by Grace Greene
“True.”
“But since it’s about to change forever and we can go, why not? See it like it used to be, or close anyway. I’d like to.” Ellen put down her pencil.
I leaned back against the counter. “What do you remember?”
“I remember the fire, but I don’t totally remember how scared I was. Just that I was, you know, super scared.”
“What about before that? For instance, do you remember the house? You were only five when our lives changed.”
“I remember Gran. Mostly, I remember she was big and soft and smelled like lavender.”
“Lavender. Funny. I hadn’t thought of Gran and her lavender sachet in years.”
“I remember the day she died.”
“Do you?” I put my hand to my chest.
“Yes. Sometimes I think I remember Grand, but I can’t, right? He died before I was born.”
I was silent. Yes, Grand was already gone then, but not George Bridger.
She stared into a dark corner of the kitchen. “He was tall and thin and had a long white beard.” She laughed a little. “For a long time I thought he was Santa, but a skinny one.”
I forced myself to nod. I tried to control my face while I searched for words. But Ellen went on.
“I must’ve seen a picture of him and mixed it up in my memory. I do remember the house, or parts of it, anyway. It was dark, except for the kitchen. I remember a lot of light there. The house was warm. Felt like summer all the time because Gran was always cold, right? You and I shared a bed while we lived there, and I loved that.” She stared at the wall, a wistful smile on her face. “I missed that the most when we moved here. I felt alone at night for the first time ever.”
Her smile pushed away everything else. I realized I should let it go. Her recollections would continue to blend and change, and probably disappear as many memories did, like dreams, evaporating with time.
“The night of the fire, I remember how you woke me, scooping me out of bed in the dark. I would’ve been afraid, but it felt like I was flying in your arms. At least until I saw the flames in the living room. And then felt the cold outside. It was summer, right? But I remember it as being cold. I wanted my blanket and my doll. I looked at the fire coming out the window, and I was afraid. I wasn’t afraid of the flames. Not for me. I was afraid I’d say the wrong thing, like ‘I’m cold’ or ‘I want my doll,’ and you’d run back inside to get it. I was afraid I’d lose you forever and it would be my fault.”
“It would never be your fault. No matter what. You know that, right?”
“Sure. I was a kid, and kids think everything is about them.”
I watched her face and was satisfied. I went back to cooking.
“So, is it a date?” she asked.
“What?”
“Tomorrow afternoon.”
“Sure. Good idea.”
After all that talk about the fire, not to mention old men with long white beards, I was afraid I’d be wakeful that night. The ghosts and regrets from my past were bound to climb into bed with me, but no, I dropped off to sleep as if I hadn’t a worry in the world.
I stopped in the same spot as always—the patch of dirt and gravel after the curve that gave us our first sight of the house. We’d huddled there in that spot as the house burned, as far away as safety required but where we could still see it. I’d pulled my young daughter into my arms, attempting to shield her, but I knew she was sneaking peeks through my fingers, and she was shaking. For myself, I couldn’t take my eyes away—out of respect and grief? Or horror? Disbelief? Probably everything rolled up into one dreadful image—of flames through the windows, then erupting through the roof. I’d tightened my arms around Ellen, and we’d waited, knowing someone would see such a huge blaze in the dark of night and call it in.
Ellen said she remembered that night, that I had picked her up from our bed and carried her out past the flames into the night. I recalled that, too, but I also remembered waking up to the squeak of the springs as the mattress shifted. I’d opened my eyes to see Ellen settling back into bed beside me. I assumed she’d gone to the bathroom. I reached over to make sure she had the blankets pulled up over her—for a summer night, it was a chilly one—then drifted back off myself. Until I woke again. This time I knew in an instant that something had gone very, very wrong inside our home.
Ellen didn’t seem to recall having gotten up in the night before the fire started, and I wouldn’t remind her. Regardless of what she might have done, the fire wasn’t her fault.
