Fly Away Home, - [reading tree .TXT] 📗

“I’m all right. Getting by.” The internal walls rise, a self-defense mechanism in the form of short answers. It’s easier to leave that extra space, where words normally go, to assess the situation. I did it with Hank and Lydia in the beginning. Trust is a difficult thing to grant when the rug has been pulled out from beneath you so often in the past.

“Donna gave me this number, but she didn’t say much. Just that you were off on a quest to find yourself or something. Was there any damage back home? I saw that a wicked storm passed through Virginia earlier in the week.”

Tumultuous weather manifests itself in many ways. I’ve been so consumed with establishing my new life in Georgia. I haven’t shared my decision to move with anyone but those directly affected. My former boss and my roommate. Am I a hypocrite? I hold it against Russell for not staying in touch with me, but I’m doing the exact same thing.

“I’m not in Virginia.” He already knows this, but how do I divulge the details of my choice? It still doesn’t make complete sense to me.

“Have you finally embraced the merits of a vacation, an escape from the daily monotony of your routine?”

I’m searching for more of that uniform repetition, not less. Only in a different and more secluded place. I suppose I could’ve found a way to make it work back in Virginia, where I was living in mediocrity, but I chose a new path.

“I moved to Georgia.” I blurt it out. There’s no other way. It spills from my mouth in a slightly more elegant fashion than the burnt peach tart coming out of the oven.

“Georgia? Why?” I notice the genuine confusion in Russell’s voice. A little sister can always tell, even after drifting apart from her sole sibling. I hear his silent thoughts percolating beneath the surface. That coffee ad replays in my mind. The slow drip of assumptions fills a cup I’d rather dump down the sink.

“I’m not sure I’ve figured out why yet. It just felt as though it’s what I was supposed to do.” Who am I kidding? Talking in vague generalities doesn’t sound like me at all. I always have a plan regarding where I’m going and why I’m headed there.

“You’ve never been one to leave the safety of a boat and jump into muddy water.” Russell’s voice becomes softer with hints of worry nestled between his words. I know what he’s referring to.

We’d sneak out onto the lake together, just him and me. With our mother drunk, she never knew we were gone. It was a fringe benefit that we were both far away from potential physical harm. Russell grabbed the fishing gear. I would clutch the safety vests, as if my life depended on it. The unknown terrified me. If I couldn’t see what was beneath the surface, I didn’t trust it. He would egg me on, tempting me to jump in the water after him. I remained in the boat with all three latches of that preserver connected and snug across my torso. As scared as I was to be out there, I suppose the fact that I went anyway says even more about the perceived danger inside our house.

Alluding to this is Russell’s way of asking a question when he doesn’t know how to. He has only willingly entered one uncomfortable discussion in his life. I realize where he’s trying to go with this conversation, talking in analogies, but I don’t make it easy for him. I stay silent, waiting for him to jump in the same pool of water with me.

“Does this have anything to do with . . . ?” He still can’t do it. Even as a grown adult.

“No, it has nothing to do with her.” Am I lying to myself? I’m not sure. Did our mother influence my decision? Maybe. Is she the sole reason I did it? Probably not. I know there’s hesitancy in my voice, and I’m certain Russell detects it. The silence between us stretches out like a piece of taffy on a hot summer day. The sugary thread holding it together becomes weaker with each passing moment. Is he about to do it? For real? Will he apologize?

“Did Aunt Claire say yes?” I hear the excited plea from my teenage niece, Lizzie, in the background.

“Did I say yes to what?” Understanding my brother has yet to change, I let my focus turn toward curiosity.

“This actually works out even better now.” As a single father after a messy divorce, Russell lives with Lizzie in Chattanooga. I hear her chattering nonstop about going to the beach and visiting the boardwalk. And painting—can she bring her supplies too?

“You’re planning a visit?” There’s nothing to warrant it, but hope rises along with an uptick in my tone. While I cherish my time alone, family is still a higher priority. Especially since the two of them are all I have left.

“Sort of.” I hear guilt in his voice, which means he notices the hopefulness in mine and he’s not coming. “It would only be Lizzie.” I look down and find myself unwound from the phone cord, and so many other things. There’s that dangerous tightrope of hope. I lean against the refrigerator door, thankful for its help in keeping me from falling to the floor.

He only calls when he needs something. Or on those holidays where families are supposed to talk with each other. It’s the middle of summer, so I should have known which type of call this would be.

“I’ve been presented an interesting opportunity.” He pauses, waiting to see if I will allow him to continue.

“Yes?”

“You know my landscape business has always been a mom-and-pop deal? Residential service only? Well, I happened across an influential client who passed my name to a corporate contact. They think my work could improve worker morale and inspire creativity. Imagine that, right?”

