A sickening crunch rings out across the silent winter air, making my stomach somersault back into place. It’s the push I need to snap out of my doom spiral and get going again. I throw the truck into gear and hit the gas, making it lurch forward over the fresh snow. I exhale with relief, more than ready to leave whatever just happened far behind me.
After a few minutes, the driveway up to my parents’ place appears down the road. It’s been plowed and graveled recently, for which I’m grateful–one less thing to add to my list. My insides are still churning from the strange run-in with Elias and the mixed emotions from returning home. I hope like hell my mama has a fresh pot of coffee waiting. A bit of comfort and caffeine would do wonders to settle my nerves.
As my faded red truck pulls up the gravel path, an Anatolian Shepherd barrels towards me. Powdered snow flies off his fur in bursts as he barks enthusiastically. Once he’s close enough, he falls into a trot beside the truck. His curled tail wags like it’s motorized, his tongue lolling out the side of his mouth as he pants. I smile down at him, and his bright eyes greet me, fullof recognition. My heart warms with his presence; there’s no problem in the world Brig can’t fix.
He’ll be on duty soon, patrolling the perimeter and warding off all that goes bump in the night. Brig has been guarding this property for almost six years and has fended off some of my demons too. He didn’t leave my side for those long months I spent on the farm, remembering how to be myself again. No bout of grief or hours of sobbing could scare him away, but the detour in his duties led to a few livestock losses. I don’t think Pop will ever forget that—or forgive it.
I pull up next to the old, farm-style house just as my mama steps onto the front porch, still drying her hands on a kitchen towel. Her graying hair is swept up, held in the back with a clip. A few strands hang loose around her face, framing her stoic expression. My mama, Kate, is a quiet woman, but she’s loving in her own way. Each of her mannerisms feels calculated, keeping her feelings flatlined until my pop or I react first. It’s like she hasn’t figured out what threshold of emotion will keep us from pulling away.
Taking a deep breath, I step out of the truck, my boots crunching against the slush covering the gravel. The air is crisp here, pure compared to the city I just left, and fills my lungs with a stinging cold. I force my mouth into a tight-lipped smile. “Hey, Mama.”
She gives me a gentle wave before turning to go back inside. “Jace, you’re just in time for supper,” she says quietly, tossing the words over her shoulder.
Her brevity nettles me, but I crack a genuine smile as Brig catches up and places his cold, wet nose on the back of my hand. “Hey, boy!” I squeal, a noise reserved solely for him. I kneel, letting him jump into my arms and cover my face in sloppy kisses and hot, doggy breath. “I missed you too,” I laugh, wipingmy face with the arm of my jacket. With one last pat on his head, I go up the porch steps and follow my mama inside.
2
JACE
The old house has barely changed over the years. It’s livable, sure, and cozy, but in serious need of a few repairs. Unsuccessfully, I attempted to get my folks to renovate a while back. “Don’t need ta fix what ain’t broke,” my pop scolded me. I responded by asking him to define ‘broke’, but he only scoffed, effectively ending the conversation. That’s my pop though—stubborn as a mule, no pushing him to anything not on his terms. This house is a testament to his unwillingness to accept change. Part of me thinks he’s still bitter about moving here in the first place. Even though we moved to a new town years ago, the man my pop is remains the same.
The house is beautiful in a humble way, despite its flaws. It has original wooden floors, though heavily scuffed and scratched, and the floral wallpaper isn’t hideous, though it’s peeling in places here and there. The bones are mostly sturdy, but rain still gets in through a few spots, and if the wind blows hard enough, a draft whistles through the back door and down the hall. It’s home, though, and we’ve always made the best of it. Even at night, when the stairs creak and shadows scatter across the floor.
I used to think this place was haunted, but now that I’m older, I know the real ghosts are the ones we carry inside ourselves. The only thing haunting this place is memories, both good and bad. The trick is not to let the bad ones become the only ones we acknowledge. My muscles tangle, tensing the moment I step through the door. I try to mentally wade through the tide of dread rising inside me, reminding myself of the moments that didn’t hurt. Hard as I try, the spark of nostalgic joy won’t light.
“Breathe,” my mama whispers, startling me enough to break my train of thought. “Three seconds in. Good, now hold. Three seconds out.” She repeats the same breathing exercises she used with me a year ago. I’m sure she knows them by heart, and by now, I should too. I let her scent of roses and dish soap envelop me as she walks over, gently cupping my hand. She leads me out of the doorway and into the kitchen before carefully guiding me down to the closest chair. “Coffee is hot. I put it on when I saw your truck coming up the drive.”
I try to relax against the chair cushions, their padding long since worn down and flattened. A steaming cup of coffee, featuring a yellow smiley face and the words ‘Don’t Worry, Be Happy’ printed on the ceramic, slides in front of me on the table. I grimace at the happy face with its endless smile, and cover it with my hand. My mama places her hand on my shoulder, giving it a soft squeeze. I know the gesture is laced with guilt over not being able to do more when she was faced with my breakdown before. My memories from last winter twist inside me like snakes, ready to bite at the first hint of a threat, ready to tear through me and everyone around me once more. I want to scream, “I’m better now!” but it would be a lie. I've just gotten better at burying it, pushing those thoughts down below the layer of ice I’ve grown inside my heart.
