The Surviving Trace

by Calia Read

  I give him a big smile and fight the urge to hug him. “Thank you. I appreciate this.”

  Ian shrugs and glances at his car keys. “Do Mom and Dad know you’re going?”

  “No. Why would they?”

  “I figure they might notice that you’re gone for a few days.”

  “I’ll let them know where I’m going. But I’m an adult. I don’t need to ask for permission to take a trip.”

  “I know that. It’s just…” Ian glances toward the house for a few seconds before he looks back at me. “Don’t you think this is a little extreme? Especially considering it’s the holidays. Families typically like to spend time together then.”

  “For some people, this may seem extreme. But it’s just a short trip. Two or three days at most. You have to understand that a lot of times, you just can’t wait with antiques. They’re here today and gone tomorrow,” I say with a touch of sorrow and whimsy.

  Ian stares at me for a long moment. I stare right back, refusing to look away first. I’ve always been close to Ian. Growing up, there was nothing I couldn’t tell him. When I had a problem, he always had a solution. I want nothing more than to tell him the truth, but not so long ago, I naively believed that if I told Will, he would trust me. That obviously didn’t happen, and now I’m cautious about how much of the truth I tell and who I tell it to. Because no matter how close I am to someone, the chances of them trusting me are incredibly low.

  Ian exhales heavily. “I’ll be here at three thirty. Be ready, okay?”

  I nod readily. “Thank you again.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” He waves off my words as he walks toward his car. “See you bright and early, Se.”

  BEFORE I GO to bed, I open my laptop. I’ve researched all the information I possibly can about Étienne and his family, but I never typed in my name. It’s a long shot, expecting to get any results with the name Serene Lacroix. I take my time typing my name in the search bar, even though my heart is begging me to hurry up.

  I click Enter and wait. It took only a few seconds for info on Étienne to appear. The same can’t be said for this search, and I’m close to closing my laptop and calling it a night when the page finally loads. As I scroll down, I see an Ancestry.com link with Serene Lacroix. My birth date April 6, 1883.

  Eagerly, I click on the link, but the page goes all white. Object not found! It reads, with Error 404 at the bottom.

  I go back and click on the link over and over and over. Each time I hope that the link will somehow magically work, yet it doesn’t.

  But seeing the name Serene Lacroix and my birthdate instead of the Old Serene’s brings a smile to my face because it means something has changed. Time has been altered in some form. There’s still a chance for me to find a way back. It solidifies my decision to travel to Charleston.

  I log onto Ancestry, but it takes me a few minutes to figure out what to do. I start with my family tree, beginning with myself, Ian, Bradley, and my parents. In a matter of seconds, there’s a small green leaf on the right-hand corner of my dad’s name. I click on the leaf and see the hints they have for me. Because my dad is still living, there’s very little information on him—just past addresses, a phone number, and an Ancestry family tree. Quickly I figure out that it’s my mom’s family tree. She has far more info on the De Valc side, but she did work on the Parow side too. I see my dad’s parents, Gregory Cain Parow and Olivia Austen. Gregory had three siblings Robert, Anna, and David. All of them have passed away.

  Gregory’s parents were Henry Cain Parow and Ella Kubrick. Henry also had three siblings: William, Mary, and Samuel. Samuel was stillborn, and Mary died in infancy. William died in 1942. I look closely between the birthdates of William and Henry. Henry’s birthdate is October 3, 1912. William’s is June 16, 1913. Eight months between the two of them.

  Now, I’ve never been pregnant and I don’t know much about babies, but I do know that the typical pregnancy is nine months. I check to see if Henry has a different mother, but he doesn’t. His father and my great-great-grandpa are Theodore “Teddy” Cain Parow. He was married to Clara Beckett.

  Theodore’s date of birth is March 8, 1879. He died on January 2, 1936, in Virginia. There’s no location for his birth. Clara was born on August 24, 1883. She died November 20, 1960. She was born and raised in Virginia. They married on September 8, 1912.

