Page 8 of Virago

The sign was quaint, brightly painted and cheerful, showing an old-fashioned steam locomotive sweeping around a sharp bend, a long trail of boxcars in tow. A watercolor impression in the background was Main Street, the pseudo-Scandinavian gingerbread trims on the buildings suggesting that Signal Bend was a town that transcended time and place.

Gia loved that sign.

The whole town was as bright and cheerful as its welcome. It was a typical Mid-Missouri town, close enough to cities for reasonable access to suburban spans of superstores, megaplexes, and gallerias, but far enough to retain its country vibe.

That vibe crackled with life, and the several blocks of Main Street, the gem of the town, bustled. Antique shops; quirky boutiques selling clothes, or jewelry, or cottagecore home goods; a few cafes; a candy and ice cream shop; a little music store; a bookstore—they all drew customers from as far away as St. Louis and Kansas City, or even farther. Antiquing in Signal Bend had made the ‘Things to Do in Missouri’ lists of most major travel sites online.

Gia loved this town.

She’d gotten up and out early this morning, leaving Evanston behind around seven, and she’d stopped only for fuel for Cammy and herself, so it was mid-afternoon as she rolled into her hometown. A quick glance at the Night Horde compound—the clubhouse and the Signal Bend Construction office and warehouse—showed a mainly empty parking lot; everybody was still at work. If she’d seen a bike or truck she’d recognized, she might have pulled in to say hi, but instead, she drove on, headed for home. Past the Signal Bend Health Clinic, where Aunt Tasha had her medical practice, with two associate physicians. Past Valhalla Vin, Aunt Cory’s wine bar, and No Place, an old-fashioned country bar older than Dad. Past Signal Bend Realty, and the Price Chopper Market, and the Sonic, the only fast-food joint in town.

Right before she reached the decked-out stretch of gingerbread shops on boardwalks that was Main Street, she turned left and headed into the countryside, to the property the Lunden family had owned for more than two hundred years.

She steered Cammy around the last turn and topped the last rise, and there stood the house she’d grown up in: a white, two-story clapboard farmhouse. Both unassuming and beautiful. It had been refurbished and updated a few times to beat back the decay of long life and keep pace with progress, and it had acquired a few additions over the decades, but it was substantially the same house the first Lundens had built with their own hands. Dad was really proud of that.

Gia loved this house.

All around that simple, lovely old building rolled green earth. It had been generations since the Lunden property had enough acreage to be a working farm, but what was left was one-hundred-percent country. As she rolled over the gravel lane, she smiled at the horses grazing contentedly in their lush pasture, at the trees waving in the light spring breeze and dappling the sun over the yard, at the line of sheets waving like flags as they dried. Mom loved the scent of line-dried linens.

So did Gia.

The vehicles parked before the large garage, glinting in the sun—Mom’s Polestar 3, Dad’s Jeep Wrangler, Bo’s Ford Lightning, and Dad’s Harley Softail—indicated that everybody was home. Waiting for her.

She hadn’t been home since Christmas. That wasn’t so unusual these days; though, with the exception of her semester abroad, she’d been home almost monthly during her undergrad at Mizzou and spent most of her school breaks at home as well, grad school was different. For one thing, Evanston was much farther away. For another, grad school was a lot of work. For all of her time at Northwestern, she’d really only been home for a week here or there between semesters. She couldn’t afford the time away from her studies even during semester breaks.

Being on her own, forging a life separate from her parents, from her brother, making something that was only hers—she loved it. She’d dreamed of it as a kid, and she’d embraced it as soon as she’d achieved it. Even so, the feeling of home no longer being home had been a steady ache from the moment she’d first realized that her life was separate from her family.

Now, as she pulled Cammy up at the end of the line of family vehicles, Gia’s heart thumped happily. She was home, and she meant to stay for a while.

~oOo~

Leaving her things in the car for now, Gia climbed out and headed toward the house. As she did, a welcoming party began to converge. Cheese, one of her goofy orange cats, trotted from the barn, headed straight for her, tail high. His brother, Crackers, followed a few feet behind, pausing frequently to examine various weeds, stones, and clods of dirt on the way.

“CHEEZIE!” she scooped Cheese up and gave him a squeeze. He started purring immediately and settled into her arms like he meant to stay there for a while. When she finally met up with Crackers, she crouched and gave him scritches under his chin, his purring throat vibrating against her fingertips. He did not enjoy being held, but he loved his people.

Orange cats were the absolute best cats. She would have loved to have her boys with her in Evanston, but they were country cats who ran loose on the property and would have been miserable in her teensy apartment—which had a no-pets policy anyway. She couldn’t wait to wake up in the morning buried in furry orange love.

Then came Bo and his dog, Otto, trotting down the front porch steps. Otto bounded forward, tongue lolling, and Bo strode with purpose toward her, a big smile on his face.

They stopped about three feet apart. “Hey, brother.”

Bo’s grin got even bigger. “Hi, sister. You’re home!”

“Yep, I’m home. How would a hug feel right now?”

Bo was autistic. He had low-to-moderate support needs, meaning, in his case, that he was pretty self-sufficient day-to-day—he drove, worked, took care of himself, all that—but he would probably struggle to live successfully on his own.

Like many autistic people, he had sensory defensiveness; he experienced all his senses far more keenly than ‘normal,’ and he therefore didn’t often enjoy physical contact. But sometimes he wanted it and sought it out.

His smile widened yet again, taking over his handsome face, and he held out his arms. “I would like to hug you now.”

Gia put Cheese down and stepped into the warm, rare embrace of her six-foot-five baby brother.

When Bo wanted a hug, he wanted a hug. He folded her up tightly—almost too tightly, but Gia could give up a few breaths for this—curled his body around hers, and held on.

“I missed you, Gia,” he said, his mouth against her ear.

“I missed you, too.” She squeezed him back as hard as she could.

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