I look out the window at the back garden, certain that if I was a medium, I could see the spirits of three young girls, running through that same soil. What happened to you? Are you alive, your identities hidden from the world? Or was Annaleigh the only survivor of whatever fate had befallen them, come back to preserve and protect her family history? The flowers below sway slightly in the warm summer breeze. Someone had tenderly planted and nursed this garden. Billy said Linda had a green thumb, but had Annaleigh been the one to inspire this? Had she - and perhaps Linda - escaped life in their garden as I did so often in my writing. After my breakup with Brent, I produced some of my best work. I put my head in my notebooks so as not to see the emptiness of the house, not to feel the lack of him or the continual ache running through my heart. Had these women hidden among their flowers in the same way? Had they gone to even greater lengths, physically covering up the evidence by walling in the back door?
The fact that Annaleigh had been in this very house as a grown woman, perhaps even in this same spot looking out over the gardens, is haunting me. The child version of her that lived here felt almost like a story, a fairy tale, if perhaps one that took a morose turn. It was nearly ninety years ago, and I feel disconnected from it. But for her to have been here in my lifetime, for her to have intentionally come back after all those years, knowing everything that had happened - and perhaps everything that was locked away in this house - feels surreal. Had she simply come back to, as she indicated in her letter, try to recreate the love and joy that had once filled this house? Or was it more than that? Was she protecting something?
I shake my head, as if to toss the thoughts from it. Walking past the mirror, I take stock of my image. My hair is in its naturally wavy, frizzy form, thrown haphazardly in a loose ponytail. My black sweatpants look a size too big and the peach-colored t-shirt I’d randomly thrown on is old and faded. Thank god Greg hasn’t seen me like this, I think. Even the morning he’d woken up here, I made sure to look somewhat presentable. I’ve heard writers talk about getting so lost in their work that they forgot to shower, change, eat, let go of all sense of time. I don’t have that opportunity when writing articles and even short stories, but based on the image staring back at me, I seem to be on my way now. Admittedly, I came up here expecting to be a bit of a hermit. Still, I don’t want to let myself go completely. I need a shower and another cup of coffee badly.
As I stand in the shower, hot water streaming down, my brain finally surrenders. Some people say they do their best thinking or writing in the shower. I do my best meditating. It’s the one place I can completely avoid texts and emails, sticky note reminders and to-do lists. I stand there, unmoving, mesmerized by the quiet in my brain until the water starts to turn cold, wondering if a shower has ever felt so good. I am amazed at the stress and tension I didn’t know I was carrying.
Out of the shower finally, I pull on my favorite pair of dark blue jean shorts and a fitted green t-shirt. No more sweats today, I instruct myself. I understand that some authors need to just hibernate for days or weeks on end. I am not one of them. I need breathing room, time to let the dust settle, to allow subconscious thoughts to creep in that, if I focus too hard, remain hiding in the shadows. Granted, my life as of late had been untraditional and I’ve had more distractions than usual. I look at my hair in the mirror once more. “Ugh, due for a trim.” I’ll have to ask Grace about a good hair stylist in the area. If someone can work with her long, red curls, I trust them to work with my scraggly mess. For the time being, I let it dry into whatever naturally wavy form it decides to take today. At least it’s no longer in a heap on my head, I consoled myself.
Refreshed, it seems like a good time to run errands. I’ve actually managed to make myself look less like a homeless person, and if I’m going to have to wait around, I might as well be productive. If Greg does hear from the bank tomorrow, there’s no telling what we might get ourselves into, and I need to get the liquor and wine as I’d promised. Besides, it’s a pretty day outside - not too hot, but pleasant enough with a slight breeze. The exercise never fails to do me good either, and it can’t hurt to start stocking up on some food essentials for my family visits over the next few weekends. Coffee, specifically, is a heavily debated topic among the five of us. Only Cat and I drank ours the easy way - black, with no particular specifics other than it not be too watery. My mind flashes back to the first time Cat ordered coffee, and I smile. She was probably fourteen, and being the youngest, we’d all been drinking it for several years. To my knowledge, she’d never had a sip, but she ordered it one morning at brunch like she was a regular coffee connoisseur - strong, black, no room for cream. That was my Cat, all out or all in. The waitress had had looked at my parents skeptically, but Cat had always looked a bit older for her age, and my parents managed to hide their surprise long enough for her to finish taking the order. I guess they figured there was no legal age, and as the rest of us drank it almost religiously, they didn’t have much of a rebuttal. Seven years later, she’d ordered her first legal beer with us all approvingly watching as she picked a hand-brewed craft beer instead of the classic college Bud or Miller Light.
