I am eight years old, riding on the back of a jet-ski, howling with laughter. My stepdad, Todd, twists and turns the handlebars of the water scooter, bucking me like a wild bull. He calls this “hot-doggin.” I grip the straps of his life jacket and hook my legs around his, so I don’t fall.

He barrels full speed upriver, under the bridge where someone has tagged, “L.A. freaks go home. Corn pickers rule.” L.A freaks, that’s us. Even though we live in the suburbs, it’s close enough. The Fresno sun hangs golden over grapevines and orchards, and cows graze lazily in fields of low grass. I watch my summer world spin by from the back of the jet ski, past every riverfront property on our way to The Pie House, where they make the best pies on Kings River.

The pink Victorian comes into view in all its splendor, with an enormous wraparound porch, like the Marty Bell paintings my mom has back home. We pull up at a sandy beach and Todd leaves me with the jet ski while he runs in to get a pie. 

I stare up at The Pie House and imagine my birthday party in the whitewashed gazebo. There would be platters of oozy fruit pies, ice-cold lemonade, and sweet corn on the cob rolled in butter. 

Todd comes back. “I got cherry. Your favorite.” He winks and lifts the seat, depositing the pie in the waterproof compartment. 

This is my last summer at Kings River. Todd cheats on my mom every chance he gets, it’s a matter of time before he leaves. As we ride back, I hold him tight and imagine a warm slice of cherry pie, drenched in Cool Whip and vanilla ice cream. 

I am ten years old, in a rental car with my mom and aunt in San Antonio. The air conditioning battles the Texas humidity, fogging up the windows. My hair curls, damp on the nape of my neck. I bite into my Whataburger, creamy sauce dribbling down my chin. 

We are parked in front of another pink Victorian house, the one my mom grew up in. A weeping willow drapes its leaves over the screened-in porch. 

My aunt seems to have forgotten that I am in the backseat. “Jessie,” she says to my mom, “I’ll never forget the time I caught you having sex sitting up with that G.I.”

My mom gazes out the passenger window. That G.I. got my mom pregnant and sent away to a convent. “Damn good memories in that house,” she says.

I remember one of the few things my mom has told me about her abusive childhood. Every year, there would be a Timex watch on the tree for each kid at Christmas. I imagine my mom winding her watch in this complicated and mysterious home. 

Her stepfather is dying in a hospital down the road. She said her goodbyes to the alcoholic who came into her room at night, the man she will probably never forgive. I’m young, but I’m not innocent. I understand her pain. And for some reason, this house makes her smile. 

I promise myself, when I grow up and get rich, I will buy my mom a pink house like this.

I am sixteen, and I haven’t slept in three days. I stay home from school because I can’t stop talking so fast that my mom can’t understand me. We take a drive through the back roads of Ventura County farms. 

I talk about a pink house in the middle of nowhere. I want to swing on the porch and drink sweet tea. I want to feel the breeze on my face and the grass under my bare feet.

“What pink house?” my mom asks. “Will you draw it for me when we get home so I can see what you see?”

So, I do. I draw for what seems like hours, and when she comes to look, she asks me what I drew.

“It’s the pink house. Here’s the porch, and here are the grapevines, and here’s the gazebo, and here’s the big tree.”

And then she cries. She never cries, my mom. Takes a licking and keeps on ticking.

“Why are you crying, Mom?”

She shakes her head. “It’s not there.”

“It’s right here, Mom. Can’t you see it?”

“It’s a blank page.”

I’m twenty-eight years old when the heavy metal doors slam shut behind me one more time, and I give up my keys, my rings, my phone, my humanity. When I lie down on the crunchy mattress with the waterproof pad, I can escape to a place where the summer never ends. The river is flowing, and the pies are cooling on the windowsill.

I’m thirty-eight. I sit at my kitchen table with my laptop, and I write about a girl who was born in my imagination. She’s braver than I ever was, prettier than I am, and she says all the good lines instead of thinking of them later when she’s alone in her bed. She doesn’t know what it’s like to cry in the shower because she’s dirty and doesn’t know how to get clean. 

She has the white roller skates like the ones I always wanted but couldn’t have because my mom was afraid I’d break my arm. She ties them up, double knotting the laces into a fat bow. She takes off down the street, swinging her arms from side to side. So fast, her wheels spark against the smooth black asphalt. Before the streetlights come on, she’ll find her way home. 

She lives in the only pink house on the block.

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