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"I turned Dad's room into an office and I updated mine. "
"Got rid of the *NSYNC poster?"
"Had to. It was embarrassing. "
"And the Barney sheets?"
"Those, too. "
In truth, Grace's room had never had an embarrassing item in it, unlike mine. Those pom-poms, the unicorns, the pink and white lace - let's not even go there. I slept in the guest room now so as not to become nauseous on a nightly basis.
As a youngster, Grace had collected panthers - her walls papered with magazine photos, dresser and night-stand covered with stuffed replicas and figurines, bookshelf filled with both fact and fiction.
This would seem odd unless you were familiar with ancient Cherokee tradition. In this matrilineal society, Cherokee children were born members of the clans of their mother. There were seven, and Grace had been born to the Blue Clan, otherwise known as the Wild Cat Clan, or the Panther.
She took this membership seriously, partly because in this day and age most Cherokee's knowledge of their clan affiliation had been lost. Very few knew for certain where they'd come from.
"Can I see what you've done?" I asked.
Grace shrugged, then led the way upstairs.
Unlike my house, Grace's had three floors: the main-level living quarters; the second floor, where Grace and her brothers had slept; and the third floor, which had been her father's.
Every door on the second level was closed. I wondered momentarily if her brothers had taken their things or just left them behind to gather dust. The question flew right out of my head when we reached Grace's room and she pushed open the door.
Gone was every trace of her collection, in its stead a slick, modern rendition of a jungle.
The walls had been painted mossy green. The carpet was a thick bed of blue. The bedspread brought to mind a hundred thousand blades of grass marching across the mattress. Pillows like lily pads, muted violet and evergreen, had been tossed about haphazardly. The curtains, drawn closed over the glass, blended into the wall.
Water gurgled - not the drip, drip, drip of a faucet but the smooth tones of a brook or a stream. At first I thought a new-age CD was playing; then I discovered a miniature fountain behind a screen that resembled a swamp shrouded in moss and flowers the shade of the sunset after a hard summer rain.
It even smelled different from the rest of the house - like dried grass and the remnants of lightning. I looked around for candles, potpourri, the little electrical-outlet air fresheners, but I didn't see a single one.
"This is amazing," I said.
"I feel at home here. "
The room was beyond soothing. With the green curtains over the windows,
the babbling water, the soft colors, the thick, cushy carpet and quilt, I could easily imagine burrowing in - spring, summer, winter, or fall - and sleeping like an exhausted baby.
Maybe I needed to do a little redecorating myself. But what kind of room could I fashion that would make me feel at peace when the real lack of peace rested within me?
Blah-blah-blah. Sign me up for the next Dr. Phil show. I was sick and tired of psychoanalysis. Even my own.
Grace glanced pointedly at her watch.
"Oh! Sorry. " I moved toward the door. "I know you have to be on the move early tomorrow. "
It wasn't until we'd said our good-byes and I sat in the car that I realized Grace hadn't shown me what she'd done with her father's office.
I glanced toward the lone window on the third floor. Instead of shining brightly with cheery yellow electricity as the rest of the house did, that single window glowed softly, as if lit by a dozen wavering candles.
That wasn't safe. What if Grace went to bed and forgot to put them out?
My hand was on the door handle, as I was thinking I'd just ring the bell and remind her, when Grace appeared in the office window. She leaned down to peer outside. Seeing me, she lifted a hand in farewell, then drew the shade over the glass.
I was antsy on the drive home, and not just because I kept scanning the woods for a deer or a lone wolf. Something about my visit with Grace bothered me, and I couldn't figure out what.