A wave of nostalgia washes over me, and I realize how much I miss them, Cat especially. Even Nan with her seemingly snooty ways. They all have such good hearts, and we’ve always been so close. Suddenly, I can’t wait to tell them all about the house, and the history, and my life up here. Cat, of course, knows the most, and Nan knows some, but Mom and Dad were in the dark. Tonight, I decide. Dad will want to research, so I’ll send him links to some sites with as accurate information as I can find. Nan will pester me about Greg, and Mom will watch approvingly, just glad to be here and see her oldest daughter.
Two bags of groceries and a box of alcohol later, I trudge back up the hill towards my cottage. When Grace suggested getting one of those rolling bags that I always associate with old ladies rummaging around markets, I’d disregarded it. “Trust me,” she’d encouraged. “That hill is steeper than you think, and it’s about three quarters of a mile each way to town. In the heat and the snow, it gets exhausting.” “In the snow,” I informed her, “I’ll be driving to the store.” It was then she that laughed. “Southerner,” she teased. Now, I was grateful that she’d found the extra one she’d gotten from the market grand re-opening last year.
As I unlock the door, I am once again overcome by the musty smell of my new home. I have, of course, done some deep - or deep enough - cleaning since I got here, burned more than my share of candles, as much for ambiance as for scent, and done all that I could to make sure the place smells inhabited, instead of like an old crawl space. Still, I have to admit to finding some comfort in the damp odor. I don’t want to completely lose the character of the place, nor do I hope for it to resemble some modern home put together in two days, like a kids lego house. I want the history. I need it. I have to feel all of the people who’ve once walked, ate, slept, played between these walls. I told this to Greg by way of apology the first time he came over. I expected him to offer some platitudes about how it was fine. Instead, he nodded, grinned, and put his arm around me. Grace and Billy, of course, understand too.
The night passes more or less uneventfully. Some texts with Grace, Billy, and Nan, an email volley with Cat, and some quality time with the historical fiction novel I started reading one weekend. It’s about 9 PM when my phone rings. I always get nervous when people actually call me unannounced, aside from Nan, who still feels it’s the fastest way to communicate. I lean over from my spot on the chair, straining my neck to get close enough to see whose name has popped up on my phone, without having to get up. Brent. He rarely called, even when we were together, and it worries me.
“Hello?” I say cautiously, bracing for some sort of troubling news. “Hennie! Hi!”. A pause. “I haven’t heard from you in a while. Thought I’d call and see how life up north is treating you.” I breathe a small sigh of relief. “Yeah, sorry, I haven’t talked t
o anyone back home this past week except for Cat and Nan.” It’s close enough to the truth. “She’s home now?” “No, I guess I just still think of her as home.” It feel oddly unprepared for this conversation, though I’m not sure why. I was in a relationship with this man for five years, and we still communicate regularly. “So how’s everything going up there? It looks like a cute town.” Another pause. “Facebook photos,” he says by way of explanation. “Oh, right,” I laugh. “And, I googled it,” he admits. “I was just curious. It’s weird, not even being able to picture the place you live.” He’s right. For the past few years, we knew every street, bar, restaurant, friend’s house, the other person visited. Suddenly, that isn’t true anymore. “Sorry, that probably sounded creepy,” he jokes.
