Cedarwood Cabin

Chapter 1

ONE

FLORA

The curtains are open just a fraction to let enough light shine in. I sweat as I lay in bed, my body feeling clammy against the sheets. I slowly raise my head from my pillow and take a deep breath. Images of my mother flash in my head and my heart starts thumping wildly. I picture her weak body, the sound of the medical machines, and the smell of the antiseptic-filled hospital. I try not to panic, but the images refuse to leave my mind. I grip the bedcover frantically, trying to calm myself down. I look around the room at the light purple walls with photographs of my mother and father, the bedside table with clutter, and my makeup desk with hardly any makeup displayed.

It was just a nightmare. Calm down.

I don’t want a panic attack, so I try to calm myself down by continuing to breathe deeply.

The mirror on the closet door catches my attention. I stare at myself; my long, dark, wavy hair tangled from sleep. The freckles across my face stand out against my pale skin. My eyes always manage to catch people's attention. They are different colors: one deep green and the other rich blue. I see a younger version of my mother looking back at me and I feel a lump form in my stomach.

I know it’s painful for my father to be around me. I must constantly remind him of my mother, of what he lost: his greatest love. I know he tries to mask it with a brave smile.

I hear noises coming from the kitchen. My father is up, probably sipping his morning coffee—a ritual he never skips.

I reach over to the nightstand and grab my phone, the mattress making a creaking noise under my weight. I unlock the screen to see no notifications, but I'm not surprised. My social life has been non-existent since I moved from England to Washington with my father four months ago.

Not like it was bustling before—I lived a pretty secluded life. My mother homeschooled me and my only friend was the girl who lived next door, Holland. Since moving, we have drifted apart and hardly ever contacted each other anymore.

My only living family members are my father and auntie, who lives in England. My auntie likes to send letters and care packages, but she feels more like a distant relative than a close family member.

I swipe through my phone and check the local news. The headlines are boring reports of Covid cases rising, a new bakery opening, and a piece about local bikers wreaking havoc. I let out a sigh as nothing interests me, placing my phone back down on the side table. A sense of loneliness washes over me as I get out of bed with another deep breath, rubbing my eyes before making my way to the door. The floorboards creak underneath me as I descend the stairs.

Halfway down, I look over the stairs banister and see my father standing in the kitchen, pouring himself a cup of coffee.

“Morning,” I hear him greet. I watch him as he places a bowl on the table. I continue down the stairs, smelling freshly brewed coffee .

My father glances up at me. “Breakfast,” he announces.

His smile has always been a comfort for me. I sit down at the table and look into the bowl.

“Porridge…Oh, wait. Over here, it's called oatmeal.” My father corrects himself.

I rub my eyes, pick up the spoon, and dig in.

“How did you sleep?” he asks.

“Had another nightmare, so not great.”

We eat in silence for a few moments, the only sound between us is the spoons against the bowls.

“I think it’s best you tell your therapist about the recurring dreams,” he suggests, resting one of his hands on the table.

“I will…” I reply, looking down at the oatmeal.

My father swallows a mouthful of oatmeal, making a gulp sound.

“When is your next appointment?”

“It’s actually later today.”

Dread fills me. I’ve been having therapy since the death of my mother. My therapist is a stern, older British lady. After moving from England, my father insisted I continue my therapy with her, so now we have our sessions over video call.

My father reaches over the table and places his hand over mine. “It’s tough, Flora. I know. However, you’ve made good progress.”

I appreciate his support and give him a nod. I glance at the clock, seeing how many hours I have left before my appointment.

“I’m trying.”

I give him a reluctant smile, trying to ease any concerns he has.

“Just one step at a time,” he says softly, squeezing my hand.

We finish our breakfast in awkward silence. My father has always shown me support—I can never fault him for that .

I look at him as he eats his oatmeal. After losing my mother, you can tell the last four years have taken a toll on him. His dark brown hair and beard are now streaked with gray. Wrinkles bunch at the side of his eyes.

I have one of his eye coloring and one of my mother's. My blue eye is from him and the green eye is from her. People used to joke about how I stole one of their eyes. I used to see the comments as light-hearted, but now they feel like a reminder of how everything has changed.

As if reading my mind, he mumbles, “You look so much like her.”

I give him an awkward smile, not knowing how to respond.

Before standing up from the table, he pats my hand. “We’re in this together, remember?”

He starts clearing the table, picking up the bowls and cups.

“You got anything planned for today?” he queries.

My mind wanders to painting. “I’m just gonna do some painting, then I have my appointment later.”

My father nods. “Okay. Are you looking forward to our hike tomorrow?”

A smile spreads across my face. “Yeah, I am,” I say with more joy.

I love hiking; it is one of my favorite hobbies. We used to do it often with my mother, so my father and I have decided to carry on the tradition. I always seem to find peace whenever I hike in a forest, like all my miseries would just dissolve away. Actually, everything within the forest is a sanctuary—from the singing of the birds to the odor of the trees.

“I’m glad,” my father says, his eyes lighting up. “Fresh air will do you good.”

A figure in the kitchen window catches my eye, startling me slightly. My father looks up to see what caught my attention .

My father opens the back door and his work colleague, Marty, stands as he waves.

“Hey, Marty. What are you doing here?” my father asks.

“Can I get a lift to work? My car has decided to act up,” Marty replies as he steps into the house.

“Sure, I just need to get dressed. I’ll be five minutes,” my father says, rushing to his bedroom.

