The Distance Home Read online

  “You’ll be back though, right?” Ben’s eyebrows are still lopsided.

  “No, I don’t think so.” I push up and march to the door, hoping to sidestep any additional questions. And hoping to make my escape before Jillian returns. That’s one reunion I know I’m not ready for.

  “She’ll be back,” Rena says.

  4

  August 1991

  The house is big and empty. Every sound echoes and bounces and reminds Emma that nothing will ever be the same. The three burly moving guys shout directions to one another. She sits on the fourth step and winces at every yell. Or what feels like yelling.

  “Scuze me. Coming through.”

  She presses her flat eight-year-old chest into her thighs, and scoots closer to the railing. The first moving guy either huffs at her or is breathing hard, but eases past without saying another word. The shadow of something solid passes overhead and she squeezes her eyes shut.

  “I specifically ordered individual armchairs. Two. Black. Armchairs. I don’t want a couch. I don’t want a loveseat. I want two armchairs.” Her father paces the length of the foyer, cordless phone pressed to his ear. He stops at the base of the stairs. “Emma, please find someplace else to sit.” Tap, tap go the heels of his dress shoes.

  Without looking up, she uncurls her body and peels her fingers from the balustrade. The front door is propped open, but she turns and walks through the kitchen and out the back door.

  The house is perched on a hill; a long carpet of browning grass stretches to a strip of woods where she can just make out what appears to be a path. She looks back at the house. It doesn’t welcome her back inside. Her father will still be pacing, broadcasting into the phone, ordering around invisible people. Her mom is most likely sitting under a shade tree someplace. Emma’s eyes dart to the large tree by the side of the house. Not there. Oh well. She turns back to the woods.

  It can’t be any worse down there.

  A rabbit scampers out of a tall patch of grass as she walks by, startling a gasp out of her. There aren’t many rabbits running around in their Baltimore neighborhood. In what was their neighborhood. She’s pretty sure she’ll never see it again now that her father has moved them all the way out here.

  At the edge of the woods, she turns back one more time. Is she hoping someone will be there waving her back? There isn’t. Christelle, the nanny her father had hired a year ago, was let go before the move.

  The path snakes into the woods, a clear invitation to escape from the harsh summer heat and the echoing stillness of the new house. She can’t bring herself to call it home. She doesn’t want to be here. The hour and a half between Emmitsville and Baltimore feels like light-years traveled between planets. None of her friends will come visit. They hadn’t even come over to say good-bye. Kathy only stood in the window of her bedroom and waved at Emma as their car pulled away.

  Without the blasting sun, the day doesn’t feel nearly as suffocating. She picks up a stick and, pretending it’s a crop, taps her thigh and clucks. She picks up her pace to a pretend canter and jumps a fallen log. That’s another thing she’ll miss about Baltimore, going to watch Kathy at her weekly riding lessons.

  Her parents wouldn’t let her ride, but they didn’t know Kathy’s instructor let Emma get on and walk around once in a while. She’d even taught her how to post the trot last time. Six awesome, butt-bouncing strides.

  She jumps the log several times, clucking and tapping at her pretend horse with the pretend crop just as she’s seen the bigger girls do in the class before Kathy’s. Out of breath, she slows to a walk and continues down the path.

  The woods come to an abrupt, blindingly bright end. Emma shields her eyes and scans the sprawling field in front of her. A wood-rail fence blocks her path. Peering between the bottom and top rails, all she can see is more grass. By pulling herself up onto the bottom rail, she’s tall enough for a better view.

  A building glimmers at the other end of the field, volleying sharp rays of light over the field. From somewhere in the distance, a horse whinnies. Emma catches her breath and waits. There it is again. Her new neighbor has a pony. Maybe living out here won’t be so bad after all.

  She jumps down and squeezes through the slats of the fence, then runs up the hill toward the silvery building. The neighbor doesn’t just have a pony, the neighbor has an entire fancy stable.

