Someone to Watch Over Me by Michelle Stimpson Page A

on the street still looked exactly the same—color, fences, even down to the potted plants on the porches, it seemed. The houses sat on acre lots. Plenty of room for folks to mind their own business, though they rarely did.
    The first time I rode down Humble Trail, nearly fifteen years earlier, I was terrified. Being dropped off at a step-relative’s house in the middle of nowhere would scare anyone, let alone a pregnant teenager trying to make sense of what to do with her life after thoroughly ruining it.
    Aunt Dottie’s was the only brick house on Humble Trail. Actually, I think she owned the only brick house for several blocks, which made hers stand out, of course. The brown bricks with green trim amid an immaculate lawn spoke of the home owner’s wealth. Back when I was living with Aunt Dottie and helping her run the store, people would always talk about how rich she was.
    She’d say, “I’m just blessed.”
    Sometimes they’d say something smart like, “I’m blessed, too, but not as blessed as you.”
    And she’d reply, “Well, you might want to talk to the Lord and see what He wants you to do about it ’cause He doesn’t play favorites.”
    Then the person would swagger out of the store as though Aunt Dottie was just blowing hot air, but I know she wasn’t. Aunt Dottie was the only person claiming to be a Christian I knew of who actually did what Pastor Jacob used to tell us to do on Sundays. Aunt Dottie was so into the Bible and doing what she felt God told her to do, sometimes I wondered why she didn’t preach the messages.
    I wasn’t expecting the front door to be locked. Then again, this wasn’t 1996. Bayford was clearly changing just like the rest of the world. Colder, meaner. More dangerous—with the eighteen-wheeler kidnapping schemes and all.
    I rang the doorbell a few times, just in case Joenetta was inside. When I got no answer, I walked around to the side of the house and unlatched the six-foot gate. Hopefully, she still kept the back door unlocked. I laughed to myself, thinking of how different Bayford was from Houston, where (by now) someone would have called the police on me.
    The expansive backyard where Aunt Dottie planted her own vegetables was still in place. And although it was winter, just the sight of her peach trees made my mouth water. Nothing like good old country yard-grown produce, even if you do have to pick out a worm every now and then.
    The back door of Aunt Dottie’s house was open, thankfully. I let myself in and, at once, inhaled the smell of her home, this home that had become mine during the worst time of my life. The heater’s furnace, Pine-Sol, furniture polish, and detergent from the washing machine all converged. To me, this was the smell of unconditional love.
    Â 
    She was a skinny old thing, this aunt of mine. “You can use this room,” she said as she hoisted one of my suitcases down the main hallway. This place was something straight out of a magazine—an old folks’ magazine. Hardwood floors, floral print wallpaper, and stark white baseboards throughout the home screamed “You are now in the country.” At first glance, the kitchen seemed messy. Counters covered with jars, the refrigerator plastered with various magnets. Foil paper blocking the sun’s rays from a small area that could probably heat up quickly when the gas stove activated. A closer look, however, revealed a kitchen bearing stripes from decades of fellowship—and good cooking—contained within. No, the kitchen wasn’t messy. It was lived in.
    Family portraits lined the main hallway leading to the bedrooms. I followed her, wobbling slightly with the additional weight I carried around my midsection. The door to what would be my bedroom creaked open, and the morning’s sunshine blasted our faces, temporarily blinding me.
    â€œOoh! I forgot to pull these shades yesterday.”