Never Really Alone

Chapter One

How many years had it been since I'd driven down this road?  There was the same pharmacy that sold candy and comic books, still standing.  There was Felzer's Department Store where my mother used to take my twin, Miranda Jean and me shopping for school clothes, and there was Dr. Hoover's office.  Although it currently held a sign that said 'Smithville Veterinary Hospital'.  Dr. Hoover had passed away before I'd ever left town.

So many memories floating back, like new cream in a cup of fresh coffee.  But that's to be expected on a trip like this one, a sort of pilgrimage to the past, a nod to the unexpected turns that fate takes.

I had decided to come alone, leaving my husband and twin girls behind.  They were looking forward to spending a week at the lake.  I planned to spend part of it going through my father's house in order to get it ready for the auction block.  He had recently passed on, just eighteen months after my mother's death, and there was no one else to perform such a mundane task.  My children and I were all that were left of my parents.

The house was twenty-five miles outside of town, situated on thirty-six acres of solid farmland, now sitting idle.  When my mother became ill, my father just existed to take care of her, and that took its toll on him, leaving him unable to do anything else.

As I approached the long drive that led up to the house, it was as if I'd never left.  The willow trees still majestically banked the river that ran through the farm, their branches dipping ever so lightly into the water.  The apple trees at the edges of the drive were blossoming and their smell awoke memories of childhood.  It was easy to remember waking up with that scent in the air, just waiting for the day to begin.

The morning sun glinted sharply off of the windows at the front of the house, making me squint as I pulled up in front of the porch.  It looked smaller and more careworn than I recalled.  I'd always thought of it as a grand house, a regal house, but now I saw it as it was, an average sized farmhouse with peeling paint.  I wondered just how much it could actually bring at auction without putting a lot of work into it first.

I fumbled in my purse until I found the house-key and then slowly walked up the porch steps.  They creaked with my weight, but still seemed sturdy.  Every step took me closer to a place that, one day long ago, I had wanted to escape from and never return.  But that was a lifetime away and I had work to do now.  I shook the cobwebs from my head, opened the door and went inside.

Everything looked exactly as it had when I'd left, not a piece of furniture, not a knick-knack out of place.  I don't know why I expected it to be different, I just did.  I opened the windows to let the light in and air the place out.  It seemed dank and musty to me.  It was colder here in the Midwest than at home and it would be worth wearing a jacket if I could just get rid of that smell.  It was like something rotting under the sofa.  I opened every window that wasn't painted shut, with the intention of doing the same thing upstairs, but when I got to the dining room at the back of the house something stopped me.  The dining room table still held that highly polished gleam even underneath a respectable layer of dust.  What was it about that table that always bothered me?

I had decided early on that I would take only a few things from the house and leave the rest to be sold off.  Although the furniture certainly qualified as antique, it didn't appeal to me at all.  Instead I headed for the kitchen and started going through cupboards and drawers.  There wasn't much aside from a few items that were nearly impossible to get nowadays.

I went out to the car to get the boxes and packing material and took them into the kitchen.  My mother's ancient cast iron skillet, as good now as the day she bought it, was the first to go into the box.  Our housekeeper, nanny and good friend, Sousa used to make fried apples in that pan; sweet, crispy and warm.  There was also a cast iron muffin pan, an old marble board used for rolling out dough and a percolator.  All of these went into the box. Then I headed to the dining room to pack up the china.

It took nearly two hours to carefully wrap and pack every plate, saucer, cup, bowl and serving piece of my mother's beautiful, white china, with the hand-painted violets, along with all of the silver that she'd inherited from her mother.  These were things I wanted to keep in the family and perhaps someday pass on to my daughters.  By that time I was thirsty and hungry so I went back to the kitchen, took the percolator out of the box and began searching the pantry for coffee.  I found it right behind the tin of cookies I'd sent my father this past Christmas.  He'd never opened it.  I took it out, and got the percolator going.

While the coffee brewed I nibbled on a few cookies and looked through one of my mother's cookbooks.  Although I don't remember ever seeing her use one, some of the pages were stained and the binding was well broken.  I walked over and put it in the box.  Who knows, maybe I'd try and make a dish or two when I got home.  Finally, the coffee was ready and I poured myself a healthy dose in the large, blue mug that my father always used.  After a half-dozen cookies more, I drained the mug of coffee and was ready to start back on the job at hand.

I carried a couple of boxes up the stairs and into the room that used to be mine.  All that remained was a bed, a dresser and a rocking chair.  The closet and dresser were empty and the room was totally anonymous.  My parent's room still held my father's clothes and on the dresser was his pocket watch.  I picked it up and turned it over in my hand.  On the back two words were engraved, "with love".  It surprised me.  I didn't know that my mother would ever have thought to do such a thing.  She always seemed so practical to me.  I put it into my pocket and went out into the hall to pull down the steps to the attic.

I climbed the stairs and carefully stood up looking around me in the dim light for the long string that turned on the single bare bulb.  I took one step backward and felt it brush my shoulder.  Thankfully it still worked and I was relieved to be able to see where I was among all the boxes and bags.

The first thing I saw were the stacks of boxes that held the Christmas ornaments and lights that my mother loved putting up each year.  There, leaning against them were the crutches I used the summer I broke my leg.  Beyond the Christmas ornaments were hanging racks of what appeared to be old coats, one with a moth-eaten fox collar.  As I went further in I saw something unfamiliar.  It was in the far corner and looked to be a very, old steamer trunk.  It was covered in fine, weathered, black leather and fitted out with brass corners and hinges.  I got down on my knees and tried the handle.  It opened easily and when I saw the contents my heart caught in my throat and my eyes filled.

There, as if packed yesterday, in neat piles were my sister Miranda Jean's clothes.  Here were her dresses, skirts, blouses, sweaters and play clothes, even shoes and underwear.  I picked up one of the sweaters and held it to my face, breathing in her scent that still slightly lingered just underneath the smell from the cedar lining of the trunk.  Whether it was her real scent or just a memory, it didn't matter.  All at once everything came rushing back.