Phoebe found the house almost unchanged. Same furniture, same couch cushions worn out in the same old places, practically the same stack of magazines. Phoebe’s parents, Melanie and Dan, looked just as she had left them, and so their new coffee maker startled her.
“Where did that come from?”
“Your mother bought it.”
“The old one broke,” Melanie said, defending herself. Of course, Phoebe saw that the new machine stood right where the scrap bucket had been. All composting had ceased the minute she had gone to college. Sweetie, it smelled so bad, had been Melanie’s excuse.
And yet Phoebe’s parents had planted vegetables with her when she was little. They had hired a handyman to build a chicken coop in the backyard. The coop stood empty now, just a few downy feathers blowing in the wind. Freshman year a fox had killed the hen named Scout. Weeks after that, Scout’s sister, Carrie, had disappeared. During spring semester, the last chicken, Mrs. Dalloway, had passed. Sometimes Phoebe questioned the level of care Mrs. Dalloway had received from Melanie and Dan. They had reverted so quickly to supermarket eggs.
“I’ll carry those,” Dan said.
“No that’s okay.” Phoebe shouldered her backpack and dragged her giant duffle upstairs. Nervously, her parents followed, weighted down with unasked questions. Was the boyfriend really history? Was Phoebe done homesteading? Could she register for school again?