  I search for more information on Teddy, but there’s next to nothing available on him. I find his death certificate. It’s oddly exciting yet bizarre to be looking at a death certificate. Makes me feel as though I’m on some crime TV show. His death certificate shows the chief cause of death was a heart attack. The informant was Henry. It lists his address as Ravenwood’s location. For Teddy’s parents, there’s just the word Unknown.

  Frustrated, I move away from my family tree and type Asa’s name in the search bar. My outlandish theory is debunked when I see that he lived and died in Charleston, South Carolina. Married a woman named Eleanor. They had two girls: Josephine and Cordelia.

  I wonder if Nat hadn’t died so soon, would she’ve ever gotten the chance to tell Asa how she felt about him.

  The chances of Asa being the man in the photo or my great-great-grandpa are incredibly slim.

  The second person I look up is that douchebag, Johnathan Whalen. He never married or had any kids. But the interesting part? He relocated to Falls Church, Virginia, in 1914 and lived there until he died in 1922. He was only forty-two.

  I don’t believe he’s related to me, but I find it interesting that he lived a mere fifteen minutes away from Ravenwood. What would bring him here?

  Doubting myself, I grab the photo of Teddy and Olivia and stare hard at Teddy’s back. That can’t be Johnathan, can it?

  I grab a notebook from my desk and write his name, underlining it three times before I go back to searching.

  I try to look up Serene Lacroix again, but the link is still broken. So I try my fake parents from 1912, Frederick and Delia Quentin. Impatiently, I wait for the results, wondering whatever happened to them. But no results come up. “I’m sorry. We couldn’t find what you were looking for,” is all it says on the page.

  Frowning, I switch over to Google and search for them, but no results show up. It’s almost as if they didn’t exist.

  Impossible! But if I’ve learned anything from my journey through time, it’s that nothing is impossible and everything is a lie.

  AT THREE THIRTY in the morning, I quietly shut the front door and make my way to Ian’s car. He’s sitting behind the wheel, staring at his phone. I place my luggage and laptop bag into the backseat and shut the door.

  “What are you looking at?” I ask as I buckle up.

  He puts his phone in the cup holder and stretches. “The amount of time it takes to get to the airport.”

  “It’s not that long.”

  Ian snorts and puts the car in drive. “I’m trying to wake up. It’s way too fucking early for this.”

  “Now that is something I have to agree with.”

  My anticipation for this trip is so unyielding that there was no possible way I could sleep last night. I might’ve gotten one hour of sleep at the most. My eyelids are heavy, but my heart is like a jackhammer. Nervously, I toy with the strap of my purse.

  “I know you already told me, but what time does your flight leave?”

  “Five,” I reply.

  My itinerary is tattooed on my brain. Flight leaves from Reagan National Airport at five in the morning. Lands in Charleston at 6:41 a.m. After I check into my hotel, the search will begin, starting with Belgrave.

  “I have a bad feeling about this,” Ian says out of nowhere as he pulls onto the road.

  “There’s nothing to worry about. It’s a quick trip. That’s it,” I lie, because if I have any say in the matter, going to Charleston will lead me back to Étienne.

  “Have you told Mom?”

  “Not yet,” I say as I gaze out the window.

  “Serene, you—”

  “I�
�m going to,” I cut in.

  “When? Right before you get on your flight?”

  “Honestly? Yes. That’s the plan.”

  Ian groans. “And then they’re going to grill me and ask how long I’ve known about this little impromptu trip of yours.”

  “It’s not a big deal. I’ll text them before the flight takes off and when I get settled in my hotel, I’ll call Mom and explain that I’ll be back within a few days.”

  Ian’s grip on the steering wheel tightens. Typically, he’s pretty laid-back and relaxed. To see him so edgy is strange.

  “I know you can’t be this upset about me going to Charleston. Something else is bothering you.”

  He doesn’t say a word, and I know no amount of prodding will get him to open up. I stare out the window as the world flies past me in a blur of onyx. At this hour, the roads are all but empty, making the ride to the airport go by faster. Occasionally a car will pass by and their headlights flash across my face for a second, making me squint.

