Looking at my parents’ house, my childhood home, I am hit with nothing but dread. Memories of this place being my prison slam into me, and I’m instantly hit with the familiar feeling of wanting to flee. But sucking it up, I pull up to the gates and press the button on the intercom.
It doesn’t surprise me when a mystery voice answers. No sane person could work for Stella for a long period. If you worked longer than six months in the Lane household, you were considered for sainthood.
“Hello?” says the nasally voice.
“Hi. It’s Peyton.” Silence. “I used to live here.” More silence. “I’m the daughter who undoubtedly has driven Stella to have an extra Long Island iced tea with her quinoa and kale salad.” No surprise when the gate opens.
I refrain from speeding down the driveway like a NASCAR on its final lap and cruise the drive, admiring the landscaped gardens, which were the only thing I ever liked about living here. Gardeners clip, prune, and mow, perfecting the greenery and ensuring the Lanes’ garden is the best in the neighborhood. I have the urge to do a burnout on the front lawn but hold back, not wishing to throw anyone under the Stella Lane bus.
I purposely rev the engine, giggling when Cayden’s truck roars like a lion, alerting my perfect family that their not-so-perfect kin has arrived. After I kill the engine, I reach for my bag and shoes.
Jumping from the beast, I decide to walk barefoot because the warm summer sun still heats the terracotta pavers on the driveway. The vast mansion in front of me would impress most, but I’m not most people. I know what lies inside. This house may have opulent possessions, but loneliness is what paints these pristine white walls.
I know this mansion contains eight bedrooms and six bathrooms, and I have firsthand knowledge of the costly things that have never been used. Every perfect surface has been committed to memory not because I am in awe of all my parents have, no, but because it is a reminder of what I refuse to become.
People like my parents crave more, more, more because more is never enough. Bigger houses, faster cars, trophy wives, scandalous lies—it all comes with the territory of being a part of this bullshit life. A life many crave, while me, I simply want to be happy. I have come to learn that in this world, it’s either one or the other.
With a hesitant pace, I walk up the white marble steps, certain if I looked down, I could see the color of my underwear in the gleam of the polished floor. I wonder how long the workmen were forced to polish the stonework until Stella was satisfied.
The alcove is a white dome, completely superficial like the rest of this house. I press the doorbell, the chime akin to a sound one would opt for to announce the commencement of a death march. I hate this fucking house.
The door opens, and I’m instantly smacked with memories I wish I could forget. When I walked through these doors after I arrived home from the hospital, I thought, by some miracle, all the answers to my questions would be uncovered. But as days turned into weeks, it was apparent that I wouldn’t find solace here. And I doubt I ever will.
A man I’ve never seen before stands by the open doorway, waiting for me to enter. He looks to be in his early forties. He also looks like someone Stella would fire in an instant because he has kindness behind his green eyes.
“Good evening, Miss.” He steps aside, welcoming me into my well-furnished cell.
Every bone in my body is telling me to run far, far away and not look back, but I figure the sooner I get this over with, the sooner I can go home.
He offers to take my bag, but I wave him off. I don’t want anyone waiting on me. “Are my siblings here?” I ask, stepping into the lavish foyer. A grand staircase, similar to the one you’d expect to see in any Disney movie where the princess waltzes down to meet her Prince Charming, is feet away. I’m half expecting Stella to saunter down it in her designer threads and blinding jewels, as she’s one to make an entrance. But I’m safe—for now.
“Yes,” he replies, closing the door and sealing my fate for good.
“All of them?” I ask, astounded that Ursula, the Antichrist incarnate, could part from her luxurious lifestyle and mingle with the common people for one night. Her nanny most likely quit, which undoubtedly interrupted her plans to tour Europe for the summer. Looking at the kind man beside me, I empathize with him as he has no idea what he’s in for.
“Yes,” he repeats, his tone commiserating.
“Fucking great.” A smile tugs at his lips, his full mustache joining in with the fun. I instantly like him. “What’s your name?”
He peers around the room, almost afraid to speak. “Luis Lopez.”
“Well, Luis Lopez…I won’t bother asking you if you like working here because that’s fairly obvious.” Hunting through my bag, I find my checkbook and a pen. Flipping the book open, I casually ask, “Do you have any children?”
“Yes, I have three.”
“Oh, that’s lovely,” I reply as I use my bag as a crutch and busily write out a check.
“Tonight is my youngest daughter’s fourth birthday party,” he reveals with a frown. Pausing, I shake my head and decide to add another zero.
Luis watches me closely, almost afraid as my determined strokes disclose my intentions. Signing my name, I tear off the check and hand it to him. “Here. Go buy her something nice.” He backs away, shaking his head animatedly.
“If Mrs. Lane found out, she’d be very upset with me.”
Scoffing, I wave the check, hinting this isn’t negotiable. “Mrs. Lane will be very upset regardless of what you do. She was born with a stick up her ass, and that won’t be removed anytime soon. Please, take it.”
His dilemma is evident because what good father would miss their daughter’s birthday voluntarily? I know he’s a good father because that’s the only reason he’s stuck in that monkey suit, taking shit from Miss High and Mighty.
“What would I tell Mrs. Lane?”
“Leave her to me. Go spend time with your family.” When he hesitates, I stuff the check into his palm with a smile. “Go before she realizes you’re gone.” He understands what that means for him if she does.
“Thank you, Miss.” He clutches my hands in his and nods in gratitude.
My heart swells. It’s the least I can do. This man deserves a medal for putting up with Stella. “It’s quite all right, and please, my name is Peyton.”
With one final nod, he stuffs the check into his pocket and opens the door. However, he turns over his shoulder, once again scanning his surroundings before divulging, “Miss…Peyton. Someone is waiting for you. Upstairs.” My gaze immediately drifts upward, climbing the staircase with fear. “Mrs. Lane will surprise you before dinner. Be careful.” He crosses himself like he does in church before slamming the door behind him.
I blink once, unsure how to interrupt his worrisome warning. Who is this someone? Is this person my surprise? It would appear so.
“Darling, were you robbed?” Stella gasps as she emerges from the living room, her hand pressed dramatically on her chest over her heart. She’s decked out in a silky pantsuit with white studded heels. Valentino, no doubt.
I refrain from answering that yes, I was robbed of my sanity the moment I stepped foot inside. “No.” I know she’s referring to my less than acceptable dinner attire. She waits for me to elaborate, but I don’t.
She purses her full lips, and I can’t decide if she’s smiling or scowling. “Where are your shoes?” When I hold up my gold sandals, a tiny giggle escapes me when I notice a wad of pink gum attached to the left sole. Stella, on the other hand, looks seconds away from spraying me with Lysol.