  Emma walks to the side of the barn and stops short. A girl about her age on a light brown pony is trotting around an outdoor ring. She sits perfectly straight, posting in time to the pony’s quick steps. In the middle of the ring an older woman stands, arms crossed over her chest, weight pushed into her right hip, a large floppy hat shading her face.

  “Do you intend to ride that pony or just be an ornament?” the woman yells.

  Emma cringes in sympathy for the girl.

  The girl doesn’t seem disturbed at all. “I am riding. This is boring.” She slouches and bounces a few times until the pony slows to a walk. She flips a long blond braid over her shoulder and smooths at an escaped strand. They continue around the ring, the pony’s head hanging low, the girl’s shoulders slouching in a pout.

  “Who are you?”

  Emma looks up into piercing eyes. “Emma.” Her voice squeaks under the scrutiny of the girl on the pony. “We just moved into that house.” She jolts her hand up and in the direction she came from.

  The girl follows the line, her mouth twitching. “Do you have a horse?”

  “No.”

  “Then why are you here?”

  “I was out exploring and heard a horse. I didn’t think this place would be so big.”

  The girl is quiet, long enough to make Emma squirm. “If you live in that house you must be rich. Why don’t you have a horse?”

  “Jillian,” the woman under the large hat yells. “That pony needs to be walked out. He’s not a couch. Stop slouching.”

  With a final disgusted but somewhat curious look at Emma, the girl turns the pony and walks away.

  The yeller takes a few steps in Emma’s direction, her eyes commanding eye contact. She gives a quick nod and says, “You can look around if you’re interested.”

  Emma hesitates for a fraction of a breath. She knows she shouldn’t be here. Dad will be mad that she snuck out of the house. But she really doesn’t want to go back yet. This place is like the stable in a movie she saw with Kathy and Kathy’s mom. Oh man, Kathy will be jealous when she hears about this.

  Big, cold house or big, amazing stable? Emma chews on the fatty part at the base of her nail on the left ring finger. Another thing her dad will yell at her about.

  Big, amazing stable where no one will yell at her. Hopefully.

  Keeping her distance, Emma follows the pony and his rider to the barn. She can feel the older lady watching her but can’t look back. What if she asks to talk to her parents?

  The girl stops her pony at the entrance to the stable and jumps off. She flicks a look at Emma but doesn’t say anything.

  A man comes out of the barn and stops, blocking their path. “What did you forget to do?” His tone is soft but Emma can tell he expects action.

  The girl huffs, turns back to the pony, and loosens the girth. “I don’t understand why you can’t just have one of the stable hands do this.”

  “Because you need to take care of your own pony.”

  “That’s boring. I just want to ride.”

  “You don’t ride if you don’t know how to care for the pony. Now get him inside and hose him off.”

  The man turns to where Emma stands. “Hello. Are you a friend of Jillian’s from school?”

  “I’ve never seen her before.” Jillian shoots her a look before yanking at the lazing pony and pulling him into the barn.

  “Um, I’m new. We just moved here.” Once again, she lifts her hand and points at the megahouse on the other side of the woods.

  A large, calloused hand reaches out to shake hers. “I’m Simon.”

  “Hi.” Her voice squeak
s again. “I’m Emma.”

  “Do you ride, Emma?”

  “Um, no. I’ve been on a horse a couple of times. But I don’t ride.”

  “With those long arms and legs, you should.”

  “Um, I don’t think so.”

  She feels her face heat under Simon’s gaze. Adults usually looked past her, talked over her. This man is looking at her, talking to her. She feels a smile break through her nerves. She likes this man. He reminds her of Kathy’s grandfather. Emma doesn’t have grandparents anymore.

  She looks up, her smile widening. “My friend’s riding teacher told me I look like a frog on a horse.”

  Simon tips his head back and laughs, a warm, welcoming sound. “I’m going to call you Toad.”

  “Toad.” Emma tries the word out but it doesn’t sound as nice coming from her mouth. Simon has a soft, gruff voice and an accent that reminds her of Zoe, the nanny before Christelle. She’d been from England.

