1. Imogen
IMOGEN
I drive through pea-soup fog and horizontal rain on my way out of Seattle.
The highway’s traffic is light for a Wednesday afternoon, empowering me to speed past those on the slightly clogged lane beside me, full of people driving back from work in the city.
Many locals who live in my picturesque hometown make their money in Seattle and end their day in a place that feels far more removed than a forty-five-minute commute.
That’s something Mom always loved about living on Lake Blair: being immersed in nature but close to excitement if she ever chose to seek it.
Earlier, as I lay atop my duvet in the throes of grief, eyes swollen with warm tears, I could practically feel Mom’s fingernails tidying my honeyed locks, soothing me to sleep as she did when I awoke from the same nightmare as a child.
Impossible to pinpoint the source of terror, as the dream’s details disappear upon waking.
I only ever remember violence, some unknown scandal lurking in the depths of my subconscious.
But the storyline never mattered, so long as Mom heard my whimpers from the neighboring room and came in, soft fingertips and steadying comfort at the ready.
The giant evergreen firs engulf the road, leaving a strip of charcoal skies overhead, matching my mood.
My hands grip the cold steering wheel as wind twirls the left side of my hair like a twister.
I find myself mesmerized by the blustering soundtrack it creates—if only for a short spell.
It’s the third day of autumn, and the weather report boasts sunless skies and light rain for the rest of the week, but I don’t mind.
Breathing in the crisp Pacific Northwest air, I hug the trickling river beyond the guardrail and the bright, moss-covered trees lined up along it.
The wiper blades on my car work tirelessly to keep droplets out of view as I stare blankly out the windshield.
As I pull off the highway toward Lake Blair, I somewhat come to life when I recognize the pungent aroma of grand fir trees, their tantalizing notes of citrus reminiscent of a freshly peeled tangerine.
That juicy familiarity sours as I begin to pass landmarks of my childhood, an inexplicable uneasiness replacing all feeling.
I fled this place nearly as soon as I reached adulthood, keeping in consistent communication with Mom over weekly phone calls, or texts every couple of days about her burning the weekly batch of cookies again, or we’d send each other smiling selfies wherever we were.
After I moved into the city years ago, I didn’t let myself come back to Blair for a long time.
I almost had to force myself to return for holidays, or lake events Mom put on, as something about being in this town never felt right to me, like there are ghosts all over the place. I just can’t see them.
A stickiness settles in my gut as I spy my favorite video store that stubbornly still resides on the same street corner it’s inhabited my entire life. Shortly past it: my middle school. Then the authentic Italian sandwich shop I’d visit nearly every day after class with Amelia.
My twin sister drove separately so neither of us would be stranded out here without a car, already anticipating the desire to flee at any given moment if it all becomes too much.
It’s an idea that would’ve never materialized years ago, when we were still interwoven as fraternal twins, inseparable for every movement and chapter.
Unexpected forces picked our sisterhood apart thread by thread, with the norm becoming canceled plans on account of her boyfriends, or her job, or her friends.
Amelia’s to-do list, for a while now, is always full and purposeful.
Absent of any space for her sister, Imogen, making the idea of being under the same roof again, in a word, comforting.
In another, nostalgic. Until I remember why we’re doing it.
I stop my car at the bottom of the driveway, and I don’t even remember how I got here.
I look to my right and see what used to be the Turners’ house, a sweet older couple who made jam out of their kitchen and sold it at the local farmers market every Sunday.
They had lived in that house since I was a baby.
But both died over the past few years, Mom told me.
Now the plaque on their mailbox reads THE WICKERS.
To my left, just before our house, it appears the Holloways still reside in the pastel-green lakefront manor at the end of the cul-de-sac, as I recognize their son Rory’s old motorcycle behind the gate.
Does he still live there?
I lost touch with Rory after high school graduation and never saw him or his family during my infrequent visits here over the years.
Due to his sort of brooding, creative persona, I can see him as a guerilla artist living in San Francisco now.
Or a failed New York City poet surviving off wired checks from his rich hippie parents.
