by K J Bell
Standing in front of the old mirror in my room, as I did every morning for the past month, I hoped if I stared long enough things in my life would fall perfectly into place. Sadly, I probably thought about the meaning of life more than most girls my age, questioning my purpose. Why was I here? When I thought about how short life was, I wondered if I would ever know. My life had been one huge challenge, much like a puzzle with missing pieces. Each time I thought I was close to solving it – I realized there were more than a few holes.
It was hard to believe I would be eighteen in a few days, when the tiny reflection looking back at me looked more like an awkward fifteen year old. I was all of five feet, two inches, and noticeably thin. My gaunt figure was only made less noticeable by the long waves of mousy-colored hair that lined my pale face. I always preferred to say mousy or sandy blonde to describe my hair color. I hated when someone used ‘dirty’ or ‘ash’ before the word blonde. Sometimes it was even said as a compliment, like either of those words was meant to describe something that was attractive.
My face was heart shaped, like a locket my mother used to wear. I thought I was just a bit less attractive than other girls my age. My lips were lacking in color, thinly lining my teeth, which seemed slightly too big for the rest of my face. This was only made worse by the fact that my jaw never seemed quite straight, because I made it a habit of pursing my lips to the side when I was in thought. Having been in thought quite a bit lately, I started to wonder if my pursed lips were permanent.
The only redeeming quality I had were the jade green eyes that were a gift from my grandmother. I was thankful for that gift. Unfortunately, I had also been gifted her name, Claire, Claire Blake. While I was sure it was a divine name in her time, it was dreadful in mine. Given my already faint complexion, I was sure I would always be known as Fair Claire no matter what town I moved to. Of course, this was one of the nicer things I had been called. It always amazed me the new and cruel ways adolescents could find to tease the new girl.
I noticed the intricate details of the mirror for the first time since I arrived. It was thinly framed in deep mahogany wood, adorned with carved roses, worn on each side where hands had adjusted its tilt for many years. It had probably been in the house as long as everything else. As though it could see what goes on, I assumed it knew many secrets. Like the ones families gossiped about over morning coffee.
Northfield loved gossip. Over the summer, I heard a couple of moms in the market talking about weird occurrences that supposedly happened in my aunt’s house years back. They had gripped their children’s hand and shuffled them away from me, telling them to stay close. Some old men in the hardware store had started a similar conversation a few days later. I walked into the next aisle to eavesdrop overhearing that a handyman named Bob Hawthorne had shown up at the house to check on some work he had done. The men said Maggie shooed Bob away, but he claimed he saw my grandmother talking to a ghost before he left. Evidently Bob left town after that and had never been seen again. The handyman allegedly saw a ghost and my poor aunt got branded as a ghost whisperer.
Having asked Maggie about it once, she explained Bob came by and Gran was in the house arguing with an old friend about politics. She had the curtains drawn in the living room and the sun reflected off the man’s rain jacket, creating a glow around him. Bob had insisted the whole room was glowing and my Gran was speaking to a ghost. Maggie said he wouldn’t even allow her to explain. He got in his car and sped off. There were numerous stories with reasonable explanations that people didn’t want to consider. It seemed like the people of the town needed a little drama in their lives.
If I stared long enough in the mirror, I almost saw my mom staring back at me with her reassuring smile, telling me everything would work out. I missed her so much. My heart ached with grief.
“Claire?” My aunt’s voice interrupted my reminiscing. “Hurry down, you need to get going.”
“One sec, Mags,” I called down to her.
Adjusting my sandy locks in the mirror one last time, as hopeless as it was, I tried to tell myself today was a new day and a better day – a homecoming of sorts. This cheerful tactic was something I tried every morning hopeful that the power of positive thinking would somehow manifest itself into my life and all would be perfect. I was still waiting for that to happen, though I vowed to keep an open mind.
Truthfully, I wished my first day of senior year was anywhere but Northfield. Due to the rumors about the ghost in our house, I was sure I would be all anyone was talking about. The rumors weren’t hushed any by the fact that my parents had scooped me up and disappeared in the middle of the night, all those years ago, with no explanation from our family as to why we left.
My parents never regretted their decision to leave Northfield. They had claimed with each move it was for my own protection – that I was special. Their overly suspicious nature had hindered my social life tremendously. I was allowed to make friends but they were not allowed to come to my house, and I was not, under any circumstances, allowed to visit their homes. I had often wondered if we were in a witness protection program on the run from the mob. It wasn’t as though my father would have been considered the shady type but he had been more than a little secretive.
I had frequently questioned my parents about why they sheltered me from so much of the world. They would never tell me, insisting I had to wait for some understanding. That request had infuriated me. As a young girl, how was I supposed to understand that sleepovers, birthday parties, and trips to the mall were out of the question for me?
In my opinion, my parents had been diluted with some theory that I had a ‘larger purpose’ in life and it was their duty to make sure I was safe. They controlled everything I did for my ‘protection’. I was sure they were as crazy as the townspeople always said they were, but I loved them in spite of themselves.
