House-Sitter

by Lia Rose Dugal

Rachel Moore could barely take her eyes off the view as she drove along the coastal road towards the small town of Broadside. Without hesitation, she pulled into a dirt parking lot overlooking the crashing waves on the shoreline. She reached into the backseat of her beat up blue ford and pulled a faded red sweatshirt from her knapsack. She pulled it on around her, then tied her dirty blonde hair in a messy bun. Locking the car, she stepped out of the driver's side door, stuffing the keys into her jeans pocket, she briskly moved towards the cold breezy beach, the waves crashing endlessly against the shore.

Approaching the edge of the beach line, she peered out towards the horizon beyond, listening to the call of the seagulls, the waves, the feel of the cool air around her and just for a moment, felt alive and at peace. She sighed, closed her eyes, and drank the moment in.

Turning slowly upon hearing the slam of a car door, she saw across the street a large house with a family moving in and out to a heavily parked car, with luggage and other asundry traveling items, before all getting in. Rachel watched as the car backed out of the driveway and quickly drove down the road, leaving the house behind. Quickly yet casually, she strode toward the empty house to investigate.

At the house, she cautiously crept around it until she found a basement screen door. She gingerly tried the lock, then leaned against it a little before hearing the now familiar pop of the unlock. She smiled to herself, knowingly, then slid the door open. Leaving her shoes at the door, she tiptoed throughout the house, very large, three-story, very posh.

“Jackpot,” she smiled, allowing herself to revel in the discovery. She moved over towards the kitchen, glancing at a family photo sitting on a nearby end table. A family of four, loving doting beautifully and socially intact parents smiled out towards her, with two children, a son and daughter beneath them. The daughter had her arm affectionately around a large white dog. She glanced behind her and sure enough near the fire was a dog's bed. Dog hair, she groaned to herself, well, beggars can't be choosy.

She continued her path into the kitchen to verify and ensure her find before making her final decision. A calendar hung by the refridgerator. She looked it over and saw marked with a sloppy line three weeks marked off with “France Vacation”. Three weeks, she sighed, allowing herself to relax into the thought.

As she moved out of the kitchen, she glanced out a hallway window, seeing a small hillside in the backyard with a dirt road below. A turn out marked a perfect hide-away for her faithful ford four-door.

An hour later, after stashing the car and bringing her knapsack in, setting it on what she imagined was the master bed, a bedroom with large windows expanding over the ocean-side view, she stepped into the shower and peered out the glass window towards the crashing waves, the warm water cascading over the hair and naked body. She picked up the expensive brand of shampoo left behind, squeezed it into her hand, and scrubbed it fiercely into her stringy fading dyed blonde hair, the brown roots showing way too much. She'd have to change her look again, she knew, but first she had to find some way of reimbursing her broke ass. This life-style she had chosen was not always that lucrative.

Finding a razor and a loofah, she ran body wash luxiourishly over her body and watched as the soap ran down her chest and swam into the drain. She watched the hair disappear from under her arms and her legs, it had been way too long since a good shave. Once done, she let her hands run over the newly shaven areas, reveling in the silky smooth feel. She sighed in relief and pleasure. After letting the conditioner rinse from her hair, she stepped out of the shower, wrapping a towel over her body after drying herself, then tying her hair up in another towel.

She wiped some of the steam off of the foggy mirror and stared at herself for seemingly along time, then she moved back into the bedroom, and into the adjoining walk-in closet to see what she could find. Hanging on the door, she found a silk bathrobe which she wrapped about her, letting the towel fall haphazardly on the floor. What did she care about neatness, she had three weeks to spare. Now to see what else she could find. Money or some way of acquiring money was the first goal. Her eyes surveyed the entire room quickly, falling momentarily on a jewelry box on the vanity dresser before the bed. No, she thought, jewelry was too risky, especially in a small town like this where the pawn shop might recognize or be able to track what she hawked. She moved out into the hall and made her way through the other rooms.

She found the daughter's room and scanned it for signs of funding opportunities. The daughter also had a vanity dresser, atop it was too items of note. A yet unopened manic panic hair dye box and a piggy bank. Perfect, she thought, picking up both items and sitting on the bed. Letting the hair dye box fall onto the bed, she turned the piggy bank around and around in her hand, looking for an opening. It was a pipe dream, she knew, she most likely would find a bit of loose change and perhaps the odd Canadian coin, a Mexican peso, mementos to a young girl, useless to her cause. She sighed at the remembrance of her younger self, long since buried. Then, she found a pop out lid underneath the piggy bank, she pulled it until it loosened and shook as the money inside, actual green bills, fell out of it onto the bedspread.

Piecing through, she counted the bills before her, which came to a complete two hundred dollars. This girl knew how to save her money. Good girl, Rachel thought, glancing up at a photo of a girl around 13 on the dresser before her. So, that photo downstairs must be a few years old now. A flashback flew into Rachel's mind, a student photo of herself aged twelve or so, staring forlornly and awkwardly at the camera. She shook the image from her mind.

“Sorry, girl,” she said as she returned the piggy bank to its original location and holding the cash and hair dye box, she moved back to the parents bathroom.

A few minutes later, out she came with now hair wet from dye, tied up and covered with a shower cap she had discovered, still in the bathrobe. Cash in her hand, she descended the stairs to the first floor. Tossing it on the counter, she scavenged the kitchen until she found crackers and bean dip which she quickly began to devour hungrily until sated. She leaned against the counter near the stove and sighed happily. On the opposite counter near a telephone leaned a white envelope and curiously she moved over to it. Upon opening it, she found three crisp hundred dollar bills.

“Five hundred dollars, this house for three weeks,” she gasped at her luck happily.

Twenty minutes later, she stood hair dryer in hand back in the parent's bathroom, finishing up the touches of the dye job. She ran her fingers through the crazy red hair and surveyed herself in the mirror, turning the dryer off. She smiled at herself, happy with the change. Now for a name. The last place she'd been in, she had chosen the name, “Goldie”. She giggled once again at the choice, blonde hair, house-crasher. So, now what she said as she fingered the redness.

 'Red,' she mused to herself. “Red riding hood, Red, Re..becca. Becca....Becca Jones, no that's the name of this family, I think, too risky. Becca...Jacobs.” She winced at the realization of the last name choice, but then shook it off determinedly. “Becca Jacobs,” she said resolved and looked at herself in the mirror. “You are Becca Jacobs.” And, that was final.   

Bring Me To Life