The House That Wasn't There

  Dedication

  For my family,

  who helps me open every door

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Books by Elana K. Arnold

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Prologue

  Once, not very long ago, there were two houses side by side. In one house lived a boy; in the other lived no one. But that, and everything else, was about to change.

  Let me tell you what happened.

  Chapter 1

  The boy’s name was Alder. He was eleven and a half years old, and he had lived in the house at 15 Rollingwood Drive since before he could remember. In fact, he had been born there. In the bathtub, to be exact, something his mother liked to tell visitors to the home, something that Alder had been proud of until about two years ago when, suddenly, he was not.

  Once, there had been three people who lived together at 15 Rollingwood Drive: Alder, his mother, Greta, and his father, whom everyone had called Canary because of his voice.

  Alder had been just three years old when his father died, taken by a short, sudden illness. He had no memories of his father or his father’s voice, except from the recordings he had left behind. Sometimes Alder wished that the recordings had been left for him alone, but the truth was that Canary’s voice was quite well known, as he’d had a brief but brilliant flame of success, earning enough money before he died at thirty-one to ensure that Alder and his mother would never have to worry too much about money, as long as they were careful; as his mother liked to tell Alder, they had “a comfortable nest egg” upon which they could rely, as if that was all he needed to know.

  Sometimes, though, when Alder was entirely alone, and when the room was very dark, and when he was no longer awake but also not yet quite asleep, he felt that he could remember something about his father—the smell of him, a sort of sharp burning like a just-smoked cigarette mixed with the fresh scent of new-cut grass.

  Alder was not sure if that was a real memory. He could have asked his mother, for she was the kind of person who would tell him the truth whether he liked it or not. But he never shared this scent memory with her, partly because it was the only thing he had of his father that he didn’t have to share with anyone else, and partly because it might not be a real memory at all, a possibility Alder did not know if he could bear.

  The house at 15 Rollingwood Drive was small but neat. The floors were wood—scratched in some places; sun bleached in others, like under the wide front window and in patches where light shone through glass arches in the green door. The furniture, most of it, had been in the house as long as Alder could remember—the pink velvet couch in the front room that slumped a bit in the middle, where it had been sat upon the most; the wooden TV stand, with all the electrical gear atop it—the TV, of course, and the cable box, and Alder’s gaming system, and various remote controls, which Alder’s mom called “the clackers” even though they didn’t clack.

  In the afternoons, the front room was kept cool by the wide green foliage of the walnut tree outside. Though it technically sat in the neighbors’ yard, it leaned toward his, as if it wanted to be closer. It cast its helpful shadow onto Alder’s house, and that shadow was a comfortably reliable presence, growing and shrinking as daylight waxed and waned.

  The fern that squatted and spread on the small round table next to the couch had lived there a long time too, but not as long as Alder and his mother; she had given him the fern four and a half years ago, for his seventh birthday, when Alder had gone through a short phase during which he considered a future career as a horticulturalist, after learning the term and thinking it sounded very important and interesting. After a few months, it had become clear that Alder was perhaps not horticulturally blessed, when his mother had to save the fern from a near death by thirst. She’d moved it then from his bedroom to the front room, where she could “keep an eye on it,” and Alder had felt vaguely relieved to have escaped the burden of having to keep the plant alive.

  Aside from the couch and the electrical things and the fern, the house was filled with all the usual stuff—books and puzzles and stacks of papers. Old coffee tins full of pennies and buttons and nails. Baskets full of knitting stuff. And an opossum that wasn’t alive anymore, but once had been, named Mort.

  Mort had been an anniversary gift from Alder’s dad to Alder’s mom, before Alder had been born. Alder knew the story by heart: how his parents (before they were parents) had taken a trip to Seattle, where they toured the Space Needle and roamed Pike Place Market and stumbled upon Ballyhoo Curiosity Shop, a strange place in the basement of a building that boasted, among other things, a large set of insects preserved in clear resin, a variety of skulls and antique dolls, and an assortment of taxidermy, including a two-headed calf, a wall-mounted raccoon hind end, and Mort.

  “I don’t know why the opossum struck us as particularly funny,” Alder’s mom had told him. “There were many other things, odder things, in the curiosity shop. But something about him—his teeth maybe, the way it almost looked as though he were smiling—sent both of us into an absolute hysteria. We were laughing so hard, we had to leave the shop. But a few months later, on our anniversary—our one-year wedding anniversary, to be exact—when I opened the box Canary put on my lap! It was that same opossum, smiling up at me.” At this point in the story, Alder’s mom always looked fondly at the opossum, who ruled over the front room from his position on the top shelf of the bookcase. “Your father had called the shop and paid for it by phone,” she would say. “And here he is, even though Canary isn’t.” And then she’d stare a moment longer at the opossum, and then she’d blink, and she’d come back to the present moment, back to Alder. And she’d pat him on the knee or pull him into her side or kiss his forehead and stroke his hair.

