Guardian: Book One Page 4

The drive to the house was a short one. The winding side road off of the main street was as unchanged as the rest of the town. A-framed houses hovered in the tree-tops exactly as I remembered them. I wondered if all the same owners still lived in them. Had anything changed for them? Had their lives remained constant and undisturbed while my own had fractured and shattered into a thousand shards of glass? Those shards now stabbed into my heart as we pulled onto my old street.

  “Does Mrs. Middleton still live next door? I wonder if she would mind if I ran through her flower bed once for old time’s sake,” I said, finding safety behind a shield of sarcasm and humor.

  “Hell, you could probably get away with it. Woman’s near eighty years old. She won’t be chasing you with her hose now for sure.” Sulley winked at me, not buying my humor front. “It’s not too late to change your mind about coming home with me you know. You don’t have to stay here.”

  It was tempting. Now that we were here, I wanted nothing more than to run away: away from the memories in that house, away from the pain. But the sooner I dealt with business, the sooner I could escape back to the safety of denial and sublimation in Chicago.

  “No, I’m okay. I want to do this. I have to,” I finally answered.

  After passing a row of tall hedges, the house came into view beneath the setting sun. The small, white, two-story home sat oddly cheerful atop the inclined drive. Time slowed as the truck climbed the driveway. The windshield framed my view so it seemed as though I were watching a home movie filmed a lifetime ago.

  The first scene to play through my mind was of the hand-painted mailbox at the foot of the drive. I saw my mother laboring over each pink flower on its white-washed surface. She smiled down at me as I held up the tray of paints. I stared at her handiwork with admiration. The purple handprint that she let me contribute was still there, captured forever by the flag. My mother’s was just beside it. I stared, unblinking, at the mailbox until it we passed by.

  At the top of the drive, a glimpse of the porch brought on a new scene. I saw the two of us rocking in the porch swing on a humid summer night, watching the fireflies dance to the sway of the warm breeze humming through the trees. I could see the “For Sale” sign leaning up against the railing, covered with big red letters announcing it as “SOLD”. Mom had kept it there for months, just so we could admire it.

  When we came to a stop at the top of the drive, I saw that last, cold, overcast morning. The morning when I was escorted by Sulley and all of our neighbors, heads downcast, into my aunt and uncle’s car. They waved to me from the porch as the car pulled away from the house that I would not see again in my childhood. The house that stood before me now, more than a decade and a half later.

  “Just remember that whatever you decide to do with the house, I will support you. Now that you’re twenty-five it’s all yours, it’s for you to decide. Take your time. The mortgage is paid up for the next few months. Just don’t rush into a decision is all I ask. Now that you’re back, I’d hate to lose you again,” Sulley said. “Just think about it.”

  I blinked back to the present and looked into Sulley’s beckoning face. I gave his hand a squeeze and feigned a smile.

  “Thanks Uncle Sulley. I promise I’ll take time to really think about it.”

  “Good,” he smiled back, “let’s get you settled in then.”

  I took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “Okay, I’m ready.”

  We got out of the car and Sulley retrieved my things from the back seat. I stood at the foot of the steps, staring up at them, willing myself to go on. My mother had loved this house more than anything we had ever owned. To her, it had represented our independence. It was a culmination of so many struggles she had overcome. More importantly, it was the home that she had always wanted for me. And now it was mine to decide what to do with.

  I followed Sulley up the steps as he fumbled with the keys. When he swung the door open I took as much of the surroundings in as I could at once: the warm beige carpet, the mahogany railing on the stairs and the vaulted ceiling in the living room. Sulley set my stuff down at the foot of the stairs and methodically went to every window and opened the vertical blinds, allowing the waning sunlight to fill the house.

  “Now, I was able to furnish most of the house with what tenants have left behind over the years. You got a bed in the master bedroom and a dresser. You’ve got the couch here and some end tables. Kitchen’s got a table as well. I’m working on getting a T.V., though you’d need a dish to get regular channels. I’ve got an extra DVD player at the house you could use for movies as least,” Sulley rambled, straightening the lampshades on each end table.

  I heard only pieces of what he was saying. My gaze was fixed on the corner of the room where a glossy baby grand piano sat.

  “Is that . . . ?” I asked pointing to it.

  Sulley stopped and gave a quick glance to the corner before he came to where I was standing.