“You’re right about the area. It is really charming.” I briefly describe the cottage, Harbour street and “downtown”, the coastal villages. I debate telling him the background of the house. Part of me feels disingenuous for hiding something that is encompassing so much of my mind and my time, but I don’t want him to worry. Though if I’m honest with myself, I’m more holding back because it will inevitably lead to Greg. He too, is part of my life that I feel bad hiding. If we are truly going to be friends, I’ll have to tell him eventually. Luckily, he speaks before I have the chance to decide. “How’s the book?” “Going well. I’m actually further along than I thought I’d be by now. At least it feels that way. Guess I won’t know until it’s completed.” “I envy you.” It takes me aback. That isn’t like him, especially not in this context. “Ah yes, the glamorous life of a first time novel writer,” I tease, unsure how else to answer. It feels safe, in case he was being sarcastic. “I’m serious, Hen. You’re taking chances, following your dreams. Moving on.” The last two words are said quietly. If I didn’t know better, I’d think perhaps he was regretting his decision. “Well, this is something I’ve always wanted to do. I found this cottage here, and it just seemed like a good opportunity. Who knows, a few months from now Samantha could tell me that my book is complete crap and I’ll be right back where I started. “Nah, nothing you’ve ever done in your life is complete crap, Hen.”
“How are you?” I change the subject. I’m uneasy with this Brent who seems quiet, less confident, and almost nostalgic. “I’m ok. Nothing new really. My brother is moving back home next month, so I’m excited about that. And I got a small promotion at work. More of a recognition, really, and a few new responsibilities. Other than that, everything’s pretty much the same as when you left.” When I left. Anyone else hearing this conversation would think I up and walked out on him, instead of the other way around. I ignore it. “Jason’s moving back? That’s great! And congrats on the promotion, Brent, that’s awesome.” “Thanks. No big deal really. Yeah, Jay got a job with some cutting edge architecture firm in DC, so he’s moving to Bethesda.”
Brent’s brother has been down in Texas for as long as I’ve known Brent. He moved down there for a girlfriend who six months later started dating her boss, unbeknownst to Jason. By that time, he had a good job and had made a group of friends and decided to stay. “Tracey’s getting married. I think he needed to get out of there.” Tracey is the ex-girlfriend. “To her boss?” I ask skeptically. He laughs. “Nah, that didn’t last more than a couple of months, according to Jay. To some big time Dallas lawyer. Not surprising.” I can hear the contempt in his voice. He was never a fan of Tracey. I feel bad for Jason. He and I hadn’t spent tons of time together, but we’d always gotten along well. In fact, Brent used to tease me that maybe I’d picked the wrong brother. I guess we’ve all had our share of heartbreaks, I think.
“Are you happy, Hen?” The question surprises me. It isn’t the type he tends to ask. Or at least it didn’t used to be. I think before answering. I’ve been more relaxed since coming here than I have in a long time. I’ve met Greg and made some friends. I am getting to follow my dream of taking time off to write a novel. But for the last month or so, my life has been a whirlwind. I’ve been wrapped up in moving, the house, getting settled in. But what if it’s all just a distraction from the pain? It doesn’t feel like it, but how can I be sure. “Yes, I think so,” I answer finally. “You think?” but he sounds concerned, not reproachful. “Well, the past month has been almost surreal. I feel happier, but you know with so many changes, I feel like I kind of have to wait until all of the dust settles to know for sure.” “Surreal how?” I have to tell him. It now seemed unavoidable. I take a deep breath and tell him about the house and its history. I tell him about my friendship with Billy and Grace, and about Greg’s role in everything with the house. I skirt around the more personal aspects where Greg is concerned. “Wow, no wonder you’ve been busy. That’s amazing.” He seems genuinely interested. He asks me questions about the house, the Sheffield family, and everything we’ve found so far. I’ve never seen him this curious about what I’m doing, and for the first time since we split up, he feels like a legitimate friend.
“Can I ask you something else? I promise I won’t be mad. I just need to know. This Greg guy… is he… are you… together?” It occurs to me that he is the first person from home that I’ll be telling if I answer honestly. I chose my words carefully. “We’ve been spending a lot of time together. I don’t really know if I’d say we’re ‘together.’” “Ok… is he there now?” “God no,” I laugh. “Ok good, I’d feel weird with him hearing our conversation. I know that’s probably silly.” “It’s not silly. I’d feel weird too. It’s our conversation, not yours, mine, and his.” “You always know how to put things more eloquently than me.” I can hear his voice relax a little.