So, who was I? An awkward, insecure teenager? A loner? I supposed most teens felt this way, but I took it personally, feeling like if my parents would have allowed me a normal life, then I would be a more confident person. It’s true that all parents try to shelter their children, shielding them from dangers of the world, but mine had been over the top. They had never trusted anyone. If a stranger in line at a store had said hello to me, my father would grip my elbow and drag me from the store, abandoning our cart and its contents. Growing up this way, I learned not to trust anyone. Our frequent moves had been my justification for this distrust, and for not allowing me to have any meaningful relationships.
Despite all of that, I longed to see my overbearing mother beaming over me while I played guitar. I would even graciously accept her criticisms. My dad had taught me to play. As I got older, I had taught myself to play more – mastering the art. Now it was my one constant, my fingers on the strings, the sound, taking me to a place without worry. My “happy place” as I referred to it.
I loved classic jazz, like Charlie Parker or Freddie Hubbard. My dad used to play Jazz albums for me on an old record player, when I was growing up. I had loved the crackle in the speaker from the old vinyl as much as the music itself. Something about the crispy noises from the scratching of the needle had been soothing. My dad would laugh telling me he thought I was born in the wrong era. An old soul, he would say.
I was fond of some modern musicians as well. They were mostly singer songwriters, such as, Ed Sheeran and Tim McMorris. Whenever I tried to talk music with girls my age it was usually followed by a rude response, followed up with loud whispers. “She’s so strange.” I found it best to avoid this line of conversation when attempting to make friends. Instead, I chose to keep things a little more simple, keeping my distance. Having friends were overrated, anyway.
“Claire!” My aunt’s voice brought me back to reality again.
“I’m coming, Aunt Maggie,” I called down, grabbing my favorite blue sweatshirt from the post of the bed, and heading towards the door. Taking a deep breath, I whispered out loud over and over, “today will be different. Today
will be different. Today will be different.” I was still banking on the power of positive thinking. Hopefully, today I could finally cash out.
Making my way to the kitchen, I forced a self-assured smile. My aunt had been worrying over me so much since I arrived. She was genuine and caring. As sweet as Maggie was, it made me uncomfortable knowing how much she fretted over my grief. The thought of her feeling compelled to make sure I was happy all the time made me sad. Smiling whenever I was in her presence was something I thought eased her worry. That morning, I found it especially difficult as the anticipation of another new school was racing through my thoughts.
Searching through the chaotic cabinets, I looked for something to grab for breakfast. Aunt Maggie was not the most organized person. She owned a mounting collection of plastic ware, finding a home in whichever cabinet happened to have room when it came out of the dishwasher. I found a box of Pop Tarts behind a plastic colander that had been placed close to the stove one too many times. After a quick glance at the expiration date, I dropped the foil-wrapped fruit pastry into the front pocket of my backpack. I wasn’t sure I would be able to actually eat it. My stomach had been doing somersaults all morning as my nerves continued to develop.
I set my bag on the floor and snatched a glass from the cupboard, filling it with water from the sink.
“Are you nervous?” Maggie asked. “Nervous?” Aunt Maggie repeated herself a little louder.
I was wrapped in thought, not paying attention, even though she was standing right next to me. “Wha…What?” I stuttered.
“Nervous?” Maggie asked again.
“Uh…No…Not at all, Aunt Maggie. Really, I’m fine. I’ve been to how many schools? I’m good. Don’t worry about me, okay?” Maggie nodded. The crease in her brow however, told me she didn’t believe me. Her expression reminded me so much of my dad.
Maggie was my dad’s older sister, although she would never say how much older. She was a woman of small stature with dark-red hair. Large dimples on both sides of her smooth face made her irresistible. Just one smile from Maggie made you feel welcomed and cared for. She lived in this town her entire life and knew everyone. Yet, she rarely had visitors and mostly kept to herself. I was fine with that because it meant fewer visitors to the house that I would have to interact with.
Finished with my water, I placed the glass in the dishwasher. I scooped my backpack from the floor and slung it over my shoulder.
Deep breath, Claire. Today will be different.
“Claire, it’s okay to be nervous. I would be,” Maggie offered with an earnest smile.
“Okay, so, I’m a little nervous,” I admitted, holding up my index finger and thumb and pinching them together, leaving a small gap to show how much.
“Come here, sweetheart,” she said, yanking me in for a quick hug. She let go of me, and I leaned against the counter while Maggie set off rummaging through the pantry.
I loved this woman so much. I couldn’t imagine surviving the last couple of months without her. As much as I loved her, I wasn’t sure how long I would stay with her.
I liked Northfield, affectionately known as River Town to the locals and weekenders that hiked along the Connecticut River. Northfield was a quaint town that lay at the intersection of Massachusetts, Vermont and New Hampshire on both sides of the Connecticut River in the Pioneer Valley. It was plush, with rolling hills and miles of dense forest making it a beautiful spot. But I wanted to explore the world on my own, outside of town.
Before my grandmother died last year, she had lived in this house as well. She and my aunt had always been together. My aunt had never married or started a life of her own. She seemed to really enjoy living with her parents and taking care of them. My grandfather had passed away about a year before my family moved. I was always curious if Maggie ever met someone who later realized she was a package deal, so things didn’t work out. It was silly for me to think about it as Maggie seemed perfectly content with her life and choices.