  “Yeah, it is. I brought it out of storage for you. Thought you might want to play some. It’s just as much yours as the rest of the house. It belongs here as much as you do.” He patted my shoulder and moved past me toward the kitchen.

  I stared at the glossy, wood-grained instrument a moment more. My mother’s piano had been a part of her. It was like seeing her ghost. I shook the thought and followed Sulley into the kitchen where he was opening cupboards.

  “I got you some basics here. Should get you through a few days or till you get to the shop. I put the wine in the fridge. You’ve got eggs, milk and bread in there too. Cups and plates are here in the cupboard and there’s forks and things in the drawers. I brought a radio over from my place. It’s nothing fancy, but it works,” he shrugged.

  I looked around the kitchen, remembering the quiet breakfasts and playful lessons in the art of mac and cheese making. I recalled homework sessions and late night games of Go Fish with Gary after he and Mom had gotten back from their honeymoon. The table was different, but the rest of the room remained the same; white cabinets set off the light blue walls and French toile backsplash.

  “Thank you Uncle Sulley, you’ve done so much. I really can’t thank you enough.”

  Sulley smiled down at me. “It was the least I could do.”

  “I mean, with you keeping up the house all these years. I know Mom would have appreciated it a lot.”

  “Yeah well, we’re family. Even before your mom married my little bro. Don’t you ever forget that, Kiddo.”

  “I won’t,” I grinned back.

  Sulley closed the cabinets and went to the door.

  “Well, I’ve got to get back to the station and check on some permits I’ve been waiting on. I can run into the diner on my way home and grab you a burger if you’d like.”

  I held the door for him, not wanting him to leave.

  “No, I’m fine. I’ve got plenty to eat here if I get hungry. Don’t you worry about me.”

  Sulley hesitated. “You sure you’re going to be alright? I mean, without a T.V. or anything?”

  “Oh I have better things than T.V. in mind for tonight. Big plans.” I lied. “I’m going to take an extra long shower and then curl into bed with my book.”

  The book I had bought at the airport and hadn’t even cracked the binding on yet.

  “Party Animal,” Sulley winked and then gave me a quick kiss on the top of my head before walking to his truck.

  “You have my number if you change your mind. I mean it, call me anytime. I’ll come pick you up around noon. You can come back to the station with me and let me show you off some before we go back to my place to see Gram.”

  “Sounds great. Seriously, don’t worry about me.” I waved. “Thanks again for everything.”

  Sulley started the truck and pulled back down the driveway.

  “Family, remember?” He called out his window. “Call me if you need anything. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  I watched him pull onto the street and waited until I
could no longer hear the roar of the massive engine before I accepted with a sudden ache in my chest that I was alone. I didn’t want to go back inside. I didn’t want to face the onslaught of emotion waiting for me at every glance around each room. Then I remembered the wine, let out the breath I didn’t realize I was holding, and formed a more acceptable plan for the evening.

  Back in the kitchen I filled my glass half way and shakily threw back the entire glass in one swallow, though I meant to take only a sip. It went down smooth.

  “Eh, why bother . . .” I said, setting my glass in the sink.

  Taking a swig from the bottle, I savored the cool liquid as it slid down my throat. The first waves of numbness hit while I was preparing the box of mac and cheese with a pot and spoon I found in one of the cupboards. The wine-induced fog was welcomed with open arms and I let it carry away some of the tension to ease the awkward nostalgia that I was trying to ignore. This was a much better plan, I told myself, making a mental note to pick up some more wine in town tomorrow.

  As I waited for the noodles to cook, I fiddled with the radio. I craved music, any kind, but all I could find within the static were news broadcasts and fuzz. Sulley had been right, nothing on the radio but stories from Fort Bragg. I hated all things violent. Hell, I hated the news. It served as nothing but a constant reminder of how broken and decayed the world around me was becoming. I knew well enough from my own experience. The last thing I wanted to do was hear about the world’s downward spiral one overly embellished story at a time.

  However, I did enjoy the company that the voices coming across the station presented, so I let it play while I finished making my supper and ate. More wine made it into my mouth than food, and soon the fuzzy radio words ran together in my mind.

  “ . . . was early in the morning Thursday, when the alleged shooter opened fire on his own regiment as they gathered for morning PT at the stadium field,” the newscaster said, “killing one officer and two soldiers and wounding dozens more. Many more would have been wounded or killed were it not for the heroic efforts of one of the regiment’s soldiers, whose name has yet to be released. The soldier threw himself at the shooter and pinned him to the ground with his body. Though severely wounded, he held the shooter until Special Forces arrived to disarm the suspect. Due to the seriousness of the soldier’s injuries, it is doubtful that he . . .”