“Where’s Pop?” I ask, looking up at her through the steam rising from the cup. I grip the mug tightly, letting its warmth soothe my cold hands. I’m only asking to be polite. We both know putting us all together in one room is a recipe for an inevitable screaming match. Even though I conceded to coming to help this winter, it’s a wonder my pop agreed to it at all. I wouldn’t be surprised if my mama orchestrated the whole thing, waiting to tell him until my truck appeared on the road.
Mama’s tired eyes wander over to the kitchen window looking out over the pasture. “He’s still winter-proofing out there. I know the snow is already here, but it’s supposed to be an early winter and a bad one, too. He has a few more honey-dos to check off his list before he loses the chance.”
I raise an eyebrow, giving her a sarcastic smile. “He saw me pulling up, huh?”
Her body tenses, but she quickly regains her composure when she sees I’m still watching her. She cracks a knowing grin, silently answering my question, and returns to the simmering pot on the stove. “Your father is a complicated man.”
I lean back, snorting with laughter. My pop, Leroy, is indeed a complicated man, but I’m a complicated daughter. We’re two difficult peas in a fucked-up pod. We were closer when I was young, but our relationship soured once I was old enough to start making my own decisions. His favorite saying has always been, “I just want what’s best for you, dear.” The ‘dear’ reeks of condescension, but it’s a scent only my mama and I can pick up on. From the outside, he appears to be a devoted and concerned father looking out for his only child. The effort he could put into our relationship is wasted on appearances instead.
“I saw somethin’ strange on the way up. Elias was workin’ on his fence, but it’s a strange time of year to be doin’ that kind of work, right? Isn’t the ground already half frozen?” I ask, taking a sip of coffee and peeking over the brim of the cup.
My mama halts her stirring, stiffening at Elias’ name. With her back to me, I can’t get a good read on her face, but it’s obviously put her on edge. She’s never been fond of him, but her reaction still seems extreme. Her shoulders roll back, stirring the pot again. “That fence needs a lot of maintenance,” she replies, pausing afterwards like she’s waiting for a change in conversation. I imagine she’s pursing her lips, annoyed I’m sitting in silence and waiting for her to elaborate. When I give no hint of relenting, she continues with a sigh. “He uses rotational grazing for his hogs. You know that, Jace. Nothin’ strange about tryin’ to get a new area fenced in before the weather gets here.”
Her answer rattles me, but I’m not sure why. The reasoning is sound, but it doesn’t sit right with me, like she’s implying there’s an understanding in it I’m not privy to. The logical yet vague response reminds me of the ones I used to get when I asked questions about our family, or why Pop left every weekend while we were still in Devil’s Nest. The answer sounds like a truth covering up a lie, but why the need for one in the first place?
I look over Mama’s shoulder, out the window to where Pop stands outside. His back is to me, pretending to stare at his herd of cattle, all of them grazing out as far as I can see. I’m sure he’s mindlessly twirling a toothpick between his teeth, a telltale sign he’s lost in his thoughts—or avoiding them. Avoiding me. “Doesn’t look like he’s out there to work,” I mumble, mostly to myself. Mama only hums a noncommittal response.
This is the first time I’ve been back home since I returned to the city last spring. My mama begged me to stay—the same way I begged Cyrus—pulling at the stitches I’d just placed in my heart. I couldn’t, though; I needed to get back to what was left of my life and continue putting the pieces back on my own. Being co-dependent on another person for my well-being was part of the problem, and I couldn’t stay in a place where everythingreminded me of him. Each night, I’d look outside and think I saw his face out there in the dark, haunting me. I hope this time won’t just be a repeat of before.
It’s been two years since my ‘big breakup’, as my folks call it. The first year after Cyrus left, disappeared, I slowly fell apart, unable to hold together my identity without him. Since childhood, he was my safe harbor from every storm—until he became the tempest. Last November, I appeared on my folks’ porch, shattered with eyes full of tears. Pop wrapped me up in a big quilt, carried me to bed, promising that boy would never bother me again. At the time, his words only made me sob harder. He didn’t understand that was the entire problem.
For months, I didn’t leave my bed except to go to the bathroom. I stayed there until every tear was wrung from my body. My relationship with Pop had already been rocky, but it deteriorated further during that time. It hasn’t been the same since, and I’ve been grieving the loss of two relationships instead of one.
My folks couldn’t understand why I was so wrapped up in Cyrus, why it felt like I’d lost a part of myself. The unbearable grief I experienced a year into his absence was even harder for them to accept. That’s just it, though. I know the absence of one person shouldn’t break me, but loneliness is only the lack of understanding from other people. Cyrus understood me in all the unspoken ways, in all the ways that truly mattered.
Even after months of therapy, I lack the words to make anyone else understand, but I’m trying the best I can. I know my folks are trying to make peace with it too. Healing isn’t linear, but sometimes, it feels like our paths don’t even cross. Tears gather in my eyes, and I hurry to wipe them away before Mama can turn around. She doesn’t need to see I’m still the same damaged girl, a ghost of the person I once was.
3
