“I won’t, Lol,” I say in response. I give her my best attempt at a smile, hoping it reassures her. “It’s only a little time away. We’ll betogether again before you know it.” I hope the words I choose are what she wants to hear, being our last words face to face and all.
I pop Carya in the passenger seat and close the door before she can glide her way out of the car. Her slinky body curls up, gazing out the window like she knows what she’s leaving behind. I have no idea how she will do on the car ride, and I’m not eager to find out.
Lollie blows me a kiss as I back away from the drive, and I stick my arm out the window, waving goodbye to both her and Ashton. Ashton’s hands in his pockets, his eyes trail the back headlights. Lollie stands with her arms hugging herself, tears still glistening on her face.
I curse the traffic and ease into the slow lane to let some of the impatient drivers pass by, still trying to catch glimpses of my musing friends in the rearview mirror. I look back at the oak that was full of crows the day prior and breathe a sigh of relief that there is not one in sight. First good omen of the trip.
After that, the hours after fly by. Once I find my groove in the driver’s seat, I’m feeling rather proud of the time I’ve made, and the absence of accidents on my part. My hands keep a tight grip on the wheel as we make it into Nashville, and I give myself an imaginary pat on the back. The map that sits crinkled in my lap says this marks the halfway point. In less than eight hours, I’ll be in uncharted territory and completely way over my head.
“Almost there, Carya.” I look at my sweet feline companion, feeling insanely blessed to have her presence.
I turn up the dial on the radio. Queen blares through the speakers and sends a lively buzz through my hair along with the wind blowing through the halfway rolled-down window. I do my best to hit the high notes, which gets me a very unamused and concerned look from Carya. The sun hits her just right, so she becomes a warm, amber glow.
I’m of the mindset that this adventure may be just what I need. Michigan has been the only place I’ve belonged since Iwas a child. In the summers, we would travel to the east coast, but never went below Kentucky.
My mother would always give some excuse about the weather being too warm down south, but secretly, I knew she was avoiding the subject of my father. From what I have deciphered from the few things she has said about him, he is from one of the southern states. Her tight lips about the matter were all I needed to know that some things hurt too much to talk about.
I dip my head forward, peering out the front windshield to get a glimpse of the blue cloudless sky. Above my car, I see the most magnificent rusty brown hawk. Soaring and keeping a watchful eye on the road. I remember the hawk that sat on that old hickory from my youth—always watching. Holding both pride and protection within its cream-hued breast.
The one I see now is fairly high in the sky, and although it doesn’t look large from my perspective, I can tell the wingspan is one that would do well enough to carry off Carya if she weren’t fast asleep in my lap. The beauty of the way it soars effortlessly, as if it were made of sky and cloud, brings me to a place of content and longing.
I continue to coast through an ever-changing landscape. My car roams through green hills that morph into roads that zig and zag through edgy mountains leading to valleys with cities full of lights. I drive out of one of those cities now as the looming night creeps upon the sky. The hawk is long gone, but its guidance provided an imaginary safe passage to where I hope to near soon.
The map crunches in my grip as I scan the colored lines on the paper trying to find the road to the estate. There are no marked roads on the map to lead me to the house. I keep driving deep into a more wooded, secluded path that leads to a dead end. A path of tall trees lines all my sides apart from a small opening that must have been a private drive at some point. I take a chance, an action I have slowly been getting more comfortable with since this week started.
The road is unmarked, and the entrance to the drive is covered inbrambles. I cringe when I think of Ashton’s car scratching along their prickers. I get out of the car, inhaling the warm southern air. The evening hangs heavy as I do my best to push most of the spindly shrubs away.
My hands are left littered with tiny cuts from the thorns, not the most welcoming sign. I keep pushing them out of the way, trying to clear a decent path. Hidden within the brush are purple thistles that I recognize from my dream just mere days ago.
A humming within my chest makes me aware of the ring inside the pocket of my jean coat located just atop my heart. A ring could not leave such sensations. It must be nerves making my heart race as much as my mind is in this moment. I pat my pocket gently. Still there.
I turn down the drive, and it opens a bit with beautiful cypress trees lining the drive. Spanish moss hangs from their branches listlessly, like they have nothing better to do but lounge in the dimming late July sun. The driveway lasts a full ten minutes, and it seems to have been a little better kept the further I make my way in.
I sigh in relief as I’m greeted by a bronze and white sign,The Rooted Realm Estate. My risk paid off, and I smile with satisfaction at my decision. The interesting name shows its true meaning right away. There are trees lining every inch of this acreage.
A valley of vast oaks to my left. Cypress, pines, and cherry trees line the right, and the largest hickory I think I have ever seen sits in its own respective nook in the back of the property. These trees all seem eager by the way their roots push to the surface like worms after a fresh rain.
In awe, I stop my car. The engine slows to a soft purr before I turn it off and step out cautiously. I follow the circle drive holding Carya in one arm, and carry my suitcase in the other, which is challenging to say the least. Carya is a ball of motion trying to skirt her way out of my grip, but I barely notice because I am overcome by all that my eyes aretaking in.
A massive Acadian old white house stares back at me sitting up on a slight hill. A dark pink cast of color sits across it, weaving into its window panes from the soon to be sleeping sun as she finally trades off with the glow from the waxing moon. An odd magnolia tree sits off to the side of a wraparound open porch. There are twelve deep steps to make their way up to the front door, which seems excessive, but the house itself looks built up as if the bottom level is halfway above ground.
I am eager to see what is held behind these doors. Doors that are full of the most ornate designs carved into the heavy wood with old worn copper gates embedded within them. The doors are calling to me, much like the old hickory from my old childhood home did. I answer their call immediately and move forward, drawn by the strange pull of the house, as if it already knows me.
7
THE HOUSE
RACINE 1978
It is a house made from my dreams, seeming to belong to my soul before I even stepped inside. And the moment I step inside, I am transported to a time before. A time of luxury and quality. When people made things with their hands linked firmly to their heart’s intent.
The floors are set in a rich wood, full of character that holds the memories of each step that has worn its path along these halls. I flick on a large lamp sitting on a table by the door, grateful the electricity wasn’t turned off after my uncle’s passing. The light shines brightly, so I can see all that is before me.
The stairway that leads to the upper floor almost takes up the whole entryway. There is a large mirror on the wall to the right and a massive brass chandelier. Both the mirror and the chandelier seem to have been created from a fury of leaves. I’ve seen nothing like it, but they pull me in like a siren song as I drop my bags at my feet.
Carya is still in my arms, and I watch her hesitantly explore as I set her down. She seems just as entranced as I am. I sweep my hand across the mirror’s moldings. It seems older than the house itself. Everything else in the house is an eclectic mix of all the eras of time, except the mirror. Generations of treasures marked in time, but thismirror, it seems archaic, having no time my mind can date it back to, looking like it’s from a different world altogether.
Its reflection shows how my hair falls limply behind my back. The drive here did it no justice. Coffee stains litter my oversized t-shirt from the moments when Carya couldn’t get comfortable, and I had to juggle the steering wheel and my cup. I should think I look a mess, but when I look in this mirror, I feel anything but.