  My legs bounce up and down. I don’t know if this trip will be useless, but it’s filled me with hope and anxiety and fear. Fear of the unknown. In the past twenty-four hours, I’ve uncovered so much information on Étienne family’s and my own. I feel as though the moment I time traveled to 1912, a domino line was created and the moment I came back to my own time, a single domino fell. Now they’re all dropping. The pace is increasing. Will it stop when I arrive in Charleston? I don’t know.

  I glance at the navigation system. “Please tell me you’re not taking Old Dominion Drive. That will add an extra fifteen minutes to the trip.”

  “I’m not taking that route. I’m taking the parkway, so relax.”

  I take a deep breath, rest my forehead against the window, and close my eyes.

  “Can you stop bouncing your legs? You’re practically shaking the car,” Ian says.

  Immediately I stop and open one eye. “Sorry. I’m a little nervous.”

  “I would’ve never guessed,” Ian replies, deadpan. He glances at me from the corner of his eye. “Are you worried about flying?”

  “No,” I say without making eye contact.

  Street lamps begin to line the highway. Up ahead, I see the airport. The bright lights of all the buildings illuminate the pitch-black sky. The once-empty roads become filled with cars, buses, and taxis all going in the same direction.

  Ian slows down as he switches to the drop-off lane for Terminal C. We pass shuttle buses. I look down at the lower levels and see where people can park their cars. Ian pulls into the drop-off lane and turns on his blinkers. All around us are tired people dragging their luggage, businessmen and women with their coffees in one hand and on a mission to get to their gates. It’s funny how while most of the city is asleep, airports are always alive and busy.

  Before I get out of the car, I hesitate. Are you going to do this? my mind whispers.

  I don’t have another choice. I’m all out of options. All signs point to Charleston. With a sigh, I get out of the car and reach into the backseat for my luggage.

  Ian steps out of the car and looks at me over the hood. “We can go back home, you know. Say the word, Se.”

  I sigh and sling my purse over my shoulder. “I have to do this.”

  He walks around the car, hands tucked in his pockets. “I’ll see you later.”

  But will he?

  If I have it my way, I’ll find a way back to Étienne. The chances are incredibly slim, but this might be the last time I see Ian. All of a sudden, I hug him. I know it takes him by surprise because he hesitates before he pats me on the back.

  When we separate, I give his shoulder a quick pat. “Thank you for taking me so early in the morning. I appreciate it.”

  He shrugs and musses up my hair. “No problem. You now owe me though.”

  I smile faintly as he inches toward his car. “Absolutely.” Grabbing my luggage, I turn toward the airport.

  “Have a safe flight!” he calls.

  Looking over my shoulder, I give him a small wave as he gets into his car and drives away. I can hear the whoosh of jet engines as planes take off or slowly descend. A lady’s voice on the intercom announces the final boarding call for a flight. My grip on my purse strap tightens as I walk through the sliding glass doors.

  Once, I drifted into Étienne’s life, and in the process, wandered into love. Can I do it a second time?

  I’m about to find out.

  I’VE NEVER BEEN to Charleston. Not in the present day, at least.

  Some of the adrenaline I felt on the way to the airport faded on takeoff. I even took a small nap. The second the stewardess announces that we were getting ready to land though, I peer out of the window. All I see is blue water surrounding land. We gradually descend, and the roads resemble long black ribbons. Cars that look like tiny specks begin to take shape. Buildings and houses look so small, as if they can fit in the palm of my hand.

  I sit up straight and buckle up as the plane inches closer the tarmac. My hands curl around the armrests when the wheels touch down. I breathe a sigh of relief as the plane taxis toward a gate.

  I’m here. I’m finally in Charleston, where it all began.

  Everything is not smooth sailing from here. I wait a good thirty minutes at baggage claim as the luggage carousel delivers everyone’s bags but mine. Finally, I find my suitcase, then I have to navigate my way through the airport to find the rental car station. It takes me a while to find my rental car, a Nissan Altima, then I toss my bags in the trunk and get on the road.

