This is from Derrick's Perspective
Surveying the cave of a garage, my eyes flickered from one item to the next, mentally cataloging everything I would need to remember to pack. The row of bicycles neatly arranged on the overhead rack captured my attention, sparking a memory that added to my to-do list.
Seeing those bikes brought back a vivid recollection of Mr. Allen's impulsive purchase of everything, in this case, a pair of trailers designed to carry kids. He bought them in a sudden burst of enthusiasm about going biking with the children. I let out a dry chuckle as I reminisced about his peculiar behavior.
He had more money than sense, for sure.
The thing about Mr. Allen was whenever he caught even a whiff of an idea, he'd go all in, diving headfirst and buying the most expensive equipment related to it. All of it, for that mater.
And that time, it was biking.
So there they were – two high-end bicycles that definitely cost more than they should, coupled with a pair of trailers, standing as silent witnesses to Mr. Allen's fleeting fancies. His wife, the charming Mrs. Bitch, hadn't even wanted to touch her bike. Not even once. So the kids ended up crammed in a single trailer, hitched to Mr. Allen's bike on the rare occasion he decided to pedal around the gated community.
With a sigh, I wrapped up my mental inventory, my gaze eventually landing on the door leading back into the house. Steeling myself for whatever chaos awaited me on the other side.
The house was weirdly quiet as I stepped inside. I glanced around the living room and kitchen, expecting to find Mr. Allen or his wife, but they were nowhere in sight. The silence was a bit unsettling, starkly contrasting to the usual chaos that filled the Allen household.
Walking down the hallway, I peeked into Mr. Allen's office. He was sitting in his plush leather chair, his gaze fixed on the large world map on the wall opposite him. The map was dotted with colorful pins, each marking a place he had visited, planned to visit, had a business, an idea, or some other things I couldn't remember.
"How's it going, Mr. Allen?" I asked, breaking the silence.
His eyes snapped to me, a startled look crossing his face before it was replaced with a smile. "All packed," he declared, patting a fancy-looking suitcase perched on his desk. It was a sleek, expensive-looking piece of luggage, but it was no bigger than my old man's lunch box back home.
I couldn't help but smirk, a chuckle escaping my lips. "You fit all your clothes in there?" I asked, raising an eyebrow in amusement.
The smile slowly faded from Mr. Allen's face as he glanced back at the suitcase. A hint of shame flickered in his eyes as if he was just realizing his oversight.
I let out a sigh, shaking my head in disbelief. "So you managed to pack all your documents, papers, and whatnot but forgot about the rest of your list?" I asked with amusement in my voice.
Mr. Allen pulled a notepad out of his pocket; flipping to the page, he scribbled notes and stared at it with a frown. "Um, seems so..." he admitted, letting out a sigh of his own.
I couldn't help but smirk at his predicament. "And you didn't get the kids packed either?" I asked, already knowing the answer.
Mr. Allen pursed his lips into a tight frown, shaking his head in confirmation. The sight of him, so flustered and out of his element, was comical. This was the same man I watched tear banks and businessmen a new one when they tried to screw him over. But this was beyond him.
With an exaggerated sigh, I offered, "You want me to help with that?" I asked, trying desperately to keep the laughter out of my voice.
Mr. Allen didn't look up at me but nodded, shoulders sagging in defeat.
I turned on my heels and left Mr. Allen in his office. Leaving Mr. Allen to his thoughts, I went to the children's rooms. The sight of him, so disheartened, starkly contrasted to the usually assertive man I knew.
Emma's room was dark as I stepped in. I quickly moved to the window, pulling back the curtains to let the morning light spill in. The room was a kaleidoscope of colors, filled with the cheerful chaos of a child's life. If it tried, a unicorn vomiting would struggle to make a more colorful room.
I located a suitcase in her closet. Its vibrant pink color seemed to glow. Opening it, I began packing. I selected a variety of clothes, shoes, and toiletries, ensuring she would have everything she might need. The suitcase quickly filled up, but I left some space for a few more items.
Turning my attention to her toys, I picked out a few I knew she was particularly attached to. A plush bunny that she cuddled with at night, a beloved doll that she often played with. I nestled these treasures among her clothes in the suitcase and zipped up the baggage.
Leaving Emma's room, I placed her packed suitcase in the hallway. I'd grab it on my way back to the guest house. Next, I moved on to Michael's room next door.
Unlike Emma's room, Michael's had the blinds open, allowing the morning light to illuminate the space. It was unmistakably a boy's room. Instead of plush toys, tea sets, and dolls, cars, toy weapons, and toy soldiers were scattered across the floor and shelves.
I found a suitcase in his closet, similar to Emma's but in a digital-camo print. I began packing his clothes, choosing various outfits that would suit different weather conditions. I also packed his toiletries and a few pairs of shoes. I couldn't really trust the kids' parents...to be parents.
Next, I turned my attention to his toys. I selected a few of his favorites, including a plush car and a plush soldier doll that always seemed on his bed. I carefully placed these treasures among his clothes in the suitcase.
As I was zipping up Michael's suitcase, I heard a shrill scream echoing through the house. Mrs. Bitch had woken up. Her voice was laced with panic and anger, with just a pinch of venom and a full cup of resentment as she yelled something about not going anywhere.
That was my cue to leave.
Just as I was about to reach the door leading to the garage, I heard the master bedroom door creak open. Not wanting to get caught up in whatever drama was about to unfold, I quickened my pace.
In the garage, I placed the packed suitcases on a workbench and walked over to the bicycle gear hanging on the wall. I took them down the trailers for the kids and put them down next to the workbench. Both suitcases went into one of the trailers, which surprised me how much space remained. Even if I added all my stuff, there would still be room to spare. That was a relief.
I pulled the trailer with the suitcases out of the garage. It was very awkward to maneuver because of my height. The handle was too low for comfort. That was something I'd need to fix before we set off.
If we set off.
As I walked through the open door of the guest house, I paused, listening for the sounds of the kids. After a heart-thumping few seconds, I heard them - the unmistakable sounds of giggling and babbling coming from the living room area.
I left the trailer by the pile of things I'd already packed and made my way towards the noise. I found the kids engaged in what seemed to be a serious discussion about a character from a TV show I didn't recognize. They abandoned their game on the coffee table and were sitting on the couch.
Waiting for a pause in their animated conversation, I asked, "I got to go get more stuff done. Do you want to chill here or go back to your house?"
Both kids looked at me, their heads tilting in unison, and sighed in perfect sync. It was a well-rehearsed act, and I couldn't help but throw my hands up in mock surrender. "Just asking," I said, trying to keep a straight face.
Their poker faces broke, and they burst into giggles. I shook my head, amused. I thought these two would be a force to reckon with when they got older. With a smile, I imagined them cleaning out the card game back home against all the aunties and uncles.
"You two be good. I'll be back in a bit," I told them, still shaking my head at the antics I imagined them to get up to in a decade or more.
"Okay," they chimed in unison, their giggles subsiding. As I left the room, they continued the serious discussion of the TV show. Emma insisted that the bad guy was just hurt, not a bad guy, whereas Michel insisted the good guy needed to punch him to make him better.
With that, I left the guest house, heading back to the main house to pack the rest of the stuff from the garage.