On this trip to the Hollow, I cast a sidelong glance at Ellen to check her reaction. How many times had I stopped here before understanding why? She blew out a silent puff of air from between her lips. I recognized that mannerism. It was her emotional response when she was confused or conflicted, so clearly she wasn’t oblivious to the currents here, either.
I didn’t try to comfort her and thereby prevent her from dealing with her emotions herself.
Ellen opened the door and slid out. She closed the car door firmly, cast a look at the work Roger’s crew had already done to clear trees and widen the dirt road, and then set off down the driveway. She stopped at the porch, the charred black goo of long-flattened debris not far from her shoes. She pinched her nose.
“It still smells, I know,” I said.
She removed her hand. “Not really. Not much. It’s just that the smell reminds me of that night. You know?”
“I do.” My fingers twitched. They wanted to grab my daughter’s hand. I jammed my fists into my pockets.
She puffed out a soft breath again, then nodded and moved on. She walked around the remains of the house and headed to the backyard. I followed more slowly, curious about what would draw her attention most directly.
Ellen went to the old cabin. She opened the door and looked in. She squinched up her nose and backed out, sneezing. “Spiders?”
“Most likely.” I laughed softly and touched the thick, rough logs. “Roger will fix it up. He’ll get rid of them and the dust, too.”
“I remember you working in there.”
“And I will again.”
Ellen crossed the yard to the small footbridge over the creek. She paused there for only a quick moment and then headed up the slope to the cemetery. As I hastened to catch up, she called out to me, “Looks good, Mom.”
She stopped at the stone walls and stared at each of the graves. It made me nervous. Did her eyes linger on her father’s grave? Maybe, but she didn’t remark on any of them. Instead, she turned away, took my arm, and we quietly descended the hill.
After recrossing the bridge, she wandered farther down to the creek. I sat on a log, enjoying the sound of the creek and the spring feeding it. Ellen continued standing and staring straight ahead.
“Where does that go?” She was pointing at a path that disappeared up the slope into the woods.
Across the creek, and beyond the homeplace clearing where the trees took over again, the path was wide and clear, though it narrowed and almost disappeared in places as it climbed to the top of Elk Ridge. Or it had. I hadn’t attempted that stroll in years. Was it still walkable?
“That’s Elk Ridge up there. Our property follows the ridgeline.”
Ellen opened her eyes wide. “Seriously?”
“Seriously. Of course, you can’t see it from here because of the trees. The forest is thick up on the slope. Not much good for farming here. The land flattens out on the Bridger side of the ridge. The Bridgers used to farm over on their side. Mostly, Grand just hunted. Gran and I grew a few veggies. I vaguely recall an orchard. Grand tended that for years, but it took a blight or something—I hardly remember, it was so long ago—but otherwise, that was about it, as far as working the land. Grand was good with small engines and furnace repair and such. That’s how he earned a living.”
My voice was stilled as I recalled, from years ago, the attorney telling me my father’s ashes had been poured into Cub Creek, destined to vanish. He was lost to the past, t
oo. Erased? Not quite erased, but the aspect of him was changed. Gran had changed the truth of who he was into the memory of someone he’d never been.
My daughter, but not the daughter who’d carried the genes of my parents, paused on the bank where the creek narrowed, downstream from the bridge. I was about to call out to her to be careful, to remind her the banks could be slippery, when she jumped. Gracefully, as smoothly as a young deer, she flew over the water and landed on the far side. She started walking toward the path.
I stood. “Ellen. What are you doing? Come back here.”
She called back to me, tossing the words over her shoulder. “Don’t worry, Mom. I’ll be right back. We have time, right? I want to walk to the ridge.”
“Why? I mean, it’s a long walk.” I hardly recognized my voice. I reached forward, wanting only to pull her back.
Ellen nodded and left me.
Left me? Get it together, Hannah. Ellen was walking up to the ridge that I’d pointed out as being the property line. Calm down, I told myself. This didn’t need to be a big deal. One step at a time, and before I knew it, we’d be back here on Cooper land where we belonged.
“Watch out for ticks and snakes! Spiders, too!” The warning was a feeble attempt to bring her back. Feeble and contemptible.
