Angry weeds and brambles have replaced the beautiful roses that had once graced our front lawn, tainting memories of any good times.
I come to a halt in the middle of the path and stare at the windows. One window is broken and patched up with a piece of brown cardboard.
I swallow the lump in my throat.
My mother used to cherish our house. Her favorite thing to do was to decorate it. But with my father getting arrested, dying in prison, and then me getting pregnant at such a young age, she lost that love along with her love for me.
I turn in a circle, pondering whether to return to the cab and disappear, to pretend I didn’t come at all.
That would be the easy way out.
“Everything okay over there?” The driver pokes his head out of the window.
“Yes,” I lie. “Everything’s fine.”
I glance at a neighboring house. An old woman is sitting on a porch swing as white as the hair on her head. She’s pretending to be knitting, but she’s watching me from the corner of her eye. Ignoring her stares, I wipe the sweat from my forehead and ring the bell.
I can’t hear a sound from inside the house, only dead silence. I glance back at the taxi, then ring the bell again.
Silence. The bell must be broken.
I raise my hand to knock, drop it, then raise it again.
My knuckles hit the scarred wood of the door three times, then I take one step back and continue to wait.
“You’re wasting your time, love. That house has been empty for months.”
It’s the neighbor.
Desperate to hear more, I walk toward her house. “Do you know where the woman who rents this place is?”
She shrugs. “No idea. No one was in that house when I moved here six months ago.”
“Oh, I see.” I glance back at the house. My shoulders curl into a slouch. “Thanks for letting me know.”
My focus moves to the birdhouse my father put up one Christmas. That’s where we kept the spare key, stuck to the bottom with tape. It might still be there, but I don’t want to check.
Before I reach the cab, the woman says something.
“Did you know her?” she asks.
I clear my throat and tell her the truth. “She was my mother. I mean, she is my mother.”
I walk away then. There’s no reason to return to this town anymore.
Wherever my mother is, I hope she’s found peace. Maybe one day, she’ll find the strength again to return to the house that had been our first home, where my father had lived.
“Are you sure you’re all right?” The cab driver asks when I get back into the car.
“Yes, I’m fine.”
“Wonderful,” he quips. “Where to next?”
“To the airport, please.”
There are usually not many flights flying from Dallery to Nashville—from where I’ll take a bus to Aston—but I’m prepared to wander around the airport for hours if I need to. Whatever it takes to get far away from this place.
Chapter 22
