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We are on the road again. Connor is driving my car and holding my hand reassuringly, when he exits the freeway, and pulls over into a gas station parking lot. We shouldn’t need gas, so I’m not sure why he’s pulled over, until he cuts the engine and turns to me.
“This is your last chance Harp,” he says as his eyes explore my face. “We just go down this road for another ten miles, make a left turn, down another road for another ten minutes and we’re there,” He warns me. “If you don’t want to do this, this is your last chance to turn around.”
We talked ad nauseam this morning about whether or not I was ready to do this, and if it was wrong to do it without my mom knowing. At the end of the day, I’m not sure what’s right or wrong anymore. All I know is what my gut tells me, and ever since we went to Navy Pier, it’s told me that I need to do this—so that’s what we’re doing.
“I’m not sure about this at all,” I admit slowly.
I love Connor with every fiber of my being, but sometimes I wish he weren’t always the voice of reason. I know there is a better way to do this, and I know I’m running on emotion right now. But if I think about this for too long, I’m going to talk myself out of it.
“I’m not sure about this at all,” I repeat myself, “But I don’t think I ever will be—it’s now or never.”
He nods his head and he slowly grins, “Ok then … let’s do it.”
Connor starts the car and we are back onto the main road. Shortly after, we are making the final turn before we reach our destination, and as we drive down the road I notice the large, established trees lining it. Connor makes one final turn into a long driveway and we park in front of a beautiful home.
Now that we are here, I’m so nervous that my hands start sweating, and I feel like I’m going to pee my pants. This is always what happens to me before a performance, but it usually goes away once I take hold of my cello and start playing the music. I don’t have my cello with me today, so I’m not really sure how I’m going to calm myself down. I take a deep breath and admire the large, stately house.
The white colonial home in front of me is beautiful. I can imagine my mom growing up here, happy. Connor gives my leg a squeeze so I turn to look at him. He nods and gets out of the car to open my door.
When I step outside, the smell of fresh-cut grass and blooming flowers fill my nose. There’s something warm and peaceful about being here, but I brace myself because I know that’s going to change … soon.
I grip Connor’s hand tightly and we both walk together until we are standing in front of the door.
“You gonna ring the doorbell?” Connor teases, bringing me out of my thoughts.
I shake my head and take a deep breath to summon all the courage I have in me as I reach forward and press the doorbell. When I hear it go ding-dong, adrenaline spikes through my veins. My hands are really sweating now and my breathing has picked up.
Sometimes you are so engrossed with something, that everything around you becomes mute. It’s almost like you have tunnel vision and you can’t hear or see anything else. I get like that a lot when I’m playing music, or reading a good book. When I’m in that entranced state, nothing can break my concentration, and sometimes Connor will have to physically touch me or get in my face to break me out of it. This makes me smile because when he does that, I always let out a small scream, and jump like he’s just scared the crap out of me. It’s not like he meant to scare me, but for some reason it always catches me off guard.
That’s what happens here. I know with all logical thought that after the doorbell rings, the door will open because it’s the natural progression of events. However, when the door opens I’m snapped out of my reverie, and I jump as if I’ve just been scared.
“Hi, can I help you?” a woman in her mid-sixties with porcelain skin and piercing blue eyes answers the door. She’s petite with her white hair pulled back into a bun, although a few wavy tendrils have escaped around her face and neck. She’s wearing an apron, and wipes her hands on it looking at us expectantly, which is when I remember that I’m supposed to talk.
“Hi … um … hi, I, uh, are you … ” I stumble. Crap. I need to get it together. I close my eyes and take a deep breath. When I open them again, I start over.
“Hi, are you Kaye Evans?” I ask as coolly as I can, although I hear the tremors in my voice.
“Yes, are you friends of Logan’s? Come on in, he’s out back with his grandpa, but you can make yourselves at home and I’ll holler for him to come in,” she says opening the door wider for us to enter.
My brain is telling my legs to move, but for some reason they aren’t going anywhere. They are rooted on this porch. I don’t know if it’s because I’m nervous as hell to enter this house, or because I feel bad that she’s mistaken us for Logan’s friends.
“No, ma’am, I’m sorry, we aren’t friends of Logan’s,” I muster the courage to say.
Kaye looks at both of us expectantly, yet confused.
“My name is Harp and this is Connor,” I say and she nods her head in acknowledgement before I continue. “My name is Harp Evans. I’m Ann Evan’s daughter, and your granddaughter.”
Harp's Song Page 17