“You’re going to be late if you keep day dreaming,” Maggie interrupted my thoughts. She pulled a bag of potpourri from the pantry, opened it and started pouring it into a bowl. I sneezed.
“Bless you.”
“Thank you,” I replied. “Maggie, that stuff is so strong. Do you have to put it all over the house?”
My aunt displayed potpourri-filled baskets in every room and the smell was overwhelming. It was a mixture of pine cones and berries and I found it repulsive.
“I love it, Claire” she replied cheerfully.
“Can you love it in smaller doses?” I teased, kissing her on the cheek.
She laughed. “You better get going, dear.”
“All right, all right, I’m going.” Readjusting my backpack over my shoulder, I headed outside to the car.
“Have a good day,” Maggie called from the kitchen.
Once outside, I turned back to the house – my house – and smiled.
The house was a typical New England cape. It had been in our family since it was constructed during the 1700’s, with original wide pine floors throughout. The paint on the outside was faded from years of winter and was now the color of nearly-burnt toast. The windows were old and warped giving a kaleidoscope appearance when peering out. The streaking forest formed pixels of greens and browns, patterns twisting and changing shape, with each ray of sunshine through the weighted glass.
As I looked at the house, memories flashed through my mind of my childhood and how happy my family and I were then. What had caused us to move so suddenly? What kept us moving? I often felt as though I had been lied to my entire life. I wondered if Maggie knew the truth – and if she did – would she ever tell me.
Quit procrastinating and get to school. I rolled my eyes at my subconscious. We had been battling frequently since my parents passed. I found her extremely bossy and overly annoying most of the time.
CHAPTER 2
“When will I meet him?” “We meet our soul mates when we’re on our soul path.” – Karen M. Black
What I really wanted to do was crawl back into bed, bury myself under the covers and pretend the last few months had never happened. Instead of my parents dying, I would imagine they were alive. They would walk through the door after a wonderful evening, telling me all about how much fun it was to watch the ponies run. Mom would tell me how she won so much more money than my father – even though she placed her bets on a horse she thought had the most imaginative name. My dad would laugh and kiss her on the head expressing his love. He studied jockey and owner stats to place his bets. In the end, neither of them would ever win any big money. Their teasing would make me smile before they tucked me into bed. I would wake up to a stunning west coast sunrise; go for a walk on the beach, breathing in the sweet salty air of the Pacific. While I often tried to use this fantasy as a way to numb the pain, I was always rudely awakened and jerked back to the present.
You seriously need to get moving or you’re going to be late.
Listening to my pushy subconscious, I brought myself back to reality. I walked across the driveway to Maggie’s car. Maggie was great about loaning me things. Anything of hers she was happy to share, wanting me to feel at home.
Nothing said teenage girl like a 1995 Buick, though I refused to complain. The off-white car was in mint condition – rust free – a miracle in the northeast. It had less than 20,000 miles on it. Between Maggie and my Grandma Claire, neither of them had driven very far.
The smell of pine was overbearing in the old Buick, even though I discarded the pine tree air freshener that hung from the rearview mirror yesterday. I had left the windows open hoping the smell would dissipate soon.
I startled when I heard a knock on my window. Looking up I saw Aunt Maggie’s smiling face.
“You forgot your lunch, dear,” she announced warmly, holding the brown paper sack in front of the window.
Rolling down the window, I noticed her facial expression change, looking almost angry. I reached for my lunch, and pull
ed it through the window, tossing it on the seat next to me.
“Where is the pine tree that was hanging from my mirror?” Maggie barked.
“The smell was awful, and no offense, but a pine tree doesn’t exactly scream seventeen years old,” I teased, hoping to lighten the mood.
“I don’t care what it screams!” Maggie yelled. “I like it, and it’s my car, Claire. I have another one in the house. Stay here and I’ll get it,” she instructed, starting towards the house in a huff. I was entertained by her efforts to replace the air freshener and I smiled.
“Maggie, wait. I’ll be late. You can replace it after school,” I yelled, stepping on the gas as I drove out. I saw in my mirror she was running behind me. Watching her made me chuckle. Jeez Mags, it’s just an air freshener.
Eating my Pop Tart, I drove the long road to school noticing the overgrown trees and shrubs from a hot, damp, New England summer. The elaborate maze of greens and browns in every direction always reminded me of the children’s song about going over the river and through the woods to grandma’s house.
Colonial and ranch style homes were tucked away behind the wall of trees lining the streets of Northfield. Each house was similar other than siding choices and an occasional log cabin that broke things up. Some preferred very bright colors while others stuck to traditional wood. This was so different from the homes in San Diego which were made of stucco and Spanish tiles; all painted a varied shade of tan. Their houses were cramped into streets along a grid, cookie cutters of their neighbors. It was easy to peer into the house next door to you because they were no more than six feet away. Here in the country, there was more acreage than structure. It was only possible to get a good look at a neighbor’s house in the winter when the leaves had stripped themselves from the trees.