I hurried back across the bridge and angled toward the path to catch up to her.
“I remember Gran being sick,” she said as we hiked up the slope.
“Yes,” I said. “She had health problems, but until Grand died, she did well enough. She took his death hard.”
“That’s why you didn’t go off to college.”
“Yes,” I said again.
“Instead, you met my dad while you two were in high school.”
“Wait,” I said. I stopped, and she did, too. “Is coming out here bringing all this up again?” I touched her hand. “I’m sorry you have questions I can’t answer properly.” I shook my head. “I remember once Gran saying a child deserved to have a daddy. I wish I could’ve given that to you.”
Ellen spoke softly. “It’s not your fault he died.”
Not my fault. The death of someone who’d never existed but who served an important purpose in our lives nevertheless.
I drew in a deep breath that sounded a lot like a sigh and said, “After he died, his family moved away, and I never knew where they went. I wish I had something of his, perhaps a keepsake, for you. Maybe it would’ve made him seem more real.” I tried to slow my lying heart, which was now racing. “We were young, sweetie. We went further than we should have. We should’ve waited, and then you would’ve had a real family. Remember that when you think you’re in love. There’s an order to things that shouldn’t be ignored. If he hadn’t died, we would’ve fixed that, but we never had the chance. Even so, I have never regretted having you. Never. You have been my heart and my sanity through all the craziness life has thrown at me. I’ve never regretted you—and if you believe anything, you must believe that.”
She nodded. “I do believe it, and I believe his family knew how much you loved each other, and I remember that every time I think of them letting him be buried in the Cooper cemetery. They probably moved away because they couldn’t bear to stay. If they’d known about me being on the way . . . Maybe having a granddaughter would have helped them heal.”
I was stricken. This romanticized version I didn’t know she’d crafted—of a stricken family and her deceased father—was my fault. All my fault.
What you sow . . . I had sown these seeds. These lies. I’d kept them watered and fertilized and pruned because I wanted to avoid an ugly, distorted reaping.
At that very moment, a nearby bird burst into song, filling the air with its warbles. The clear, delicate, earnest notes seemed to erupt from a grove of hollies, and the music soared and brought an expression of wonder to both our faces. Ellen smiled and reached out for my hand. She wrapped her fingers around mine, and for a brief moment, I saw the child with the creek-water brown eyes again who needed me, then she tugged, this child who now looked like a young woman and who was as tall as I was, and she pulled me up the hill along with her.
“Watch your step, Mom.” She stopped. “Hold up. I’ve lost the path.”
“This way.” The brush had made a thicket here. “Are you sure you want to do this? You’re likely to get scratched.”
“Mom, please.”
“OK, OK.” I led her around the thicket, and we did pick up a few scratches, and then we climbed the remainder of the path now carpeted in fragrant pine needles. “These can be slick. Watch your footing.”
Suddenly, there we were—atop Elk Ridge. The geography hadn’t changed, as if the laws of time and nature had stayed their course, despite how greatly our lives had changed since I’d last taken this walk.
Ellen stood beside me, then abruptly moved on.
“Where are you going?”
She shrugged. “To follow the dirt road. I see an old house over there.”
Beyond the fields, and in the gaps between the trees on the far side, the roof and chimney could be seen.
“The Bridger house. Mr. Bridger died years ago. A relative moved in there soon after. I met her, but I don’t really know her. It’s not right to trespass.”
Ellen went a few steps farther, and then stopped. “I guess you’re right about trespassing and all that.” But then, despite her words, she resumed walking. “But we’re neighbors, aren’t we?”
The trees were thinner here, and the fields that used to grow hay were fallow, and thickets of sticker bushes and berries were overcoming them. There were other bushes, too. Planted bushes like abelias and butterfly bushes, and some I didn’t recognize. Gran had loved abelias, and these were in bloom, covered in little white flowers.
Ellen ran her hand over a branch of blooms. It stirred the bush, and a few yellow and orange butterflies took flight.
“Oh, look, Mom!”
