Anomaly: Chapter 11

"Jagged Edges"

The big yellow abandoned farmhouse stood tall and proud at the corner of a four-way stop, where two country roads met and stretched out into nothing but miles of wheat fields. For as far as I could see in every direction, it was just endless flat land, but there she stood—a relic of a better time, waiting for someone to bring her back to life. My parents saw it as the perfect solution to our situation, but to me, that house felt like a dream come true.

We’d been living in the cramped borrowed camp trailer in that field for weeks, but when Dad was fired from his job, our free ride in the trailer had also ended. But here, finally, was a REAL house—enough rooms for everyone, even an attic for when I wanted to be alone, to disappear into my own little world. It wasn’t just a house; it was a haven, and for the first time, I felt safe.

AI Generated image by SARAH CENTRELLA

I had no concept of what “rich” was—how could I? Money wasn’t something we ever had, and yet, this house made me believe that maybe we had finally stumbled upon a better, richer life. Maybe, this was the start of something more permanent, something secure. But deep down I knew we were a family just trying to survive, one day at a time, and nothing was ever permanent. That didn’t take away from the wonder I felt as I walked around the house, staring out the living room window at the tire swing swaying from the oak tree, imagining a future in a place where nothing could be taken from us.

After scrubbing every interior surface to remove the inches of caked-on dust and prying the plywood off the windows, we carried in our few belongings and began the process of setting up house. The house felt like it had been abandoned for years, the air thick with the musk of neglect. But we made it our own—dusting, sweeping, arranging what little we had until it finally felt like home.

While we worked, Dad drove to the food bank in town to stock up on groceries. When he returned, he carried boxes of bread, peanut butter, bricks of yellow cheese, butter, powdered milk, and eggs. He set them on the kitchen counter, his face heavy with apprehension. He knew we didn’t eat half of what he’d been given, but it was all the food bank had to give. What else could he do? It never seemed like he could get it right, regardless of how much he tried. Mom took a long look at the food, then at Dad. She sighed and said, “Well, we don’t want to be ungrateful for what the Lord has provided.” Dad released an audible sigh of relief, her words cutting the tension and defusing the bubble of anxiety and failure that had formed around him.

It was the first time I’d ever eaten cheese. The huge yellow brick of American cheese—so foreign and forbidden—was a treat I couldn’t resist. I became obsessed. Every time I found myself alone in the kitchen, I’d sneak into the ice chest, cut off a slice, and shove it into my mouth as I ran out the back door. I knew there’d be consequences if I was ever caught, most likely the belt on my bare bottom, so I made sure to be stealthy.

Most days that summer were spent with Kim, Shelly, and me playing by the irrigation canal that ran alongside the road, feeding water into the wheat fields. The canal was a quiet menace—it looked harmless, a slow-moving stream of water encased in a cement riverbed, winding its way between the road and the fields behind the house. But we’d been warned to stay clear, that it was more dangerous than it appeared. Dad had cautioned us not to play near its steep concrete banks because none of us knew how to swim. Still, Kim always pushed the boundaries. She would jump in once we were out of sight from the house, heedless of the warnings, and we’d watch as the current swept her downstream. Every time, I resisted the urge to scream for help, because Kim hated a tattletale. Instead, I’d run along the bank as the water carried her further away from us, hoping that she’d find a way to climb out.