I look at Lollie and open my mouth to speak, still a bit in shock. It must be close to one in the morning by now. The street that stood desolate just mere moments before is filled with bar goers walking along the sidewalks. Confusion sets deep in my bones, but I do my best to ignore it.
Whenever I get these types of unexpected visions, I think of the line from that one Fleetwood Mac song about keeping them to myself, and that is just what I do. I shove them into a locked part of my mind, hoping they will never see the light of day again.
“I’m ready to go home,” Lollie says. I look back at her, my head spinning and more than happy to hear those words from my dear friend. Linking my arm in Lollie’s, we set our sights on a cab.
“Yeah, me too,” I breathe out, looking forward to the comfort of my bed.
The cab ride seems to drag on forever. The temptation to spill every detail to Lollie about both men from today is weighing like a bag of bricks over my head. Both having no names, and one quite possibly being a figment of my imagination.
I thank my heavy tongue for staying quiet as we both make our way out of the cab. An added benefit of living just a block away fromeach other. My mind is fuzzy and tired, thinking only of curling up in my queen-sized bed and pulling my periwinkle blue comforter up to my chin.
I walk Lollie to her door, my embrace squeezing her sides a little longer than normal. There is a lot to be said about a hug that is meaningful, and the ones between Lollie and me always are.
“I’m glad you came out tonight, Jade. Oh, and just so you know, I’ll be over banging on your door in the morning with muffins from the corner shop. You can thank me now.” She says the last bit with an exaggeration that makes me giggle. I truly hope she isn’t drunk talking because a warm blueberry muffin from our favorite morning cafe sounds too good to be true right about now.
“I’m counting on it. But nottooearly,” I squint at her. She sticks her tongue out at me and walks into her small Tudor home.
Once I hear the click of her lock, I make my way across the street, passing the small magnolia tree Lollie planted when she first moved in. The glow from the streetlights is a strange comfort I’ll never get bored with. Casting off shadows in the distance that would normally send a young woman the other way.
My eyes bend the shadows to meld giant outlines of men with tree branches bursting from their temples and roots for hands. Anyone in their right mind would quicken their step to a faster speed, but I walk on at a wobbly ease.
Being on the second floor has its perks, but I don’t see any of those right now as I lean against the railing and slowly make my way up. I applaud myself once I am finally past the front door of my apartment, peel off my shoes and fill a glass of water three times before I feel hydrated enough to make it to my bed. I don’t even bother taking off my makeup as I crawl longingly under its lush comforter.
Between the walls moving around me from the alcohol, and the overthinking going on in my mind from one of the strangest days of my life thus far, hot sweats take over my skin making myheart beat rapidly in my chest. It’s an uncomfortable feeling, having this unknowing of what my life is about to become. Caught between what I’ve known and what I will.
My thoughts reach into the depths of the memory of my mother, hoping she can guide me in the right direction. But she is no longer here, so it is a pointless hope. When my heart does finally calm, and I think I might make it through to see this day end, I can’t seem to shake the feeling of foreboding. My only thought being that today has opened a world of trouble, starting with the moment the jade willow tree shattered. Leaving me with a ring, a house, and a gravely gorgeous man whose face I can’t seem to get out of my mind.
FLASHBACK
RACINE, LOUISIANA 1860 * NEW ORLEANS OUTSKIRTS
In a time before I knew such things could exist, I would dream of trees with portals within their roots. Slowly, as I got older, those dreams crept back to me.
It is almost dark when I awaken with the leather-bound book still open in my hands. I snuck the copy ofFrankensteinfrom my mother’s study and must have dozed off beneath the old hickory again. This is a common occurrence for me during these warm days when the sun casts a soft shimmering glow that reaches down through the flickering leaves above.
The hawk sitting on the branch high over my head looks down upon me, utterly annoyed that I am here yet again. However, I am unconcerned with his skeptical glare, because while I have spent many days here in the recent weeks, I know he has no one to tell. My secret is safe amongst the hawk’s hard and discerning eyes.
Whispers swarm around me like summer gnats at my face, but there is no one to cast them. My head rests on the dark, soft moss-covered ground, while my eyelashes flutter up to one of the giant tree roots sitting above the surface as if it were a talon and everything beneath it were its prey.
I grasp the large claw-like root jumping out of the soil with my still sleepy hand. I can barely wrap my small, slender fingers around it, but use it as an anchor to move to my knees, bending my head down toward the muffled voices within the silky, moss-filled earth.
Leaning into a small hollow at the base of the tree, the whispers get louder, and I almost feel as if I can see a glimmer of light beneath. But how could that be? I lean in to prop my ear against the opening, hoping the otherworldly words will become clear. I have no such luck. Instead, my hand slips against the loose dirt.
Within seconds I am consumed in darkness, and the feeling of falling has me in its deathly grip.I claw at roots, at air—scrambling for anything that might catch me. Nothing holds.
My nails dig deep into the attached roots, but the roots release from the soil, and then they too follow me down into the void. Damp earth assaults my nose. Dirt-caked streaks smear my lace dress as I tumble deeper into the dark. My mother will not be pleased.
Suddenly, my bottom meets a very solid floor. The landing makes my head hurt as I sit and wait for the stars to pass. When I feel steady enough to catch my breath, I move to a crawling position, pressing my palms to the hard ground.
Where am I, I wonder? Tiny scrapes line my fingernails and make appearances up to my elbows. It is cold and damp under my small hands and definitely of an earthly texture.
A faint light pokes through a large rectangular structure wedged between two deep taproots. I inch closer to see, using dangling roots hanging above to pull myself to my feet. The space is tight. Roots brush along my shoulders like luring fingers. I see what the structure is now, although I almost don’t believe it.
It is a door. A door forged within some sort of warren under a very large tree that I had a very different perspective of just a few moments ago. How something man-made came to be under a hickory tree is not something most can process, and I have trouble doingso myself.
Curiosity gets the best of me, and I move closer to reach for the knob. It is a heavy green stone, and I turn it slightly. The light moves across the earth, casting an illuminating shadow as I expose what is behind—a world under the world I’ve known all my life.
Tiny bulb-like lights float around the earthen burrow, mimicking fireflies on a summer night. If I could catch one, I would swear it was a small being in human form radiating light from within. Shimmering black and gold insects skitter to hide into deep crevicesalong the dirt walls as I pass by. I am grateful for the vast openness all around that welcomes me, much different from the hollow on the other side of the door I just stepped through.