Or maybe he still lives here, on Lake Blair, stunted from becoming anything at all.
Our neighbors to the right are the Bensons, who definitely still live in their house, but only seasonally. And right now, I’d consider this off-season. Meaning they’re probably back in Los Angeles, excitedly shoving their kids off to private school.
Although we’re at the top of a private driveway, Mom wanted us to be part of the neighborhood. She was always getting everyone together for soirees or potlucks. Our house was regularly full of people and life.
I shudder at the thought of how ominously empty it’s been recently.
I hit the gas and cruise around the corner until I reach the top of the driveway.
When I park, my mouth fills with saliva, nausea taking over.
I didn’t plan for this part. The getting out.
The walking to the door, the entering of the house.
And I didn’t think about how much it was going to hurt going through all her things once I finally made it inside.
I’d probably see unused and nearly spoiled cookie dough sitting in her fridge, begging to be baked by her.
Or I’d get random wafts of the cinnamon pine cones that have always sat on her mantel.
Or recognize her handwriting on random Post-it notes within her desk drawers.
Part of me didn’t plan on making it here at all. There was always the possibility I’d get into a head-on collision during the gloomy drive over, relieving me from living with this bottomless melancholy.
But here I am. Staring at the front door of the first place I ever lived. The house Mom brought me to from the hospital. The house I inhabited for my first nineteen years.
Amelia isn’t here yet, so I wait in the car, happy to push off the unimaginable for as long as possible.
I’m not going in there alone, I tell myself.
But the “pushing this off” thing turns into anxiety and anticipation. And I no longer want any part of it. I want to burst through the door and get it done and move forward.
I grab my cell phone from the cupholder and check Amelia’s location, hoping she left at our agreed time. Knowing her, I’m surprised she didn’t arrive before me. I look at the reading on my location app.
Amelia, Blair, WA · Now, 1 mile
As the rain lets up, I exit my car and stand in the driveway, allowing my eyes to roam across the Tudor-style home.
I can’t help but smile at its gables, and original front door, and tree-covered serenity.
To anyone else, the sight could evoke visions of baked goods in the windowsill or a straw-hatted woman trimming shrubs in the English knot garden on the west side of the house.
I let myself imagine that for a few lovely moments, until it’s wiped out by all the sadness spilling from its attractive chimney.
As though when I finally open the front door, I’ll be knocked off my feet by the physicality of its gloom.
I walk to the edge of the property to glance at the lake, sloshing away from the mild, late-September storm. The leaves are just starting to turn and fall from their hosts, painting the scene with red and orange and yellow.
This was Mom’s favorite time of year, and she just missed it.
Lost in thought, I jump a little when I hear Amelia’s car pulling up, pebbles popping under her car’s tires.
Before her car even stops bouncing from being thrown into park, she leaps out and hugs me.
It’s the kind of hug I lose myself in and dread the moment we will pull apart.
Because for this moment, time stops. I feel warm and safe.
It’s been nearly a week since I’ve seen her, yet somehow it feels like the first time we’ve been in the other’s presence since before.
Neither of us says a word; we just cry for a long while into each other’s shoulder.
I don’t know how I will bear the weight of this pain for the rest of my life, and I don’t want to. I’m desperate to rewind and find a way to undo it.
Throughout my entire school career, from elementary to high school, the sirens of ambulances passing my school struck stark fear into me that Mom had died in some kind of accident.
That in the moment I was hearing the wailing, her body was being carted away to the hospital one town over, minutes away from being pronounced dead, and I’d never see her again.
I’d get a note from my teacher that the principal wanted to see me.
And there, a police officer would be waiting to deliver the earth-shattering news that my mother didn’t make it and that I was parentless.
To get ahead of the panic, I’d covertly slip her a text message telling her I loved her, or I’d ask her what she was doing.
Until I heard back, my heart would be thumping in agony, deducing my suspicions to fact.
When I’d finally detect the vibration in my pocket, accompanied by the word Mom, I could take air in again.