  I switched the radio off. Even in my inebriated state, I didn’t want to hear anything more about meaningless death and tragic endings. The sudden silence was oppressive. Taking another swig, I wandered into the living room and caught the last rays of sunlight fighting against the darkness that steadily consumed the room. I closed the blinds one by one, forcing the remaining light to seep through the cracks between them. My eyes landed on my mother’s piano and as I stared at it numbly, reality melted away to reverie.

  Time was again suspended, my home movie resumed in slow, inaudible motion in front of me. My mom sat at the piano, bathed in morning sunlight. A younger me sat beside her smiling and singing along with the tune. As I watched, I wished more than anything that I could hear the cheerful song that we both sang and laughed along to. With my eyes closed, it was almost possible to hear our voices joined as one, intertwined into the same melody. When I opened my eyes again though, we were gone.

  My heart tore open and a stifled sob escaped my throat. Forcing myself behind the piano, my wavering knees rested on the bench and desperate, lost to the wine, I raised the lid and exposed the keys. I positioned my trembling fingers above the keys, though I hadn’t played in years. Not since the night of the accident. The recital we were driving home from had been my last.

  Picturing the sunny scene with my mother at the piano, my fingers began the familiar tune and I smiled as the notes reverberated throughout the room. I could hear the music this time. In my delirium I could again see myself beside my mother as her fingers danced over the keys with an unequalled grace. She taught me everything I knew. My mother’s rich brown eyes shone with the music and her golden hair flowed with the breeze from the open window.

  I wanted to tell her how much I loved her and missed her. I wanted to tell her how much I wanted to be with them, wherever she and Gary were. Why did they leave me behind? I wanted to tell her how much I wanted her back, more than anything, I just wanted her back.

  Aching to hear our voices together at last, I sang the melody, needing to hear my mother’s soft honeyed voice joined with mine just one more time. My heart withered into dust as I realized that my voice was the only one I could hear, my mother’s lost to me forever. I opened my eyes to an empty room, to the reality of a decade and a half passed by. My fingers persisted on the keys as the last bit of restraint broke away inside me and I began to weep.

  The piano keys cried a cacophony of bitter chords with my trembling collapse as I wept uncontrollably in accompaniment. All the emotions awakened in my soul by coming back to this place came screaming to the surface with violent vindication. At any moment I would be swept away by the waves of anguish that slammed into me now that the emotions had been unleashed.

  Images of happy, sunlit memories tarnished under the dark memories of blood stained hair and closed caskets. The longing and hopelessness, pushed away for too long, swirled and ebbed in my head.

  Then, as if calling to me from the shores of my rational mind, I heard a faint strumming, like that of a muted drum, or of feathered wings beating together in a steady rhythm. The noise was calming, and I focused on it as the storm of my released emotion raged on. Clinging desperately to the sound – it became louder, closer – I followed it through the bitter torrent as my body relaxed and the heaving in my chest slowed to shaky breaths. I could feel the strumming then, vibrating against me in a blanket of comforting warmth. My weeping stopped, and the debilitating desolation withered like smoke from an ember.

  I raised my head and forced myself to open my heavy eyes, the room swaying when I tried. As the room around me focused I thought I heard a soft, soothing voice call to me.

  “Alexandra.”

  A glimpse of something reflected in the glossy finish of the piano caught my eye. A man was standing behind me at the foot of the stairs, dressed in black, his hand outstretched toward me. His ebony hair fell slightly over piercing blue eyes that beckoned to me.

  My first reaction was to scream, but I didn’t. I didn’t know if it was the wine or the strumming that caused me to hesitate, to stare transfixed on the reflection before me. Those eyes, that voice, were both so familiar.

  I heard my name whispered again.

  “Alexandra.”

  It was then that reality took hold of me. I gasped and whipped around to face the figure. But there was no one there. The room lay quiet and empty. I turned back to the piano, fatigue taking a swift hold of me, and saw nothing.

  I must be losing it, I thought. Too much wine, too many memories. I laid my head in my crossed arms atop my mother’s piano and let exhaustion take me over.

  “I miss you,” I whispered and then let the wine carry me off to sleep.

 

 

  Chapter 3