Free Calico Horses and the Patchwork Trail by Lorraine Turner Page B

piled some boxes. This must be the living room, she thought, seeing the sofa, with its matching easy chair and large TV tucked into a corner hutch. “But where’s my room?” she wondered, plopping the heavy duffle bag onto the couch and heading toward the rear of the bungalow. The long hallway led to a tidy, small bedroom that was bright and sunny. The walls were fashioned with wooden planks the color of amber, dotted with large brown knots. The windows looked out toward the mountains and were trimmed with curtains made of strings woven together forming a type of pattern that reminded Carrie of a basket. Over the bed there was a large painting of a sparkling blue lake with a few deer drinking water along the shoreline. A hint of a bird was painted into the powder-blue sky and way off in the distance the wispy lavender and pink mountains looked almost magical. Carrie stared at the scene, wishing she were an artist. She slowly walked around the room, growing more curious of her new surroundings. A built-in bookcase held a few shelves filled with a collection of ceramic horses that must have belonged to Sam. She picked up one of the horses and examined it carefully. It was a galloping white horse with black-and-brown spots and a flying mane looking over its shoulder. She returned the statue to its place and began studying the collection one by one. They were about six inches tall and each figurine was painted in a realistic style, capturing their action. There were galloping mustangs, rearing stallions, a few bucking broncos, mares quietly grazing, and one mother with her newborn foal. Carrie loved looking at the tiny knick-knacks. They reminded her of her Aunt Lucy’s collection of stained glass lighthouses hanging on the kitchen window with tiny suction cups. She turned from the ceramic horses and looked around the room at the furniture.
    The bed seemed larger than hers back home. She was about to lie down to test out the mattress when she noticed her mother’s suitcase on top of the bed. Ugh, I just want to find my own space, she thought, picking up her backpack.
    She meandered through the bungalow and peeked into a room that looked like half a kitchen. It was a tiny room with a refrigerator and oven that looked like it was, well, how could she even describe it? Everything looked miniature in comparison to their home in New Jersey and she wondered how her mom would ever get used to it. It felt like it was a room for elves, she thought, opening the door of the little fridge. She giggled, as she really liked this room with its tiny cupboards filled with a few plates next to the table just for two. She opened a squeaky door that led out into a small area that had a bench and a few coat hooks. She returned through the hallway in search of her room but only found a bathroom. Huh? she thought. Where’s my room? Now she began to look around more carefully. Is this a sofa bed? she wondered, eying the couch suspiciously. Great, I bet I don’t even have a room. She slumped down into the easy chair and thought back to the home where she used to live, with its swing set and tree fort and neighborhood sidewalks where she skated with Shannon. She thought of her room and her desk where she kept all of her private items and the bed she had slept in since she was a small child. She thought of the dolls she had given away to one of the neighbors as they were packing and how she wished she had kept just a few, just for old time’s sake. She wiped away the tears that were starting to cloud over her eyes. Oh, how she wished she were back with Shannon, enjoying this time off from school instead of sitting here in this place her mom wanted to call home. But it really wouldn’t fix anything. Mom and Dad were always fighting and I kept pretending it would all get better. It’s not fair, she thought for the hundredth time. It’s not right, any of it. They never even asked me what I wanted. How could her parents have done this to her? Why