The People We Meet- Chapter 1 (Louise)

A few months ago, I decided to try my hand at another novel. My first piece, The Intersection of Lost and Found, can be purchased HERE.

This new venture has been a labor of love and I hope you enjoy this sneak peak of the very first chapter.

Chapter 1- Louise

I brush my dirt laden hands on the legs of my jeans and stand to admire my handiwork. The smell of warm, wet earth fills my nostrils. I have only pulled weeds from a fraction of the overgrown, haphazard flower bed, but that small effort has made a world of difference. The brick paver trim has fallen over and embedded itself into the landscape, making me think of worn, and long forgotten headstones in a cemetery. Moss, inching its way over the text and obscuring the identity of whomever lay beneath. Funny, or incredibly sad, how even something as simple as a flower bed will make me think of death. I reach to pick up my rusty trowel and the sleeve of James’ sweatshirt snags on the brambling arm of a rose bush. The bush itself appears evil with thousands of large, needle-pointed thorns and not a single bloom. Instant panic sets in and as I tug, I cannot help but imagine the limbs as slender and bone-like fingers reaching out to grab me, tightening around my arm the more I struggle. Squeezing and pinching my skin as I fight, I can feel tears pricking the backs of my eyes. My heart races as I yank my arm away with such force, that I stumble back onto my behind. Stilling myself, I take a deep breath, placing my hands to either side of my hips, firmly on the cool dirt. A small, black bug crawls across my left hand, making a path toward chipped lacquer and sending a chill from my fingertips to my shoulder. Violently, I shake him free as I shudder. Breathe, Louise. Just breathe. You’re being ridiculous.

Standing and dusting off the rear of my jeans, I close my eyes and turn my face to the sky. The hollowness I feel has made me cold on the inside. So cold, that I wonder if I will ever feel anything besides numbness. With my face toward the sun, I allow her the opportunity to warm my skin and soothe my soul. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. I’m not entirely sure how long I remain there, but I begin to see a bright red glow through my eyelids as I move to open them. They reluctantly flutter open, squinting to the now harshly bright light, but I don’t move from my position in the yard. Continuing to stare up, I blink away the swirling black dots that are obscuring my vision and turn my focus to the big, old house before me. An unexpected coolness floats across the yard. I’m not sure why I call it unexpected, as it feels exactly like an autumn day should, but I am entirely unprepared to feel as cold on the outside as I do on the inside. Tightening my arms around myself, I am suddenly very pleased I thought to throw the sweatshirt on over my silk blouse. It was a last minute effort to protect its delicacy from the grime of the house. Its thin existence would have done very little to shield me from the sudden chill. The almost threadbare, soft grey material of the sweatshirt still has the faint lettering of Rogers State University on the front. The words, almost too faded to read, leave a light red and blue shadow. If I didn’t already know what it said, I’m not sure I would have been able to make it out. I look down at the ragged garment, now with a new snag on the right sleeve, and pull it tighter still. I imagine I can smell him; still feel him. The baggy sleeves are a sad replacement for his reassuring arms.

Shaking my head to rid myself of the loneliness that is invading my brain like an early morning fog, cold and heavy, I move to gather the rest of my belongings. I need to get moving as there is a storm brewing behind the breeze and I can smell rain drops on the wind. It hits my face and cools my now sun-warmed cheeks. My arms full of old tools, a cracked orange Home Depot bucket full of weeds and debris, and my glass of iced tea, I make my way across the grass-less yard. I wonder how long it has been since this yard had seen any action. No need to mow it, as there was no sod. No children to run across it playing Red Rover, Red Rover. I begin to formulate a personality for the house in my head. Is she as lonely as I? Does she long for the same things I do? I walk to the shed that sits to the west of the house to put away my tools, my boots crunching the dry leaves and loose gravel and sending a swirl of dust and dirt into the air. The wooden shed is obscured by overgrown hedges and vines that have invited themselves to be part of the structure. So much so, in fact, I think if I were to remove them, the shed itself may fall apart. Yet again, a wave of anxiety comes over me. Is it possible to be empathetic to an inanimate object? Because I think I do. I know how that shed must feel. Something that has become so close to you, so much a part of your being has suddenly been ripped away, and you simply fall apart. You are no longer the same person. Your structure is gone. You are weak, broken, and your purpose washed away in the storm of change. Everything you believed to be real, true, and good is rocked to the core. A small, curt laugh escapes my lips as it occurs to me that I am putting more faith in these two, inanimate structures, than I am in myself. They have more hope of having emotional depth than I do at this point. Me? I’m about as deep as mud puddle after a spring rain. I have one realm of emotions. One, single, solitary, classification. Sad. Pathetic. Lonely. Depressed. Anxious. I have no more capacity for love, hope, and desire, as they were ripped from my being not too long ago.

