“You coming?” Beth calls over her shoulder and the memory vanishes.
I follow after her and the screen door slams behind me as we walk into the house.
Beth tosses her keys into a bowl on the small, thin wooden table in the entryway before she points to her right. “The kitchen is over here.”
I trip over the navy rug in front of the door and regain my footing, awkwardly shuffling my duffle bag.
“I remember,” I say, finding my voice again. I feel a timid smile creep along my face. I glance in its direction. The late-afternoon sunlight is streaming in through the sheer white curtains hanging above the sink. A small wooden table and four green-upholstered chairs sit in the corner.
“Right.” Beth smiles again. “Of course.”
I can tell she is a bit anxious, as well. I think back to the times Mom and I visited her when I was a kid. We didn’t get out here that often. My mother barely had time to raise a child — by herself, Imight add — let alone take a vacation across the country. She was a workaholic, in simplest terms. Aunt Beth is the same in her own way. She claims she is a free spirit and doesn’t want to be tied down by a traditional nine-to-five. So of course, she also chose a job with almost no days off. The diner could survive without her but I know her well enough to know that she can’t stand to be away from her routine and regulars for more than a couple of days.
She leads me past the living room, another room full of white. There’s a flatscreen television hanging above the fireplace mantle, along with built-in bookshelves full of all sorts of novels. A fluffy, white couch sits in the center of the room and I see another door in the corner, leading to Beth’s bedroom.
We head down a small hallway, towards the back of the house to the guest bedroom. It’s a decent enough space — big windows overlooking the coast framed by sheer, white curtains, and stark white walls. A lot of white. I can do anything I want with it, she tells me.
I can’t help but think that Driftbay is the bedroom in the floor plan of my life — fresh and full of possibilities.
A queen-size bed sits in the middle of the room and looks like the most inviting thing after my long day of travel — two connecting flights and an hour drive back to the cottage. A dresser and a vanity line two of the walls. Boxes scatter the floor, full of my belongings, but a few stacked on top are open.
“I wasn’t going through your things,” Beth begins quickly, seeing me eye the boxes. “I just wanted to have the bed already made up foryou. Figured you could use a good night’s rest after the day you’ve had.”
“Thank you.” The duffle bag I’m holding hits the floor with a soft thud. “I appreciate it more than you know.”
I walk towards the dresser in the corner of the room and notice a framed photograph on top of it. I pick it up to look at it closer — it’s Mom, Beth, and me on the beach from our last trip together. A younger version of myself smiles back at me through the glass. I must have been in eighth grade or maybe a freshman in high school during that trip. I remember that trip fondly, spending the week lazily laying on the beach.
My heart swells at the memory and I set the frame down before the tears can come. You never know the last time is the last time.
“Do you want help unpacking?” Beth asks. “I’m not going to the diner tonight or tomorrow, so I can help with whatever you need.”
“I’d really like a shower first, if I’m honest,” I say. I feel gross from the airports and being around so many strangers.
She nods. “Towels and washcloths are in the closet in the bathroom, help yourself.” She sticks her hands in the pockets of her jean shorts. “I’ll leave you to it.”
She turns to leave and it hits me just how vastly different my mom and aunt are. Mom was short, but like Shakespeare said, “though she be little, she be fierce.” You didn’t want to challenge Caroline Calloway. She cursed like a sailor when she was mad, something that secretly always made me giggle. She was brilliant; she saved lives on the daily. Her eyes were the brightest green I’d ever seen, the kindthat caught golden flecks of sunlight. She kept her reddish, caramel brown hair short, hitting just in line with her chin. She liked to garden in her limited spare time. Mom was loud, expressive, and ferocious; a force to be reckoned with.
Aunt Beth, on the other hand, is more guarded than her counterpart. She’s soft where my mother was rough. Beth has the prettiest light blue eyes — the kind of blue that burns cold, sharp as ice. It’s hard to look her in the eyes for long, especially when she’s angry — something she uses to her advantage. Her hair falls past her shoulders and is a dark, chocolate brown. She’s taller than me and a half a foot taller than Mom. While Mom was poised and polished, Aunt Beth is less put together. She’s quiet, inquisitive, and pensive. She thinks before she speaks.
Beth is the calm and my mother was the storm.
I pick up my duffle bag and pull out a sweatshirt and leggings before I head down the hallway. A hot and steamy shower is calling my name.
A delicate rose wallpaper covers every inch of the wall space in the tiny bathroom. There’s a white porcelain vanity to my left. I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror of the medicine cabinet above the sink and sigh. Whether it’s the grief that permanently resides in my face, or the day of travel, or both, I look like death warmed over. My green eyes, so similar to my mother’s, lack their usual sparkle. I think my spark died with her.
I rub my face and then pull my hair tie out, letting my hair fall down my shoulders before I turn the water on. I let it warm up a bitbefore I strip my clothes off and toss them into a pile on the floor and climb in.
I wake up the next morning, faced with my new normal. I stare at the ceiling fan above me, watching as the blades lazily make their laps. It takes a moment to orient myself, to realize that after months of daydreaming about it, I am finally in Driftbay. Early-morning sunlight spills through the sheer curtains onto the hardwood floor. I get out of bed and stretch before going to the windows and opening them. The floor is cold beneath my feet. It’s still cool outside for mid-June. I take a deep breath in and pause for a moment, letting the salty air fill my lungs. The crashing waves conduct a calming melody, and I time my breathing with them. Seattle was a loud, upbeat tune — one I’m glad to no longer be hearing.
I stare at the boxes for a bit, knowing I need to unpack, before I decide to go in search of Aunt Beth. I find her outside on the back porch, curled up in one of the navy Adirondack chairs with a cup of coffee and a book, still in her pajamas. She startles briefly at my presence before closing her book, tossing her bookmark in haphazardly. I settle into the chair beside her.
“Morning,” she says.
“Morning,” I echo back. My voice lacks the cheerfulness hers does.
“Sleep okay?” she asks.
“Yeah.” I pull my legs up to my chest. It wasn’t a total lie; the serenity was going to take some getting used to. For quietness, it sure can be loud. I don’t tell her about the nightmares I’ve been having; the images of the crash still haunting me in my slumber. “This is nice,” I add, nodding my head toward the white sandy beach that makes up her backyard.
