I was sure Ashton had plans to make their relationship official, at least it seemed that way with how he pulled on his necktie and kept messing with his hair, waiting for Lollie to finish getting ready. I was over at Lollie’s beforehand, helping her choose her outfit, so I got to see firsthand the seriousness of this dinner. It was comical really—until it wasn’t.
Lollie called me in tears a couple of hours later, saying they were over and he would never see life the way she does. That was all I heard about it from both of them, but I didn’t pry. The feelings from them being of almost atomic bomb proportions had me nervous to detonate an already very unsteady tension.
Both have seemed to calm around each other since then, being that was almost two years ago. I left them with little choice but to see each other almost daily, even if they barely spoke for that first year after. Lollie is my oldest friend, but Ashton’s heart holds so much value. Neither was going anywhere out of my life.
Ashton always seems to know when I need someone around. Today being one of them. His sun-kissed hair falls behind his ears and curls up a bit. And his smile is so wide and gleaming that it never fails to break my heart right open.
He is the optima of light, and that light dimmed when he and Lollie ended. Even dimmed, his light is a solar flare—igniting energy the moment he steps into a room. He came into my life as a friend from the moment he opened up shop across from ours, and he is one I hope never to lose.
Ashton leaves after finishing his food, his visits being short since having to carry the responsibility of his shop. The rest of the day at the shop is quiet, per usual. My heart tugs a bit at knowing I’m going to miss this comfortable routine of shop life. One thing I’ve never been too keen on is taking chances, and this house feels like the biggest one of all.
This shop life is all I’ve known. My mother cast a shadow of fear over anything I ever dared to try. I know she didn’t mean to, but why was she so afraid? It’s no wonder I unconsciously picked up her unhealthy pattern over the years, as so many young children do.
Maybe the house, tossed into my hands like a dare, could be how I finally break the generational curse. To embrace the change that’s always stirred in me. To climb the tree of life without the dreaded fall to the ground that I have for so long expected as the only outcome.
I stay at the shop for one last night to clean it up and listen to records with Carya, a glass of cherry brandy in hand. With my liquor poured and the record player set toOne of These Nightsby the Eagles, I get into a steady rhythm of taking stock of what is in the shop.
I slowly brush my fingers along the edge of a painting dating back to the mid-nineteenth century of a young woman submerged in a lily pond fully dressed. My mother found it in Europe years ago before I was born, and I've always thought it looked like someone I knew. At times, I saw my very own face in the woman’s reflective melancholy staring up in quiet contemplation.
“Why so sad, beautiful girl?” I would often ask as if she weren’t just mere paint strokes on canvas.
My thoughts wander back to the estate and the uncle I never knew. The irony that my uncle was an antique collector is not lost on me, and it’s what stirs my curiosity the most. Would he own items as timeless as these paintings? I have spent my whole life surrounded by the odds and ends of items from different ages, and now I wonder if perhaps it has been rooted in my blood all along.
As if my mind conjures it with the very word itself, a dense black door with pictures of various trees engraved in it floods my vision, pouring in from an unknown source. I can pick out the hickory and oak carved larger and darker than the rest. A hawk glides above the hickory, while one lonely crow sits perched atop the oak etching. It’s beautiful detail entrancing me into it’s imaginedworld.
I put my hand on the knob, about to turn it, but pull back instinctively with the feeling of something slick and warm seeping onto my fingers. My hand now covered in a dark red color that is slowly creeping up my arm in an act defying the natural order of the earth’s gravitational pull.
I catch movement on the door. The hawk and the crow become lifelike, growing before me. The hawk swooping down at the crow. The crow heading right toward my head. I open my mouth to scream, but before the scream falls on empty air, I am brought back to the present time. Back in my shop. The beating wings of the birds still pulsing in my ears.
I grip the counter, fingers digging into the wood. It threatens splinters, but my frantic heart pays no heed. Forcing steady breaths through my lips, I find the stool to steady my legs and my heart, both are leaving me with little support. My fingers still feel the wet thickness of blood.
My visions have been getting worse. What were dream-like states that graced my mind every few months has now turned into a daily occurrence. I can’t help but recognize that whatever I am about to embark on has a lot to do with it.
6
THE DRIVE
DETROIT TO RACINE 1978
The day of my departure grips me like a hawk to its prey, taking me to some unknown destination, whether I like it or not. Thankfully, and to no surprise, Ashton lets me borrow his car for the drive down to Louisiana. He’s loaded the trunk with snacks and emergency supplies in case of a flat tire, or God knows what else he thinks is an emergency. Sometimes I wonder what he wouldn’t do for me.
It can be a burden to be surrounded by people who want to protect you so fiercely. If I were a delicate rose, I think my petals would surely crinkle beneath that pressure. Though I would be lying if I said I never felt that way. And now here I am, comparing myself to a flower.
The more I think about it, I’ve always found the thorns on a rose a funny addition. So far from its flowering bud that any animal could surely nip the most alluring part without being snagged by the thorns in the slightest. The thistle from my dream would be more of a flower I would like to mimic. Its petals untouchable and bold. Saying, “Here I am, but good luck taking what’s mine.”
However, I don’t feel any burden from Ashton’s friendly deed at the moment as he hands me the keys, and makes traveling miles andmiles to a destination I know nothing about, a whole lot easier. I thank him a million times before I load up the fairly new blue station wagon he spent years saving up for.
My anxiety has me biting my nails down to the nubs as I think about even getting so much as a scratch on it. To say my driving is dependable is an exaggeration. I’ve had no need to drive where we live, and it shows.
It shows in my nervous fingers as I fondle the keys, wondering how something so small could be so dangerous when put in the wrong hands. It shows on Ashton’s anxious face mixed with the hopeful energy that I won’t crash his pride and joy. And worst of all, it shows in my driving, or lack thereof.
Ashton reminds me he’s coming down with Lollie in three months to retrieve it once I know at least one car left to me at the estate works. Lollie is hovering beside me, her perfume smelling like a sweet spring morning. I turn, giving her the tight embrace I so desperately need, holding in the tears that sting the back of my eyes.
When I let her go, I see she is in a similar shape, but tears are already free-falling down her cheeks. These last few days have brought on the waterworks for both of us. I use the back of my hand to wipe the dampness I feel moving down to my chin. Tears are treacherous little things. When they choose to fall, they do as they please, whether or not for the right reason. This is the right reason.
In all my years of knowing Lollie, I don’t think we have ever been apart for more than a couple of days, let alone three months. We even went to all our summer camps together growing up, and I remind myself that she too will be down to visit come October.
“Don’t forget we are here, Jade,” she voices. Lollie’s eyes are sharp and serious in this moment. I can feel her friendship strongly through that look. “For anything. Don’t forget.”