  Sometimes, when his mom wasn’t around, like when she’d trust him to stay alone while she ran to the grocery store, or the odd occasions when he’d find himself awake early on a Sunday morning while his mother was still asleep, Alder would move a kitchen chair near to the bookcase and climb up to take a closer look at the taxidermied opossum.

  “Mort,” Alder would whisper, and he’d click his fingernail against a glass eye.

  Of course, the opossum never answered.

  Aside from that front room, there were the bedrooms—Alder’s, his mother’s, and a third, which was technically a bedroom even though it had no bed; the kitchen; the big bathroom (with the bathtub in which Alder had been born) and one small bathroom (with just a toilet and a sink); the eating nook attached to the kitchen; and the small rectangular dining room, where Alder did his homework and where he and his mother put together puzzles. The music stuff was in the dining room, because that was where they usually listened. The record play
er and records, and the newer stuff, too, the speakers that could play music streamed from a computer or cell phone.

  It was at the dining room table, usually in the evenings, usually while puzzling, that Alder and his mother listened to his father’s songs. In that room too hung the one portrait of the three of them, posed in front of the huge, beautiful walnut tree in the yard—Alder in the foreground upon his mother’s lap, a fat round white baby with a shock of near-black curls and big, dark, blue eyes, framed by embarrassingly long lashes; his mother, hair longer then than now, dark blond with a touch of strawberry redness, parted in the middle and falling around Alder like a cape, a bright smile on her face, her eyes turned down toward the baby on her lap; and Canary standing behind them both, looking straight into the camera with a broad, happy grin, a hand on each of his wife’s shoulders. His brown hair was brushed back from his brow. He wore a lustrous beard. He was—they all were—so very much alive.

  It was folk music, Alder’s mother told him, that Canary made. Alder sort of loved to listen to his father sing, and sort of hated it at the same time. His father had played the banjo, accompanying himself as he sang.

  Wandering down the railroad tracks away from my sweet home

  Wondering on the railroad tracks where I next will roam

  Whispering on the railroad tracks why the wind has blown

  Wandering down the railroad tracks away from my sweet home

  Each note from the banjo was a wail, a twang, a whisper. And when Canary joined in, half the sounds out of his mouth weren’t words at all, they were more like crooning and cooing and chirping. Maybe that was why they called him Canary; though his voice was deep and rich, not high and sharp, still, the rise and fall of it could tell a story, even without any words. And the banjo told its story too, as if to answer Canary’s call. Slow, then fast, then slow again.

  And Alder would sit, a puzzle piece in his hand, listening, as if maybe this time the song would have new words, better words. Words that meant something. But it never did.

  In any case, other than the fact that his father was dead, Alder’s life was rather unextraordinary; he lived in his comfortable house, surrounded by the things he loved—the music and the bathtub, the pink couch and the puzzles, the clackers and Mort, with the walnut tree’s gentle shadow and with his wonderful (though sometimes embarrassing) mother, at 15 Rollingwood Drive.

  This was true, at least, until late summer, when the girl moved in next door, and Alder, for the first time in his relatively quiet life, experienced what it felt like to be truly furious with someone.

  Chapter 2

  It was in August that construction began at 11 Rollingwood Drive. And the first thing construction would entail was chopping down a large walnut tree that sat near the property line between that house and its neighbor.

  “It’s a shame it has to go,” Oak’s mother, Olivia, said with a shake of her head, “but there’s nothing to be done about it. If you want to make an omelet, you have to break a few eggs.” She said this as Oak stood underneath the tree’s wide, green foliage and looked up into its tangle of leaves. The day was hot, but in the circle of the tree’s shade, it felt measurably cooler.

  Oak did not want the tree to be cut down, but even more than that, she did not want to be moving into this house at all, even when it had a second story added to it, which would be made possible by the clearing of the tree. Besides, the second story was just going to be a master bedroom and bathroom, which wouldn’t improve things for Oak at all.

  But what Oak wanted did not matter. Her parents insisted that the move was “nonnegotiable.”

  Not that either of her parents were prone to negotiating, even in the best of circumstances. Take, for example, the time in the fourth grade when Oak had presented them with a detailed presentation about why they should allow her to get a dog. She had given them research about how kids with pets have fewer allergies as adults than kids raised in a pet-free home; she’d showed them studies about how people with dogs live longer and are less depressed than people without dogs; she’d made a chart demonstrating she knew all the responsibilities associated with being a dog owner (feeding, watering, walking, poop scooping, saving allowances toward vet appointments).

  But all her mom had said was “We are not dog people, Oak.”

  And that had been the end of that.

