Then, later, reading for hours at a time. I would escape into the secret worlds in between those pages until I heard my father’s loud whistle across the ravine as the sun set and the mist began to roll in, signaling me back home.
Shaking off the memories, I walk over to my black G Wagon parked about midway down the driveway. I jerk open the back door and rifle through my black leather bag. After retrieving my chosen paint samples, I head back toward the contractor and press them into his hands. “Here you go,” I say.
I think his name is Jim? Jim. Joe? John. Definitely John.
“Thanks. We’ll go and pick up the paint now. Should be able to lay the exterior primer tomorrow if the weather holds up.”
“Terrific,” I say, offering him a warm smile that I hope makes up for the awkward moment earlier.
John turns and walks over to his truck.
As the work trucks pull out of the long driveway, I wander around the side of the house toward the back porch. My feet crunch over the dead and fallen leaves that litter the gravel pathway. I make a point not to walk underneath the ladder that leans against the siding of the house. I’ve had enough bad luck for a lifetime.
The back porch of Pearson House is one of my favorite places ever. One of my very few safe places. I love the way the old wooden deck creaks and crackles under my feet. I love the rustic unevenness of the old wooden slats and rusted nails that always seem to be poking slightly upward. It’s beautiful in its imperfect and somewhat dangerous state.
Like me,a voice in the back of my head says. I smile at that thought.
I perch on the edge of the back porch and lean against the damp railing to take in the view. The late afternoon mist is starting to roll in over the tree line, and a slight chill races up my body. I survey the sight of the familiar forest, shrouded in dense fog. Shades of browns and greens layer the landscape before me. The smell of rain and wood smoke is thick in the air. The fragrant coastal rhododendron freckles the landscape here, dotting the thick shades of green with bright pops of color. The sight always feels like coming home.
I pull my long cardigan more tightly around my body, and my mind begins to drift, surely ready for yet another totally normal and healthy mental escape. But just then, my phone vibrates rhythmically in my pocket. I swipe up to answer.
“This is Dr. Pearson. How can I help you?”
____________________
Later that evening, I stand in the kitchen and take in the silence of the house. The workers have been here around the clock lately, and I relish the evening hour when they all drive away and leave me to the solitude of this space.
After my father’s death nearly a month ago, it’s been a heavy torrent of getting his affairs in order. From consolidating and rectifying his many bank accounts, a few of which were offshore and secret, to deciding which houses to sell. It has been a mental and emotional deluge that has fallen squarely on my shoulders.
My sister, Rae, is living and working in DC. She’s chasing down her dreams and cozying up to high profile political candidates to support via her work as a campaign manager. She remains only loosely connected to the family and hasn’t done much to help me in these lovely post-mortem endeavors. As the eldest daughter, I have been the executor of my father’s sizable estate, all the while trying to renovate the house, juggle my patient caseload, and keep myself, well, alive.
And I’m doing kind of a shit job at that part, actually.
I moved back to Greenwood and into Pearson House eight days after my father died here. It wasn’t even a conscious decision really, just a feeling that I needed to be here. To be close to him, maybe, and to be safer, somehow.
I’ve committed to Pearson House now. Though, I'm not entirely sure it's committed to me. Despite spending nearly every summer here for as long as I can remember, tucked away inside its walls with a book in hand, something feels different this time. As if it's trying to push me out. Doors slam without reason. Cold drafts brush the back of my neck, even when every window is shut and locked. And a presence—a heavy, unseen weight—follows me everywhere I go.
____________________
The next afternoon, I wrap my fingers around the cool black leather of the steering wheel, feeling the tires glide effortlessly along the winding road. “Silence” by Delirium pulses through the speakers, and my thoughts begin to drift. It’s easy to lose yourself while driving through the lush forests in this part of the state. The long, dense stretches of trees blur into streaks of the deepest hunter green. Out here, it’s almost possible to forget you exist at all. To imagine, instead, that something ancient and unseen is controlling everything, and watching. Always watching.
I jam on the brakes, noticing where I am.Fuck, I think.
For the second time in a week, I nearly miss the turnoff for the long driveway that leads to Pearson House. Still braking, I make a rather sharp left-hand turn and mentally rebuke myself to slow down in anticipation of the driveway. There are many twists and bends in the rain-soaked roads that lead to Pearson House. It makes it hard to anticipate what’s coming unless you already know.
I flash on the bright lights as I make my way down the long, dark driveway. When I finally pull up to the house, I put the SUV in park and let loose a long sigh, gently rolling my neck to the side.
Gazing up at the looming, pitch-black form of Pearson House, I immediately regret that I didn’t leave a light on for myself earlier.
Jesus. It is super dark out here. Crazy dark. Horror movie dark.
I take a breath and kill the engine. Snatching my things, I fly up the steps to the front door. The second my key turns fully into the lock, I reach my hand around the wall and feel for the switch. I flick on the porch and foyer lights. The black iron sconces flare to life with a burst of gold, and my breathing eases.
I kick off my black heels and head deeper into the house, turning on lights as I go, and heading for the primary bedroom walk-in closet. There, I strip out of my work clothes and into my comfy sweats and slippers. Once properly cozy and braless, I make a beeline for the kitchen where I have an ice-cold bottle of 2017 Rombauer Sauvignon Blanc that I’ve been waiting to crack open all day.
I pour myself a generous amount of the crisp, golden liquid and settle onto the couch, tugging the fuzzy throw placed there over my legs. Pulling out my phone, I see a barrage of notifications. I ignore most of them, but I do open up a text from Bea.
Bea