After stowing my supplies on the shelf and returning to the yard, my premonition of a late summer rain has come to fruition. The cold snap is upon me and the sky has opened up to a wealth of fat, solid rain drops. They are so large, they almost cause me to cry out as I run for the protective canopy of the front porch. I have been procrastinating and delaying my walk through the house. This trip to see the old girl was intended to be a walk through with the contractor, but it has become less about inventory and project management for the renovation, and more about letting go of what I thought this house would hold; what she would be. This time alone before the contractor arrived was for me and me alone. I had intended to be mostly done with my walk through when he arrived, but I haven’t been able to bring myself to open the front door. Hence, my impromptu gardening session. I definitely wanted to be alone when I went inside, as I didn’t want to hear any words of sympathy or see any downtrodden eyes, and I’ll be damned if I kept my cool if I heard, “God has a plan” one more time. People meant well, and I know no one ever has the right words to say to the bereaved, but my faith had wavered years before, and now, I’d be hard pressed to find a time when I didn’t blame God. He has taken so much from me. So much that I loved and needed, that now, the need to stand in the foyer, alone, and sob was almost too strong to resist. I decide, it is time. I desperately need to weep and grieve for all the dreams that would never come to fruition; to let the tears cleanse me in a way nothing else could, not even this driving rain. Our dreams were gone. James and I would never have a family in this home and I had to come to terms with that, without an audience.

We had purchased the Queen Anne style home in quaint DeQueen, Arkansas six months ago. April fourth, to be exact. The opportunity to purchase the home had basically fallen into our laps. Knowing that we had grand ideas of one day renovating, a coworker of James’ let us know about a special home in a small town, not too far from us, that was slated for demolition. With no ring on my finger and no plans for one in the foreseeable future, I was hesitant to sign on the dotted line, but James assured me that this was something we couldn’t very well pass up. After a lot of thought, and a lot of wine, we decided that our plans for this life together were too big to wait. Due to impending demolition, things moved very quickly and we were able to get the home for a steal. The tiny town where she resides almost paid us to take her off their hands. It should come as no surprise that many discussions of marriage came about due to our decision to buy the home as a partnership. A modern woman in today’s day and age knows that you don’t make major life decisions without that proverbial ring on your finger. Despite his rock solid confidence that this was a good idea, I was not without worry. What if something happens and we don’t stay together? The evening before we were to sign the papers with the bank, James and I sat on the cream Ikea rug on our living room floor, sharing a carton of Chinese takeout. Over crab rangoon and shrimp fried rice, we decided that this was going to be a big part of our life together, this house. I told him that when he did decide to propose, I didn’t want a ring. I wanted him to put that money toward our home, namely, a main floor laundry room with a view of the back garden and a kitchen that would make The Pioneer Woman weak at the knees. Through a mouth full of food, he grinned at me with a crooked smile, “No woman in the history of the world has ever asked for a laundry room in lieu of a diamond.” I would. And I did. I wanted a home I was happy and comfortable in, not something sparkly. In addition, we decided that instead of going on a traditional honeymoon, we’d renovate instead. For one week, we would have no hired help and would make our way, slowly, intimately, through the home together. Every room. Champagne and paint brushes; what a romantic concept. I weep at the thought. Going against tradition, our wedding invitations would ask our wedding guests to consider monetary gifts or supplies for the renovation in lieu of traditional wedding gifts. Even better if they could donate their time and trades to the effort. After his death, a number of our friends and family honored that request and made donations to our house fund instead of our wedding fund. Each time a card arrived, I’d break down. Sadness and gratitude intermingling in a forceful hurricane. They embraced me in my loss, by honoring his dream, and for that I couldn’t be more thankful. I had originally envisioned a large, framed before and after photo of the home, hanging in the front foyer, with a large mat and ornate frame. I wanted everyone who helped us to make this dream a reality to have their signature on the mat. Now, the idea made me a little sad. I hated more than anything that sadness was overriding moments that were originally so filled with love, joy, and hope.

The house was ultimately James’ baby. It had always been a dream of his to renovate an old farm house. He wanted a house to become a home, and furthermore, become a piece of family property that could be handed down through the generations. His dreams were as big as the land the historic home sat on. When we walked through the house with a realtor last spring, the weeds were in full force, but the sun shining on the old, weathered home had given her the air of smiling. She had stories to tell, and I believed they were all happy stories of love, family, and friendship. It wasn’t hard to imagine a family growing up within her walls, protected by her strong frame and solid bones. James and I imagined a tire swing hanging from the sturdy branches of the large sugar maple in the front lawn, a fenced area for a dog (a golden-doodle named Fozzie Bear if I had my way), and maybe one of those fancy boutique chicken coops people were into these days. The home would always smell of baked goods, clean linen, and eucalyptus, and would be bursting with novels, cook books, and music. Included in the mix would be our beautiful children. A home full of laughter and love, adventures and memories. Camp outs in the back yard were one of our biggest and most prominent dreams for the house. I could almost smell the crackle of a roaring fire and the char of a good melted ‘mallow, set against the backdrop of fireflies and laughter. So many dreams. All gone in the blink of an eye.