Imagine that. A man does nothing to boost the spirits of his own sister, but he’s willing and capable of doing so for a stranger. An involuntary and exasperated huff escapes my lungs.

“Claire, it’s tough being a single dad, trying to make ends meet and still give Lizzie the attention she deserves. I fought so hard for her.” There’s guilt dripping between his words. I remember it as the one occasion he dealt with confrontation head-on. Fighting for sole custody of his daughter. I had never seen him so tenacious and driven before. I can’t abandon family, no matter how distant we’ve become as brother and sister. Besides, it’s been forever since I’ve spent quality time with my niece.

“How long?”

“One week, two at most. They’re looking for a comprehensive proposal. For an overhaul of their fifty-acre corporate headquarters.”

There’s nothing for a teenager to do in Pigeon Grove, and I worry Lizzie will be bored. It’ll push me way outside my comfort zone, forcing me to explore the community I’ve avoided becoming a part of. “Sure, Russell. Tell Lizzie I look forward to seeing her.”

“Really? Oh, Claire, thank you so much.” The relief in his voice is palpable. It’s nice to be needed. “I don’t know what I would have done if you’d said no. You’re the last person I could think of who might help.” I wish he had stopped after the simple heartfelt offering of thanks.

After hanging up the phone, I clean up the mess in my kitchen. A new melody and set of lyrics accompany me through the process.

The closer you get, the further I fall. I’ll be over the edge now in no time at all.

I peek outside again. In both directions, there’s nothing but an empty sidewalk. A periodic crack interrupts the consistency of the smooth expanse. After shutting the window, I draw the curtains closed.

When I grab my failed attempt at a peach tart from the counter, the crust crumbles in my hands. I tip it into the trash can, promising myself I’ll try again tomorrow. With the right ingredients and focus, I might keep from scorching something in my life.

7

The overnight storm was relentless. It pounded on the roof all night, thunderous claps mixing with similar thoughts in my mind. The sound of rain failed to soothe me the way it did on my first morning in Pigeon Grove. Wind howled, and the house creaked, as if pleading for mercy. My physical and emotional joints do the same as dawn greets me. With every shared moment here, I realize this structure has a lot in common with me.

With sleepy eyes and a coffeepot beneath the running faucet, I pull open the curtains. Sunlight fills the room. Weather can change so quickly. It brings something resembling a smile to my face despite the weight of my thoughts.

Heaviness, or the lack of it, arrives in a more pragmatic and immediate way. When I look down at the glass container meant to provide me with a morning caffeine boost, it’s less than half full. There’s a small stream of water meandering through the metal fixture and into the basin. It reminds me of a slithering snake attempting to go unnoticed. The meager pressure coming from the spigot spoils its attempt to elude me. It would normally be a good sign to see no puddles when I peek under the sink, but not this time. It means the source of my problem is on the outside.

We’re in sync once again. This structure has surrendered some of its gusto, just like I have. My bubbling enthusiasm upon arriving here has been on a steady decline. My pattern of two steps forward and one back has flip-flopped over the past couple weeks. The serendipitous discovery of this house was a euphoric moment for me. It’s not lost on me how sad it is that I feel more connected to a human habitat than I do any other person in my life. But I have developed a camaraderie with Hank and Lydia. That’s something I was neither wanting nor expecting. Another small step in a positive direction, I suppose.

Still, my conversation with Russell? And the unexplained appearance of that man on the sidewalk? It’s all so confusing. My emotions are being tugged every which way, and I can’t wrap my head around everything. I moved here to simplify things, not complicate them. So far, small-town life is turning out to be more chaotic and complex than my suburban existence.

#

I WANDER DOWN MAIN Street like a child looking for her lost puppy dog. It’s only as I arrive at the door to Hank and Lydia’s produce shop that I realize my intended destination. Over the past several weeks, I’ve come here to short-circuit the daily conversations in front of my house. A way to protect and preserve my private time on the porch. Alone. Now, I seek their companionship, not fruit I don’t need.

“Good morning to you, Claire. What can I get for you today, the usual?” Hank grins, his tone casual, so different from the detail-oriented person who passes me on the sidewalk each day.

“Six peaches, one orange, and all the lemons you have, please.” I keep hoping he’ll inundate me with more yellow fruit than I’m able to carry, but it never works out that way. He always seems in short supply. The silence between us, while awkward to me, doesn’t seem to bother Hank a bit. He’s humming to a song on the radio. Something about rainfall in Georgia. I watch him gather only the best selection from his stock for me. It’s a personal touch I appreciate.

He chuckles midway through the chorus. “Speaking of rain, someone should remind Mother Nature to turn off her faucet in the sky. We’ve