The People We Choose by Katelyn Detweiler (best selling autobiographies .TXT) 📕

didn’t. And you could have picked an anonymous donor to use for me. But you didn’t.” Just in case, they say. Just in case of what exactly, I’m not sure. I don’t think they’re sure either. Maybe access to future medical information. Or maybe it just felt too final to close that door for good. “You picked someone who was willing to be contacted. When I turned eighteen. If he’s still alive.”

I might not even request any information about him. A month from now, or anytime ever. Because then what? We talk on the phone? I search for him online? Pore over photos that come up, dissecting eyes, lips, cheekbones, ears, to find something that looks slightly like mine?

Mama impales a blueberry with her fork. “That may be true, but—”

“Can we talk about something else?” I interrupt, tapping my fork against Mama’s plate so she’s forced to look up at me. “Aren’t we supposed to be celebrating?”

“Sorry. I do come on strong, don’t I?” She grins. “Part of my charm. Can’t deny it.”

“Mm-hmm, whatever you say, sweets,” Mimmy says. She rolls her eyes, but in a loving way. She’ll never be immune to Mama’s charms. “Oh, I have something else to talk about! I went for a walk this morning, and I saw a car pull out of the driveway next door—the old Jackson place. I wonder what that was about? Could someone actually be moving in?”

I glance toward the window. “Yes. A family—they already moved in. I met the son. Max.”

“Oh?” Mimmy asks. “When?”

“He came by yesterday morning. Asking for sugar. I forgot to tell you last night.”

“Sugar!” Mama laughs incredulously. She scoops a forkful of dry, unsyruped pancake into her mouth.

“Yes, sugar. I had to regretfully inform him that sugar wasn’t allowed in our home.”

“So what was he like? It’s hard to imagine anyone besides Mr. Jackson living there. I assumed at this point that house was permanently abandoned.” Mama tilts her head, likely considering all potential cons of this development. “At least if they’re terrible, we have a sturdy army of trees between us.”

“I’m not sure we need an army. He seemed friendly enough.”

“Maybe we should bake something for them?” Mimmy says. “Welcome them to Green Woods. It can’t be easy, living in that house.”

That house.

My skin prickles at the way she says it, even though it’s already ninety degrees in our kitchen.

“There’s nothing wrong with that house,” Mama says, shaking her head. “It’s just an innocent dilapidated pile of dust and stone and I’m glad someone outside of this silly town can clean it back up. Otherwise it might as well be knocked down so the animals can have more room to play.”

Mimmy doesn’t seem convinced. “Maybe the stories aren’t all true. But I don’t have a good feeling when I drive by there. I swear my bones can feel it. The sadness.”

We all quietly continue eating after that.

Mimmy looks like she’s still thinking about ghosts. And Mama looks like she’s mentally planning out poses for her weekend classes.

I wait until I’ve cleared every last golden pool, running my finger against the plate and licking it clean. And then I say: “You’re right, Mimmy. It’s a good idea to bake something for the new neighbors.”

I walk into the shadowy trees later that afternoon.

I’m carrying a plate of Mimmy’s signature dessert, peach cobbler bars, with a tiny bowl of homemade maple-tofu whipped cream on the side. She’d walked me through the recipe before she and Mama left for the studio. Hopefully it’s at least half as good as hers. Half as good would still be far better than anyone else’s peach cobbler bars.

The woods become thicker and duskier as I get close, branches dipping low across my path. Leaves muffle the sound of the creek that runs behind both of our properties. I am alone. The only creature on this planet.

But then a ray of sun filters in. The trees open up slowly, one by one, like the woods are laying down a leafy golden trail for me.

One more step, and there it is, a hulking stack of old stones and wooden beams. The Jackson house. Looking just as decrepit and foreboding as I remembered. Even the meadow it sits in seems washed out, like every natural color has been bleached from too much exposure to the sun. Noah never understood our squeamishness, but after Mr. Jackson died, Ginger and I used to dare each other to see who would get closer to the house. She touched the front door once with the tip of her pinkie. I couldn’t even make it up the porch steps. It’s been a few years, though, since we cared about the house. Or cared enough to pretend to be brave.

But I’m brave today.

My feet skitter purposefully across the dull green grass, broken up with patches of cracked dirt and debris, rotting remains of old leaves and weeds. There’s a light scent of smoke in the air. I don’t see any cars, though the garage door is closed.

The first porch step is fine, but the second one gives as I step down, and I hop quickly to the third and onto the porch. Empty windows watch me. I can’t hear anything besides my own breath.

I knock three times. Wait. Knock again, louder. I even try what looks like an old rusty doorbell, but I can’t tell if it chimes inside the house.

No one comes.

I don’t leave the dessert on the steps. Animals might eat it, after all.

Maybe I’ll try again tomorrow.

An owl hoots outside my windows that night. My owl.

Calling out to another bird. Serenading the stars. I see this particular great horned owl sometimes, yellow-eyed and resolutely somber-faced up in the high branches. I like to believe she guards our clearing by night.

My bedroom is in the attic, planked wooden floors and rough plaster walls, the ceiling slanted on both sides with a steep point in the middle. Mama and Noah both have to stoop when they come inside.