  Now they were moving her here, to this dumb little house on Rollingwood Drive, which would soon be a not-quite-as-little-but-still-dumb house hundreds of miles from San Francisco, where she’d lived all her life, here, to Los Angeles, where it was so hot that people’s lawns would dry up and die if they weren’t watered on automatic timer systems, where lawn had no business growing even.

  “You’ll feel differently when we’re settled in,” Mom said, and then she nodded to the man who stood nearby, orange hard hat on his head, chainsaw in his hands.

  When the chainsaw growled awake, Oak turned away from the tree and headed back to the car.

  Just before she slammed the car door, dulling the sound of the chainsaw, she looked up into the front window of the neighboring house. Peering out at her was a boy with a round white face, flushed red cheeks, a mess of short black curls, and a piercing, angry stare.

  “What’s your problem?” she said out loud, even though he couldn’t possibly hear her from inside his house and over the chainsaw’s growl.

  Later, back at the Residency Suites, where Oak and her mom were staying until the tree was demolished and the master bedroom suite was framed out, Oak lay flat on her back, completely still, on the floor between the two beds. From the bathroom came the sound of her mother taking a shower. Oak crossed her hands on her stomach and felt them rising and falling as she breathed. She stared up at the ceiling, let her eyes run across the vast blankness of it, and tried not to remember everything she had left behind.

  The list formed anyway:

  Stacia, her friend since second grade

  Tartine, the bakery around the corner from their old apartment, and their vanilla crème éclairs

  Dolores Park, and basketball games on Saturday mornings with friends

  Rain and cloudy weather

  Wearing sweaters

  Dad

  That final one—Dad—wasn’t technically something she’d left behind. He’d be driving their stuff down in a few weeks, and though he’d have to go back to San Francisco for work after unloading, it would only be for a couple of months, and then he would join them in Los Angeles.

  But the rest of the list was permanent. Maybe Stacia could come visit for a week next summer, or maybe Oak could go stay at her house during spring break, but those maybes were far enough in the future not to count at all.

  What bothered Oak more than the loss of any of these things in particular, or all of them collectively, was the fact that neither of her parents cared about what Oak was losing or how she felt about the move.

  “Our family isn’t a democracy” was the way her mother had put it.

  “You can have a vote when you pay the mortgage” was what her father had said.

  Oak understood that sometimes people had to move because of their parents’ jobs. There’d been a kid, Sergio, in her fourth-grade class who’d told them all matter-of-factly that he started almost every year at a new school because of his dad’s job as a consultant. It didn’t seem like it bothered him at all.

  Compared to Sergio, Oak supposed she was lucky. Other than changing apartments when she was three (which she didn’t even remember), this was the first time she’d had to move.

  And, as Dad had said when Oak complained that it wasn’t fair, “Would it be fair to your mom to tell her she can’t take this great work opportunity?”

  No, Oak had thought, silent but bitter. That wouldn’t be fair either. But at least it would be unfair to someone other than her.

  Dad had reminded her that he was giving up a lot too, to make this move happen for Mom; he was leaving his job as a graphic designer at First Place Adverti
sing and was going to have to find a new job once he moved down to join them. And he’d be leaving friends, of course, and his favorite coffee shop, which he claimed was “the real tragedy here,” as LA didn’t “understand coffee” the way the Bay Area did.

  “Oak?” Her mother came out of the bathroom. “Where did you go?”

  Oak waited a moment before replying. “Down here,” she said at last.

  Rubbing her head dry with a towel and dressed in her robe, Mom came around the end of the bed and looked down at Oak. “What are you doing down there?”

  “Remembering,” Oak answered.

  “Ah,” said Mom, lowering herself to the edge of one of the beds. “Remembering.” The towel dropped into her lap, leaving her short, fuzzy hair exposed. It had been nearly two years since her mom had decided to cut her hair so short, practically a buzz, but Oak still missed it. Her mom, on the other hand, said wearing it this way was “freeing,” though for the first few months she’d had to wear a hat whenever she went outside to protect the pale white tips of her ears.

  The hair had been a big change for her mom, and maybe, Oak thought, looking back, she should have known that it would be the first of many—the hair, then finishing up the master’s degree program she’d put on hold years ago when Oak was little. That led to a promotion to project manager at the architecture firm where she worked, and all of that culminated in this most recent, biggest change: a new job at a new firm, with a new title, junior partner. Oak should have been proud of her mom, and happy for her.

  But she wasn’t.

  “Oak, baby, I know this is hard for you.”

  Oak closed her eyes. Her hands, still folded, rose and fell with each breath.

  “Change is hard on everyone,” Mom went on.

  “It isn’t hard on you,” Oak said, eyes still closed.

  Mom sighed. Oak imagined her mom rubbing the spot between her eyes the way she often did. Then she said, “I know it might seem that way. But change is hard on me, too.”