She stared, as did I. “I remember seeing butterflies here before. A long time ago.”
“Ouch,” Ellen cried out. She yanked her hand back and stuck the finger in her mouth.
“There are blackberry bushes in there.”
She pulled the finger from her mouth and shook her hand. “It’s too early for berries. Too bad. I’d love a cobbler.”
I examined her finger. “A few seconds of pressure will make it stop bleeding.” In truth, there wasn’t much more than a pinprick of blood, but I knew how those thorns could sting.
She squeezed her finger.
“I used to pick berries when I was young,” I said. “We’d can them. Also, Gran would make blackberry cobbler, and I’d walk it up here to Mr. Bridger. He was alone. A widower. He loved Gran’s cobbler.”
“Who lives here now, I wonder? You said a relative moved in?”
“A cousin, I think.” I waved away a gnat. “It’s time we headed back.” I saw she was looking at her finger again. “We’ll get that washed and put a little ointment on it.”
Ellen tossed her hair again and smiled. “I’m not a baby, Mom. I can take care of it.”
“Sure you can. Because I taught you how.”
Before Ellen could answer, I heard my name called. I turned to see a plump woman walking briskly toward us and waving.
“Ms. Cooper? That you?”
The Bridger relative, Mamie Cheatham.
Just be polite, Hannah. Then you can leave. This is no different from meeting anyone else and being courteous. Take it one step at a time.
I waved at Ms. Cheatham and said to Ellen, “We’ll have to say hello.” We walked and met her midway.
The woman was wearing a straw hat over her gray hair that was pulled back into a ponytail. Her print dress, combined with sneakers, gave her the look of an eccentric.
I apologized. “I’m sorry we bothered you. It’s been a few years since we last met.”
“Certainly I remember you. It was at your grandmother’s funeral, right?”
I touched Ellen’s arm. “Yes, ma�
�am.”
“I’d just come to live at George’s place. What a mess it was.” She put her hand to her face. “I shouldn’t say that about family. Shame on me. I’m sure he did his best. Not easy for a man managing alone, I’m sure.”
“Mom, does she mean Gran’s funeral?” Ellen’s face had lit up as if she’d made a connection, unexpected, but one that put her squarely into this conversation of memories. She’d been young, but not so young she didn’t remember the funeral. She asked Ms. Cheatham, “Did you know my father?”
The woman looked surprised. I certainly was. I put my arm around Ellen, shaken but laughing politely. “Of course not, honey. We lost him long before Ms. Cheatham arrived in town.”
Ellen blushed, embarrassed. “I thought because it was long ago . . .” Her voice trailed off. “My father died before I was born. He was hiking in Colorado.”
“Oh my. How sad for you, dear.”
I squeezed Ellen in a one-armed hug and smiled. “Ms. Cheatham, if you haven’t already guessed, this is my daughter, Ellen.”
She focused on Ellen, and her eyes were kind. “Well, I’m old, no doubt about that, but I didn’t move here until a while after George died, so I couldn’t have known your papa, sweetie. Call me Mamie, please.” She smoothed her collar. “I remember meeting you at your great-grandmother’s funeral. What a beautiful little girl you were, and now such a lovely young lady. I’m a cousin of the Bridgers through George’s wife, Belinda. I hope you’ll come visit me sometime. I miss having young people around.”
She turned back to me. “I knew someone was here because the butterflies took wing. Magnificent, aren’t they? My cousin Belinda planted all those butterfly-friendly bushes around the property when she came here as a young bride.” She laughed. “Funny to think of butterflies as an alarm system, isn’t it?”
“It was beautiful seeing them fly around like that,” Ellen said.
“Oh, just you wait until July and August. They’ll be thick like crazy. In fact, you put me in mind of her. Belinda, that is. Those dark eyes of yours and your hair. My cousin Belinda had that beautiful glossy dark hair.” She continued. “Well anyway, I was about to drive into town. A Ladies Circle meeting at church, you know. Would you like to ride along? Or if you’ve a mind to visit, I can miss this one. Freda can catch me up later.”