Beech Street is not an appropriate name, as it is lined with maple trees, whose branches extend over the road making a canopy of red and yellow and orange in the autumn. I’ve often wondered if it was a joke by city planners, to plant maples on Beech Street and leave Maple Street, only seven blocks north, bare except a few patches of marigolds. Or was it an honest mistake by the young men, who were hired to help expand the growing town. Maybe they could not tell the difference between beech and maple saplings and only after it was too late did the town realize the mistake.
I used to wonder these things as I walked home from school. I’ve lived on Beech Street, in the third house, on the right, for my entire life. It is the kind of street they feature in movies, where you could see a young girl riding a pink bike with a wicker basket on the front. From the outside, my house looks the same as most of the others on the street. It’s older, well loved, with faded white paint, and a small porch holding the potted plants I’ve neglected since August. Most of the others on the street are families: Suburban driving soccer moms with 2.5 kids each and of course a dog that is small enough to fit in their purses. I feel their stares as they see me drive by in my 1979 baby blue Volkswagon Beatle that my parents helped me buy when I turned 16. I’ve lived here my whole life, but I don’t fit in, not with the townies at least.
There is an exception to the soccer moms, and that is my next-door neighbor Mr. Pritchard. His first name is Richard and I can only imagine how long he waited for the day where he could go by Mister, instead of Richard Pritchard. I cannot imagine what his parents were thinking, but they are long gone now, and I haven’t had the audacity to ask him the story of his name. Until this last summer he was simply my neighbor, the old man who lived next door, who shuffled to the mailbox in his maroon bathrobe and old slippers. If there ever was a Mrs. Pritchard I never knew her. Since I’ve been here he’s lived alone, with the exception of the stray neighborhood cat who bunks with him during the winter months. He lives alone. I live alone. This is what makes us unique.
Since school has started the social networking sites have been chock full of surveys calling for me to fill out random facts about myself. I’m not sure I entirely trust my peers, but not wanting to be the only one not participating, I recently posted this to my account.
10 Random Facts
1. My favorite season is autumn, when the leaves on my street change color and begin to fall.
2. I am afraid of heights.
3. My full name is Annabelle Naomi, but everybody calls me Naomi.
4. I own four pairs of Birkenstocks.
5. I am an orphan.
6. I enjoy mailing nice letters to random strangers.
7. I plan on becoming professor, like my mother was.
8. I have travelled to six different countries: Canada, France, England, India, Peru, Greece and Israel.
9. I hate wearing socks.
10. My favorite author is Thoreau.
Mr. Pritchard only knows #5, as he was there the day I learned the news. The police officers pulled up to my front door as I was walking up the driveway, home from school for the day. In usual fashion, Mr. Pritchard was standing by his mailbox, his wispy white hair blowing gently in the breeze. Unlike other days, when he’d flash his old-man grin at me, and wave, today he stood motionless as the police officers stepped out of the vehicle. My keys were in my hand, ready to unlock the front door, but I don’t remember much else about the moment. It was slow motion, like they show in movies, with the officers walking up the drive. All I could focus on was the maroon bathrobe standing by the mailbox. I wonder went through his mind, what did he see as I learned the news of my parent’s death? Did he wonder if I had been caught smoking dope behind the gymnasium, or if my father, the banker, was involved in white collar crime? Did he think there had been a mistake and they were at the wrong house?
After identifying themselves, and making sure I was really Dr. & Mr. Sorrel’s daughter, they asked if they could come inside as they had some bad news. Of course I knew what they would say, but it didn’t hit until the words, “your parent’s were killed in an accident,” came out of their mouth. It was like being body slammed after Thanksgiving dinner. My breath felt knocked out of my body and I wanted to vomit all over their shiny black shoes. An accident? My parents? How could this have happened?
Once the officers left, I heard a faint knock on the door. Mr. Pritchard was standing tentatively on my front porch. For the first time ever I was seeing him in something other than his bathrobe. He had put on a pair of faded jeans and a plaid shirt, which strangely made him seem both older and younger. Close up his head appeared more skull-like than head-like, as the skin seemed sunken and dimply, with age spots all over. The smile I had grown accustomed to, had changed into a look of concern as he asked if I was okay.
That was months ago, and it’s been the two of us ever since. My only nearby relative, “Uncle Joey,” was only a few years older than me, and in no place to take care of an orphaned 17 year old. Because I was almost legal age, and my parents had willed everything to me, I was allowed to stay living in my home and attending my school, with the provision that a guardian would check in on me to make sure I was okay. Mr. Pritchard was the logical choice, and he graciously accepted the responsibility.
I didn’t fit in at school long before I lost my parents, but that certainly didn’t help things. For the first few weeks there were uncomfortable glances and even more uncomfortable remarks of sympathy from people who formerly shunned my existence. After awhile people stopped trying to make small talk, and avoided the “girl with dead parents,” but I didn’t mind any more than my 8th grade year when the popular girls spread rumors about my hygiene and sexual orientation. I couldn’t give anything to those relationships anyway. I was lost, and alone, except for the kindness of my next-door neighbor. How does one learn to survive without their parents?
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I don't know if I'm done with this story. It woke me up in the middle of the night a few weeks ago and hasn't let go of me. I don't know where they come from, but I do know that I feel bloated and gross until I at least try to begin telling their stories.