  The yeller with the big, floppy hat is watching her. Emma tries to smile but her lips are too scared to do more than pucker in the corners.

  “Come on, I’ll show you around,” Simon says.

  She follows him into the barn and listens carefully as he introduces her to all the horses.

  “How old are you, Emma?” he asks when they’re halfway down the second aisle.

  “Um, eight.” She keeps her eyes on the muzzle of the horse she’s petting.

  “Just a year between you and my granddaughter. You’ll need to come around more. I think you two could be great friends.”

  Emma can’t see how since Jillian made it clear she doesn’t want her around. She watches a tall, dark brown horse being led out of the barn and blushes when she realizes her mouth is open. “He’s beautiful.”

  “Yes, he is,” Simon agrees. “Come on, Jilli should be giving Pogo a shower out back. He’s quite a clown with the water.”

  Her mouth feels stuck in a silly grin but for once, she doesn’t care. She follows him out a side door.

  The chestnut pony stands quietly at the outdoor wash area, the hose clamped between his lips, his head bobbing side-to-side and spraying anyone who attempts to come close. Jillian stands to the side, left hand on left hip, a bored look on her face.

  “Oh my gosh, he’s so funny.” Emma claps with joy.

  Pogo turns to look at them, the stream of the hose arcing, spraying Jillian in the process. She shrieks and jumps, the sudden movement making the pony toss his head and spray Emma and Simon. Laughing, Simon grabs the unruly rubber snake but not before all three humans are wet. Even tight-lipped Jillian can’t suppress the giggles. Not that it softens her for long, but for a few precious moments, Emma feels welcome.

  With Pogo washed and turned out, Emma makes a final round to say good-bye to her new equine friends. At the barn door she looks back and, with a skip in her heart, heads home.

  Like a magnet, the sign at the top of the parking lot pulls her closer. She runs her fingers inside the letters engraved in the wood, the dark green paint smooth to the touch. JUMPING FROG FARM. A place with a name like that has to be magical. And she needs a bit of magic in her life right now.

  “Hey, Toad,” Simon’s voice booms from the entrance to the barn. “Come back soon. I want to see you on a pony.”

  She returns the wave, then canters into the woods. She’ll be back. From someplace deep down in her eight-year-old gut, she knows she’ll be back. This place is special. This place is meant for her.

  5

  I pull into the circular drive in front of my father’s apartment building and flip on the hazards. The concierge will need to let me into the parking garage since the tenant swipe card had been in Dad’s wallet and, as a result, burned to a crisp.

  The building is on the border of Maryland and Washington, DC. Friendship Heights. Ironic. It’s an old brick high-rise, walking distance to the Metro station, with more restaurants and coffee shops within skipping distance than you could visit in a week. Maybe I should stay here instead of the out-of-the-way Mountain Inn.

  The glass door reflects my approach and suddenly self-conscious, I tug at the hem of my T-shirt and stomp off the stable dirt. Jeans feel entirely too casual for vising my father. Even if he’s not here for my visit.

  A man wearing running shorts and a bright yellow T-shirt blocks the entry while he fiddles with the earbuds connected to his iPhone.

  I reach for the door and clear my throat. He steps sideways at the same time I do and we shift in a brief stranger-shuffle dance until he stops with a chuckle and pivots to let me pass. There’s a prickle on the back of my neck. He’s watching. I wonder who he is and if he knew my father.

  Armed with a new tenant swipe card and an earful of sympathy from the concierge, I re-park my car in the slot marked RESERVED 907. The elevator speeds past beeping floors at warp speed. The doors whoosh open at the ninth floor. My hands tighten around the rail behind me. A woman reaches out to hold the elevator door while a fluffy white dog darts in. The dog stops when he sees me and lets out a cross between a bark and a growl, then backs out of the elevator. I stay Velcroed to the back wall.

  “Is this your floor?” The woman and the dog, snarling from behind her ankle, give me a suspicious once-over.

  The idea of riding back down under their beady eyes seems worse than the alternative. I push off the wall and step over the fluffy beast.