I take a moment and observe Marty as he leans against the kitchen counter, folding his arms. He is only a couple of years younger than my father. There is a rugged handsomeness about him that I can't put my finger on.

He catches me looking at him and smiles. “Good morning.”

“Good morning,” I reply. “Would you like a glass of water?”

Marty grins and mockingly repeats my British accent, “ Water .” He chuckles. “Sorry, it’s the way you say water. It’s cute,” he says as he smirks. “But no, thank you.”

I chuckle under my breath and roll my eyes at his joke. “Well, I’ll never get used to how Americans say it.”

Marty shakes his head and laughs. “One of those things. How are you finding Washington?”

I feel a bit more at ease. “The forests are beautiful and the town is quiet. It’s different. I miss home sometimes, though.”

“Change is tough, but you’ll find your footing here. I bet you get told this all the time, but you look like the double of your mother.”

Since moving to Washington, I have heard that a lot from the locals. My mother was born here, but moved to England with her father when she was eighteen. She always wanted to move back.

I can tell Marty has a hint of nostalgia in his eyes as he smiles. “I’m not sure if your father told you, but I went to school with your mother. She was so sweet.”

“She was a lovely lady. My mother always spoke fondly of Washington. Feels odd, but comforting to live where she grew up,” I reply.

“I can understand why it would feel odd. It’s like you’re walking in her footsteps. You might discover part of her life you never knew.”

“My mother made it sound beautiful growing up here. Being here helps me feel closer to her.”

We hear my father walking around his bedroom as we fall silent. My father makes an appearance, dressed in his uniform. “Okay. Let’s hit the road.”

Marty straightens up, unfolds his arms, and gives him a nod.

“Have a nice day, Flora,” Marty says, throwing a wink in my direction.

“You too, Marty,” I reply, watching them head out the door.

As soon as the door shuts, the house quiets. My thoughts feel lighter after speaking with Marty.

The sun filters through the kitchen window, casting a soft, orange glow over everything in its path. I throw on an oversized linen shirt with loosely fitted jeans. To avoid my hair getting in my face, I tie it up into a messy bun.

I set the table with my watercolors with my blank paper staring back at me.

Since my mother's death, my paintings have all been monochromatic. I just haven't been able to paint with colors anymore. My father encourages me, but I still paint in black and white .

I dip my brush into the black paint and feel a sense of calm wash over me as I start painting trees.

As I paint, the image of a forest starts to appear. I’ve always found solace when painting nature.

I watch the clock to ensure I don’t miss my appointment with my therapist. I let my feelings pour into the painting as it slowly comes into form. I paint small trees that are dark with white beams shining centermost through them. I step back and assess my work before adding final touches. The ticking of the clock catches my attention. I gather the painting supplies and clean up the table. I retrieve my laptop from the living room and place it on the kitchen table, ready for my appointment.

Realizing I have only two minutes, I sigh and mentally prepare myself. I feel my phone vibrate on the table. Glancing over, I see a text message from my father, reminding me that I have my therapist appointment and wishing me luck.

I open my laptop and feel both nervous and uptight. I take a deep breath before pressing the link to join the appointment. I adjust the camera and ensure my audio is in place. My therapist joins the appointment and I greet her with a fake smile.

“Confirm your name and age, please,” my therapist says in her stern, British accent.

I want to sigh, but suppress it and reply, “Flora Lockley, twenty.”

As my therapist writes notes, I observe her. She is a typical, older British lady with white hair that’s neatly trimmed into a pixie cut. Her glasses nearly cover the deep wrinkles on her face.

She adjusts her glasses and pushes them down her nose. Due to the different time zones, it’s evening in England. The room is dark, with just a lamp shining in the room.

“So, Flora, how have you been since our last session?” she asks, probing .

I take a deep breath before answering, “Challenging, but I’ve been painting a lot.”

She adjusts her glasses. “Painting and artwork can be a powerful outlet,” she observes.

“It helps me process,” I agree. “However, I keep having nightmares recently.”

She writes down notes while listening as I describe the images that trouble my sleep.

“I see...Grief can manifest in different ways. It’s common for people to have nightmares after a loss. Have you found peace or relief at any moment?”

I hesitate, but my hiking trip with my father comes to mind.

“Yes, in small ways.”

“It’s about finding things that can bring you relief, Flora. You must remember to allow yourself grace along the way,” she reminds me.

Our session continues and I feel lighter as she gives me guidance.

“I keep getting reminders of how I look like my mother,” I admit, feeling nervous.

“Your resemblance to her must hold significant meaning for you,” she suggests. Images of my mother flood my mind and I feel a lump form in my throat.

“It can be a blessing. Other times…It’s a painful reminder.”

“I can understand that. Your mother lives on through you, Flora,” she reassures me.

I hated to ask the question. “Will I ever get over my mother’s death?”

She listens and gives an awkward smile, yet her gaze is gentle. “You were sixteen when your mother died of Covid. You were very young. That’s a lot for someone that age to take on,” she responds empathetically.

“It still feels like yesterday…”

“Grief doesn't have a timeline. It’s a journey you take at your own pace. You need to allow yourself to feel and to heal.”

My breath becomes shaky. I am grateful for her understanding and the safe space she provides during our sessions, even if I dread them beforehand.

“Thank you,” I say, giving her an awkward smile.

“In time, the pain may lessen. The key word is time. ”

I feel a mixture of hope and sadness as our session draws to a close. I need to take one step at a time in order to heal.