Ada's Night

They were perfect. My parents were happy. The night they had their party for their 10th anniversary was a night of celebration. My aunt was there, and so was my grandmother. They were the only family we had left at the time. Now I have no one.

My parents left my sister and I at the house after the family left. They said they wanted to get a last minute addition to the night. "The car set ablaze quickly," is what the officials had told my sister and I. "A quick death. They hit the barrier hard, the three of them." 

"The three of them?" I had asked. 

"A dog," the officials had told me. "In the backseat." 

The night of Mother and Father's anniversary was the night their souls parted from the earth. I wouldn't leave the house days afterwards. We waited patiently for our mother and father. My sister and I lived in the house, alone for some time. My fear was bigger than the world, but it was a fear of the world. Where had mother and father gone? 

They took my sister and I five days after the accident. They told us what had happened and about why it happened. We were too young to be on our own and too young to understand. They asked if we had any family. I told them about our crazy aunt and our old grandmother. Though, they never called.

"Warlington," a female voice crackles over the speakers of the train, "next stop."

Ms. Anderson said I should go and build myself back up, one block at a time. "You'll grow into it," she had reassured me when I stood in front of the cracked mirror of the orphanage with the rusted frame. She told me the dress was her mother's. She said I needed it more than she did. 

It's one of the few things I own, the dress I'm wearing now that goes down to my ankles. It's white with a flame stitch pattern of baby blue. This train is colorless and I am the lost one here. I don't belong. I'm the anomaly. 

"Warlington," the female voice with the gentle British accent says through the circular speakers. 

The train slows, and I am the only one in the stuffy car that rises. I grip a shaky pole. The train comes to a halting stop. 

The fresh air hits my face with intensity, the doors of the train pulled back. I will myself to take a step, to start the process of rebuilding. 

"Miss," a hand on my arm that sends my heart into a pounding fit. "You forgot this." 

What could I have possibly forgotten? I own nothing of value. I turn to see an old man in ragged clothes. His face, like a map of the places he's been, the pain he's endured. Dark circles line the skin under his deep blue eyes. He holds out an old, leather wallet that's worn with a bite from a dog on the side. My father's.

"Thank you." I must have left it on the gray seat of the train. 

"No worries, Miss. Have a great night," he starts to hobble back to the awaiting doors of the train. "And," he adds, "stay safe." 

I don't leave till the doors of the train close and it speeds away leaving me alone to my thoughts and the whirl of wind that lifts up my dress. I flatten it with my hands and draw in a shaky breath. It's the first time in a long time that I've been out. The cool night air brings goosebumps crawling from my toes to my neck. I'm cold. I should've taken up Ms. Anderson's offer on that thick fur wrap. 

The Warlington train station is old, the wood of the benches warped and the signs hanging from the rusty nails. It's a time like this when I wish I was with my aunt. We had good times, though. A shame it had to end this way. 

I carry myself from the edge of the tracks where a faded yellow line borders the edge of the concrete walkway for waiting passengers. My heart thrums madly in my chest. This doesn't seem to be the right place. I think, perhaps it looks more welcoming in the morning light. But morning is far from near. I have to get through the night first, I remind myself. And, the party. 

I'm careful as I walk in the hand-me-down heels from Rebecca, the girl who just left Ms. Anderson's orphanage to have a family of her own. They sparkle in the light, but look plain white in the dark. It took a couple tries to get used to them, but I never practiced for the cracked pavement of the streets of Warlington. I fumble with my small handbag as I search for the wrinkled piece of parchment. It crinkles as I pull it from the bag, flapping in the wind. The ink on the paper reads 613 Fellows Street, Warlington, Aplos. I look up at the small cluster of houses. It's the only neighborhood in sight for miles, and any farther than the station is a dirt road. It's like a town that was never finished being built. 

Some of the houses are small brick squares, others are tall and have old siding. The street lamps seem misplaced, like me, and they flicker as if they were candles. "If you're ever lost, just look for the moon," my father used to tell me. Then he'd call me by my favorite animal, "My sweet, little sea turtle." 

603. 608. 610. There, 613. This is the house? I swallow and take a deep breath. I close my eyes. "Life is being gracious to you," Ms. Anderson had told me, "this is an opportunity for you, Ada. Don't let it go to waste." I want to go back to the orphanage where I can hide away in the attic reading the tremendous volumes that are stacked to the ceiling. I didn't let it go to waste, I'll tell her. I just felt like coming home. But Ms. Anderson wouldn't believe me. I've never called the orphanage home and I never will. 

Just go, the wind presses against my back. This is your chance. Your future. I open my eyes to the dark and the blackness of the night. I walk up the stone path to the house and hover my hand over the doorbell. 

"My future," the words taste sweet on my tongue. I press the button. 

From the inside of the home I hear the bell ringing, like the old grandfather clock in the orphanage. I straighten myself up and run a hand through my hair. Then I realize I still have the wallet in my hand. Why do I hold on to things like I'm going to lose them? I slip it into my purse just as the door opens.

"Ada!" The voice comes from a blonde haired girl in a hot pink dress. "Come in, come in!" She squeals. I let her lead me inside.

The house smells of paint. I glance around at the walls. They're full of colorful canvases, "My mother's," the girl explains as she takes me through the foyer. She drags me through the living room and the kitchen, paints and brushes everywhere. When we get to the door to her basement I stop. 

"What's the matter?" She asks. 

I'm scared, is what I want to tell her. "I haven't been to one of these," my voice cracks and I swallow, "since the night of my parent's anniversary."

She smiles, "So? There's no script. You don't have to perform for anyone," she reaches for my hand, "just be you."