  My father’s condo is at the end of the hall. The plush carpet muffles my progress, not that there’s anyone here to notice. If I close my eyes I could be walking to my own apartment.

  But I’m not.

  I’m about to step into the unknown world of Edward Metz. He’s lived here for almost fifteen years and I’ve been through those doors exactly twice. The last time, for one hour. One glass of wine before we went to dinner and he had the cab drop me at my hotel after. That was at least five years ago. The time before that? An hour. A month after he moved in. Long enough for him to make two phone calls before whisking me to the airport on the way back to boarding school after our winter “vacation” to California, where he worked four of the five days we were there.

  I try to think how many times he visited my apartment. Twice maybe? No, three times. No, twice.

  How utterly fucked up is that?

  I suck in a long breath and clamp my lips together to keep air from leaking out, just like I did as a little girl before jumping into the deep end of the pool, then turn the key in the lock.

  In front of me is a glossy magazine spread. Light bamboo floors, beige walls, two white leather couches parallel to each other, two black armchairs closing the not-so-cozy sitting arrangement around a glass coffee table. To the left, a black marble counter separates the living room from the kitchen. Spotless stainless appliances glint in the afternoon light, while the glass doors on the cabinets reflect the tall windows surrounding the living room.

  The door clicks shut behind me, the minimal sound making me jump more than if it had banged shut. The deafening silence competes with the blinding starkness.

  Next to the kitchen are two doors. One is open and I catch a glimpse of bookshelves and a black leather desk chair. Dad’s home office. The closed door must be a bathroom. A shudder ripples up my spine at the thought of seeing Dad’s toiletries. It’s the personal side of a man who was far from personal. To my right is the closed door of the coat closet and rays of light coming from windows down a hallway.

  I follow the path of light, turning a sharp left when I reach the end. A short corridor opens directly into a vast bedroom. Without kids or houseguests, I suppose he didn’t need the privacy afforded by a door to his bedroom.

  And yet his home office has a door. An open door.

  He never left the door open when I lived under the same roof with him.

  I resist the pull of the open office door and walk into the bedroom. Another room that had been largely off-limits, especially after Mom got sick.

  The bedroom holds a king-size platform bed, low to the ground and
sleek in light wood that almost matches the floor. A white comforter is pulled tight over the mattress. A silvery-gray squiggle shimmies up the left side, from the foot of the comforter to end someplace under the pile of white pillows. Out of six pillows, one is set slightly off, the only hint of imperfection. A dresser hugs the far wall, low and long with nothing on top except one framed picture and a dark brown leather tray to hold keys and coins at the end of the day. A quarter, two dimes, and a penny were left behind.

  Black-and-white photographs traverse the walls of the bedroom, perfectly level, perfectly spaced, the only interruption caused by the door to the closet and the windows. I squint at the photograph closest to me. A dramatic shot of a building. The next one, another building. Each photograph, another architectural shot from a different angle in different lighting. Not one human to be found in any of them. I guess he preferred them in drawings, captured the way he wanted them to be.

  I walk to the lone frame on the dresser. My hand stops mid-reach. It’s also black-and-white but there are no fancy buildings in this one. A woman sits on a step, leaning against the column of a porch railing. A young girl stands on the lawn in front, her body turned as though in a last-minute decision to wave good-bye. I stare at my five-year-old self, trying to remember where I’d been going. My mom’s right hand is up, mid-wave. The photographer has caught her in profile; the corners of her mouth are turned up but the smile looks wistful. Maybe it’s the light in the photograph. Maybe it’s the light in the room. Maybe it’s the memory of the woman I never really knew.

  I pull my hand back and hug my stomach, fisting the soft fabric of my T-shirt in each hand. I don’t remember ever seeing this photograph. Why this one, Dad?

  A phone rings on the other side of the condo, startlingly muffled, as though it doesn’t dare disturb. I walk back through the living room and into the kitchen. No morning coffee mug in the sink, no ring on the granite from a sweating glass. I wonder if the cleaners were here recently or if this is how my father left it that last morning when he walked out the door and never returned.