One Bride for Four Ranchers
As I roll up toward the house, I see my mother, Anita, wandering around a well manicured turf lawn with a moving box in her arms. She zigzags back and forth, her wavy blonde hair streaming behind her in the light breeze. When she hears my Subaru, she pivots and smiles at me, squinting against the sunlight.
“Well, here we go,” I breathe into the quiet interior air. “No turning back now.”
Taking a deep breath, I slap a big fat smile on my face and open the door, waving cheerfully over my head as though I have got an imaginary banner unfurled or something. Mom tips her chin toward the house, suggesting that I take a look at it. As if on cue, my dad emerges from the open garage door, pulling on a pair of work gloves.
“Hey! You're here!” he calls out, smiling.
“I sure am!” I reply with as much cheer as I can muster. Despite my cranky mood, I can’t help but love their enthusiasm.
Striding across the lawn, I join my mom and her moving box as my dad cuts diagonally toward us. Her eyes slide toward him, then back toward me. She nods happily, but I don’t know why. This is her way: a lot of nonverbal communication that goes right over my head.
I'm happy that my dad came over to this spot on the lawn because he likes to use actual words that other human beings can understand. My mom, on the other hand, operates in some kind of super primate clairvoyance experiment instead. I assume that all these years making nature documentaries has convinced her that words are for humans who refuse to truly evolve, or something like that.
“Man, you look great!” my dad sighs, crushing me in a big bear hug. “Doesn't she look great?”
My mom tips her head to the side and looks at the toes of my shoes, then my left shoulder. She smiles and shrugs at the box in her hands.
I raise my eyebrows at my dad, hoping for some kind of clue what that all meant. He just smirks.
“Where is all your stuff? Did you bring everything?”
“Yeah, it's all here in the back,” I reply.
He walks over and opens the back gate of the Subaru, stacking a couple of crates and angling them confidently against his hip.
“It sure doesn't seem like very much,” he says doubtfully. “Are you sure this is it?”
“Yeah, well, it's just one dorm room worth of stuff. I guess it's not really all that much,” I mutter, but he's already on his way up toward the house again.
“You should come see your room!” he calls over his shoulder as he takes the concrete steps, two at a time. “It's pink!”
Grabbing a couple of duffels, I glance over my shoulder to see if my mom is trying to send me more psychic messages, but she's still following her moving box around as though it is some kind of divining rod. The boxes are all labeled on the sides: dining room, pre-Columbian artifacts, etc. The box that's in her hands is marked “Notebooks, 1 of 2.” Looks like it must be searching for its better half.
As soon as I walk in the front door, I can tell that this house is actually a lot nicer than other places we’ve lived. My parents are definitely the adventurous types, so we have stayed briefly in lofts, other people's guesthouses (which are basically garages), industrial spaces, and tiny shacks in out of the way places. Once we lived in a Russian-style yurt in southern Wyoming, tracking buffalo by day and looking up at the stars through the smoke hole at night.
My parents make documentaries about American wildlife, so we tend to end up in remote towns that are frankly better suited for wildlife than humans. Mom writes the documentary and dad shoots it with her over a few weeks or months, then we move on. We’re basically vagabonds.
But this place is pretty nice, I think as I run my palm over the carved wooden post at the bottom of the staircase. It's got two spacious rooms that I can see from the front hallway, set up with small sofas facing each other, as if conversations are required here. There’s a staircase leading upward to a ninety degree angle topped with a stained-glass window. It's pretty. Most surprisingly of all, this seems utterly habitable with no major intervention or rehab required. We’re not roughing it, for once.
At the top of the stairs, I peer down the hallway to figure out which room is mine. I assume it has to be the one with the door open and that neon pink glow spilling out.
“Isn't it great?” my dad breathes excitedly as I come around the corner and through the doorway. He holds his hands out like, ‘ta-dah!’
“Oh, man,” I start. I'm not sure what to say. It's definitely pink. Pink walls. Slightly darker pink ceiling. Long, floral lightweight curtains that skim along the top of the petal pink carpet.
“You got your own bathroom too!” he announces, flinging open one of the walnut stained doors. Thankfully, that room is stone white, like a visual breath of fresh air.
I set my duffels down on the bed and rub the ache out of my shoulder.
“This is pretty awesome,” I say, forcing a smile. I can tell how proud he is that the room is set up with my bed, my bedspread, and a nice set of drawers. And do I really have anything against the color pink? No. I mean, this quite a bit of it, but…
“Your mom said you would love it,” he winks.
Despite myself, I wonder what combination of gestures that entailed.
“Yeah, it's pretty great,” I nod.
Awkwardness marches between us like a bunch of popsicle stick figures. Suddenly he points toward the large window.