Now it’s my turn. “Are you seeing anyone?” “No, I’ve gone on a date here and there. Some friends convinced me to try the online thing. It was awful. Or maybe I’m just not ready, I don’t know. I guess this is harder than I thought.” I can hear his voice catching in his throat. “I honestly never thought you’d move away. I think it’s great. I know it’s something you always wanted to do. But I guess…. I don’t know you have been such a fixture here for me. Like my parents, or Gavin.” Gavin is his best friend, who he’s known since sixth grade. “I know. It’s weird for me too.” I assure him. “I miss home, and everyone there. I’m not used to not seeing everyone all the time.” It’s true. I ‘m enjoying life here, but it is vastly different from the life I’ve lived for the past 30 years. Of course, that’s exactly what I’d wanted when I’d moved…. “I really am happy that you’re happy, Hen. I mean that. I hope we can still be friends.” “Of course. You can’t get rid of me that easily,” I tease.
The conversation with Brent gives me an odd sort of comfort. Until now, it’s felt almost as though I’m hiding my life here from everyone back home, even if unintentionally. Like I’m living in a bubble - some sort of fantasy world that is bound to disappear and send me back to reality at any moment. Cat and Nan of course knew pieces. But nobody knows about Greg, or about much of my personal life here at all. In part, I admit to myself, I’ve enjoyed keeping it a secret- at least at the beginning. As a psychology writer, it sometimes feels as if every piece I publish is a type of window into my brain and my inner self. The idea that I have a piece of my life that is all mine holds a bit of a perverse attraction. But as Greg plays an increasing role in my daily life, it seems unfair to hide him.
I remember when Brent and I were first dating, and he introduced me to someone as a friend. We hadn’t been dating that long, and we hadn’t officially defined ourselves as a couple, but we were definitely clear that it was more than a friendship. I had a serious talk with him the following day, insisting that if we were simply friends, a lot was going to change between us. He never introduced me as a friend again. I didn’t want to put Greg in that same position.
It’s after midnight by the time I crawl into bed. I know that if I’m going to function properly tomorrow, I’d better get to sleep. It seems age is catching up with me and I can no longer run on minimal sleep and still feel ful
ly like my fully productive self.
Chapter 15
I wake to the sun in my face at 7 AM. In my haste for slumber, I forgot to pull down the blinds. At least I know it’s late enough for the sun to be up, I mumble to myself. Shielding my eyes with my left hand, I pull the shade half way down with my right, just enough to block out the brightest rays. In theory, I love the idea of waking up to the sun streaming warmly through the window, birds chirping happily, flowers blooming in the garden below. In reality, I’d woken suddenly and harshly from a strange dream in which I was continually walking down a misty hallway in search of a box of…. something. I’m not sure what now, and can’t even recall if I’d known in my dreams. Symbolism, no doubt, but not much of a help.
Even as I wake further, it seems exceedingly bright for this time of the morning. Sunshine creeps through every crevice of my cottage as I make my way slowly down the stairs, each sounding louder than I remember. My senses seem heightened - a holdover from the dark, damp ambiance of my dream, perhaps. Waking up fully is going to be a challenge this morning, it seems.
Uncharacteristically, I sit on the couch and flip on the TV, watching mindlessly as I sip my coffee, letting it seep into my body until I feel alert enough to function properly. A story about a local animal shelter comes across the screen, and I focus my attention. The dogs at the shelter have been abused or abandoned and are in need of foster and permanent homes. I watch as the pups run across the screen, playing with toys, showing off their newly learned skills for the camera.
The shelter rep picks up a chocolate-colored dog, maybe two or three years old, judging by its size and activity level. “This is Roscoe,” she says to the camera. “We found him abandoned in a box on the corner of Harbour and Queen Streets. This poor little guy has been here longer than any of our current dogs. He’s very loving, playful, and he walks well on a leash.” She continues to sing Roscoe’s praises. “Is he good with pets and kids?” the reporter asks. “Oh he loves other dogs! He’s not had much exposure to cats or young children, but we’ve had a few kids come in and play with him and he’s done very well.” “And he’s healthy?” the reporter continues her script, as Roscoe licks the face of his shelter friend. “Absolutely! Neutered and up to date on all of his shots. He took a little longer to crate train, and he’s a shy guy at first, but once he warms up to you, he’s very friendly.” “And what breed is he? How old?” “We guess about two and a half years old. He’s a lab-terrier mix.” “Pittbull,” I say to the TV. Terrier mix is what shelters label this misunderstood breed, I know from a friend of mine who was involved in pet rescue projects back in Maryland.
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