  Wow . . . I'm in disbelief.

  It is so strange to hear her laughing and also somewhat uncomfortable, yet surreal, hearing her call him Dad. Especially since I'm fully aware I will never address anyone as Dad again. He is gone forever . . . .

  A fake smile forms on my wary face while I attempt to get involved in their conversation rather than having my own pity party.

  "Would you guys like to stop and get something to eat before we head home?"

  Grams suggests with her eyes gleaming at us, looking hopeful.

  "Sure, that would be great," I answer quickly, anticipating my mom may respond she isn't hungry.

  Gramps decides to take us to some foods critic's favorite, The Saddleback Grill. It's not like there's very much food competition in this community. I can easily count the number of restaurants on both hands—maybe even on one.

  I eat in silence while my grandparents tell me all about the outdoor activities to do for fun around here: hiking, canoeing, fishing, and yachting. Grandma even mentions the bands that play at the lodge from May to September.

  "What about volunteering?" I ask, thinking of different activities to keep me busy.

  "Volunteering?" My grandfather repeats, appearing stunned like I cursed or something.

  I start to nod, and my mother immediately chimes in.

  "Ava likes to volunteer for organizations. She volunteered in a play program for inner-city schools back in Chicago called Safe Play. She taught the skill of play to elementary school children around the area."

  My grandfather chuckles at my mom's explanation. "Since when do you have to teach children how to play?"

  I dive into the story of how in high-crime areas, and with parents being the creators or organizers of kid's sports, children don't learn the skill of play. They don't learn how to set up their own rules, play fair, show empathy, or resolve simple conflicts. A college student discovered this phenomenon and developed a program to help elementary students learn the skill of play. I point out this program's core training has helped make recess successful in multiple inner-city school systems around the entire nation.

  "Ava, there aren't many inner-city schools around here. You better find somethin
g else to fill your time, honey," he replies, still laughing.

  Great . . . . I just discovered another reason to love Lake Arrowhead, as if I need more reasons why this place is a horrible fit for me.

  Chapter Three – First Impressions

  I'm dreading today, the first day at my new school. I've spent the last hour standing in front of the mirror painfully trying on a thousand outfits. The last thing I feel like doing is eating. But Grandma insists on making me eggs and bacon. A lump grows in my throat at the simple, painful thought of telling her no. She tries to make small talk while cooking, but I make sure all of my answers are a simple yes or no. I quickly say goodbye and hurry out the door. It doesn't take very long to make it down the narrow, winding roads to the high school.

  Once I reach the school parking lot, I nervously stare out the front window. Rim of the World High School is now officially my new school. Even the name sounds weird to me, much less the fact this school has only about eight hundred students—two hundred in each class, freshman to senior. It sucks. I'll be finishing my junior year here where I know absolutely no one.

  There are several expensive cars in the lot. It's like finding a needle in a haystack to find a car other than a BMW, Audi, Mercedes, Volvo, or Lexus. I roll my eyes doubting these are the teachers' cars. The closest building clearly read "Rim of the World High School Office" in large letters. I see another parking lot to my left, and although I can't read the sign at the entrance, I see an older man getting out of a SUV. I let out a slight sigh and decide to stop second-guessing myself. My eyes widen; I can't stop starring at the students' cars. Apparently, Grandpa is right: no inner-city kids here.

  My 1999 black Jeep looks so plain compared to the other cars. Guess I'm the needle. I'm not complaining. I'm actually grateful my grandfather has this older Jeep versus me being without a car or stuck driving their Buick Regal. I'm not sure which of those two options is worse? But thankfully, Grandpa thinks I need a vehicle with four-wheel drive in this mountain community.

  There really must be a God.