“You’re going to be late if you keep day dreaming,” Maggie interrupted my thoughts. She pulled a bag of potpourri from the pantry, opened it and started pouring it into a bowl. I sneezed.
“Bless you.”
“Thank you,” I replied. “Maggie, that stuff is so strong. Do you have to put it all over the house?”
My aunt displayed potpourri-filled baskets in every room and the smell was overwhelming. It was a mixture of pine cones and berries and I found it repulsive.
“I love it, Claire” she replied cheerfully.
“Can you love it in smaller doses?” I teased, kissing her on the cheek.
She laughed. “You better get going, dear.”
“All right, all right, I’m going.” Readjusting my backpack over my shoulder, I headed outside to the car.
“Have a good day,” Maggie called from the kitchen.
Once outside, I turned back to the house – my house – and smiled.
The house was a typical New England cape. It had been in our family since it was constructed during the 1700’s, with original wide pine floors throughout. The paint on the outside was faded from years of winter and was now the color of nearly-burnt toast. The windows were old and warped giving a kaleidoscope appearance when peering out. The streaking forest formed pixels of greens and browns, patterns twisting and changing shape, with each ray of sunshine through the weighted glass.
As I looked at the house, memories flashed through my mind of my childhood and how happy my family and I were then. What had caused us to move so suddenly? What kept us moving? I often felt as though I had been lied to my entire life. I wondered if Maggie knew the truth – and if she did – would she ever tell me.
Quit procrastinating and get to school. I rolled my eyes at my subconscious. We had been battling frequently since my parents passed. I found her extremely bossy and overly annoying most of the time.
CHAPTER 2
“When will I meet him?” “We meet our soul mates when we’re on our soul path.” – Karen M. Black
What I really wanted to do was crawl back into bed, bury myself under the covers and pretend the last few months had never happened. Instead of my parents dying, I would imagine they were alive. They would walk through the door after a wonderful evening, telling me all about how much fun it was to watch the ponies run. Mom would tell me how she won so much more money than my father – even though she placed her bets on a horse she thought had the most imaginative name. My dad would laugh and kiss her on the head expressing his love. He studied jockey and owner stats to place his bets. In the end, neither of them would ever win any big money. Their teasing would make me smile before they tucked me into bed. I would wake up to a stunning west coast sunrise; go for a walk on the beach, breathing in the sweet salty air of the Pacific. While I often tried to use this fantasy as a way to numb the pain, I was always rudely awakened and jerked back to the present.
You seriously need to get moving or you’re going to be late.
Listening to my pushy subconscious, I brought myself back to reality. I walked across the driveway to Maggie’s car. Maggie was great about loaning me things. Anything of hers she was happy to share, wanting me to feel at home.
Nothing said teenage girl like a 1995 Buick, though I refused to complain. The off-white car was in mint condition – rust free – a miracle in the northeast. It had less than 20,000 miles on it. Between Maggie and my Grandma Claire, neither of them had driven very far.
The smell of pine was overbearing in the old Buick, even though I discarded the pine tree air freshener that hung from the rearview mirror yesterday. I had left the windows open hoping the smell would dissipate soon.
I startled when I heard a knock on my window. Looking up I saw Aunt Maggie’s smiling face.
“You forgot your lunch, dear,” she announced warmly, holding the brown paper sack in front of the window.
Rolling down the window, I noticed her facial expression change, looking almost angry. I reached for my lunch, and pull
ed it through the window, tossing it on the seat next to me.
“Where is the pine tree that was hanging from my mirror?” Maggie barked.
“The smell was awful, and no offense, but a pine tree doesn’t exactly scream seventeen years old,” I teased, hoping to lighten the mood.
“I don’t care what it screams!” Maggie yelled. “I like it, and it’s my car, Claire. I have another one in the house. Stay here and I’ll get it,” she instructed, starting towards the house in a huff. I was entertained by her efforts to replace the air freshener and I smiled.
“Maggie, wait. I’ll be late. You can replace it after school,” I yelled, stepping on the gas as I drove out. I saw in my mirror she was running behind me. Watching her made me chuckle. Jeez Mags, it’s just an air freshener.
Eating my Pop Tart, I drove the long road to school noticing the overgrown trees and shrubs from a hot, damp, New England summer. The elaborate maze of greens and browns in every direction always reminded me of the children’s song about going over the river and through the woods to grandma’s house.
Colonial and ranch style homes were tucked away behind the wall of trees lining the streets of Northfield. Each house was similar other than siding choices and an occasional log cabin that broke things up. Some preferred very bright colors while others stuck to traditional wood. This was so different from the homes in San Diego which were made of stucco and Spanish tiles; all painted a varied shade of tan. Their houses were cramped into streets along a grid, cookie cutters of their neighbors. It was easy to peer into the house next door to you because they were no more than six feet away. Here in the country, there was more acreage than structure. It was only possible to get a good look at a neighbor’s house in the winter when the leaves had stripped themselves from the trees.