  In any other given situation, I would be incredibly nervous to drive in a city I’m not familiar with, but my memories remind me I’ve been here before and give me a false sense of security. A lot of time has passed since then though. Some people might say it’s a whole new world. But as I keep up with traffic and follow the GPS to the hotel, I feel closer to Étienne, I know deep in my heart this was the right choice.

  Checking into the hotel is a piece of cake. I drop my luggage off in my room and shoot a quick text to Ian that I made it here safely. I have seven missed calls from my mom and two voice mails. I take the coward’s way out and text her that I’m sorry I had to leave, but I’ll be home in a few days. I shut off my phone. Placing my hands on my hips, I exhale and lovingly gaze at the perfectly made bed. My body is shutting down. I want nothing more than to crawl beneath those sheets and fall asleep, but I can’t. I only have a few days here. I can’t waste a single second.

  I grab my cross-body purse and head to the front desk. A woman whose name tag says Karen greets me with enough enthusiasm for ten people. “Do you have any information on the Belgrave Plantation?”

  Karen’s brows furrow. “Belgrave? Do you mean Drayton Hall?”

  I shake my head. I don’t know how it’s possible to mix up Belgrave with Drayton. “No. I mean Belgrave.”

  “Hmm. I’ve never heard of it. But if you’re interested in touring plantations, we have a wonderful selection.” She proceeds to hand me brochures that show off the impressive gardens at Magnolia Plantation, the Drayton Hall she mentioned. Middleton Place, and a handful of locations that are all stunning, but certainly not Belgrave.

  I hold on to the brochures so I don’t seem like a bitch and try again.

  “Are you sure you have the right name?” Karen asks. “Because I’m not familiar with that plantation. Even so, the chances of any tours operating the day after Christmas are very low.”

  “Don’t listen to Karen. She’s new,” a lady to her left chimes in. “I’ve heard of Belgrave.”

  Karen and I stare at her. Her name tag says Marilyn, and unlike Karen, she appears detached and somber. She looks younger than me. Probably got this job because it pays when she’d rather be anywhere else but here. Doesn’t matter. She could sprout three horns and claim to know where the portal to hell is and I wouldn’t care. What’s important is that another person just acknowledged Belgrave.

  “You have?” I ask anxiously.

  She gives
me a dispassionate glance. “Yeah. My mom is into all that history stuff. She was, like, talking about it nonstop when it opened up for tours years ago,” she says in the most monotone voice I’ve ever heard.

  On the website, it said Belgrave was open for tours today. Even so, I ask the bored girl just to make sure. My brief conversation with Karen has me doubting my info from the website.

  She nods. “Yeah. It’s open.”

  I give her my brightest smile. “Thank you! That’s all I need to know.”

  “Have a good day!” Karen says.

  “You too,” I call.

  Roads and addresses have significantly changed, and if I didn’t have my navigation system, I’d be screwed. I type in the address for Belgrave that I found on Google: 1258 Ashley River Road. It comes up with a route that will take about twenty-five minutes.

  “Turn left on Market Street,” a British woman’s voice says.

  I tightly grip the steering wheel as I try to pay attention to her directions and keep up with the flow of traffic. I want to gawk at everything around me—the buildings, the roads, everything—because so much has stayed the same, yet so much has changed.

  “In 0.44 quarter miles turn left on Calhoun Street.”

  The name Calhoun gives me goose bumps. I may be wrong about Asa. He may have nothing to do with what happened to Étienne, but I don’t know. At this point, everyone is a suspect to me.

  Traffic becomes heavier as I merge onto the freeway. When I travel across the bridge, I see the Ashley River to my left and right, with numerous sailing boats dockside. I forget all about Asa and focus on Étienne; I’m getting closer to Belgrave.

  I make a right on Exit 1, toward Summerville. Traffic becomes lighter as the road tapers off into four lanes. Commercial buildings and new subdivisions are everywhere. The only things that indicate I’m going to the right location are the beautiful live oaks flanking the road.

  I know I’m inching toward Belgrave when the road becomes two lanes and I see a sign for Old St. Andrew’s Parish Church. My excitement grows.