Three
THREE
Holland
N oise engulfed me as I stood before the handsome Brooklyn brownstone I’d just inherited. Bathed in a warm reddish-brown hue, it stood tall, like a proud soldier slightly worn from earning his share of battle scars over the years. Despite a crack in the stoop and a few scattered paint chips, the home was an elegant marriage of modern flair and historical charm.
Honking horns, crying babies, skateboard wheels grinding against the concrete, and laughter spilling from the teens whizzing by blended together like a dizzying symphony. A car passed by with rap music playing so loudly I could hear the metal vibrating.
Florence, South Carolina was a whisper of a city compared to Brooklyn, which was as loud and alive as the people who constantly traipsed through the concrete streets. I looked down at the address on the papers in my hand and back up at the numbers above the door. This was it.
Stepping through the wrought iron gate, I pulled out the keys the attorney had given me. “Here goes nothing,” I said, sucking in a breath. I was about to walk into the house my aunt had lived in for almost fifty years. My hands trembled and a mix of excitement and curiosity danced in my chest.
This felt like an adventure—a nerve-racking and scary one. What would I find inside? Could I handle it? Was I ready? I had to encourage myself to take the next step. I swallowed the trepidation threatening to lodge itself securely in my throat.
I made my way up the few steps separating the sidewalk from the front of the house, turned the key, opened the creaky door, and stepped over the threshold into the 1990s. Pushing the door closed, I shut out the noise that lived outside and ran my hand across the mustard-colored wallpaper in the entrance, fumbling for the light switch. A low haze illuminated the yellow couch under the front window, which faced a pair of floral wingback chairs, all covered in once-shiny plastic. The bold red-and-yellow print on the wingback chairs matched the drapes framing the bay window at the front of the room. From the door I looked straight through the living room and dining room into the kitchen in the back of the house. Sturdy, worn oak stood strong and thick in the dining room table, chairs, and cabinetry in the kitchen. Every surface was covered with a thin layer of dust.
Besides the slight musty smell, the home was remarkably tidy to have been empty for the months my aunt had spent in hospice. Cancer had put her there. But it was a bout of pneumonia that had ended her life.
Gavin, one of Aunt Goldie’s lawyers, talked about what a gem this house was. He said I should keep it and make it my own. That’s what Aunt Goldie would have wanted. They said she’d made several attempts to find me and when her end was near, she made them promise they would continue the search.
The other attorney slipped a card for a real estate agent into my hand in case I wanted to sell. Since I wasn’t interested in moving to this dizzying place, selling made the most sense.
I walked through the dining room into the kitchen. What would it take to get rid of all the old furniture? I had a big job ahead of me: figuring out how to pack up and prepare this house for sale as soon as possible. I had a new life to start in Charleston and couldn’t wait to get to it.
Framed pictures on the wall caught my attention. I walked to the slanted wall beside the staircase.
“Wow!” My mouth fell open. I recognized Aunt Goldie from the funeral program. In several photos, she stood tall, elegant, and smiling next to famous people like Aretha Franklin, Diana Ross, and even Tina Turner. How did she know them?
Aunt Goldie’s pretty, round face had large eyes, dimples you could sink into, and skin the color of honey. I ran my finger across the photo and a lump formed in my throat. I wish the attorneys had found me in time to attend her funeral. I’d missed it by two weeks, and would’ve loved to have seen her face in person, even if it was for the last time.
I had so many questions. What was she like? Did I have any other blood relatives, or was I truly alone now that she was gone? What were my grandma and mother like? I wanted answers more than ever.
Mother . It felt weird calling a woman I never knew mother . Patricia was my mother. For some reason, I needed to reconcile that.
I looked back at the gallery of memories. I saw a photo with Aunt Goldie’s arm around the shoulders of a woman who looked just like her. She had the same high cheekbones, soft eyes, and robust hips. Her skin was a bit darker. Could that have been my grandmother, Clara? Next was another picture with the same woman carrying a little girl on her hip. Was that Yona, my mother? I had just learned my mother’s and grandmother’s names at the will reading. Goldie’s husband, Jonah, died shortly after they were married. That’s where she’d gotten the name Williamson. Her sister, Clara Ann Reeves, and niece, Yona Reeves, were my grandmother and mother.
Another lump lodged in my throat as I traced lines around the frames and faces in more pictures. My tears surprised me as they slid down my cheeks. These Reeves women were my family.
I wondered if Ma had met any of them when she adopted me. How had I gotten to Florence if they all had lived in New York?
I continued fingering the images, noticing more photos with Goldie, Clara, and Yona. There was one with a little girl on Yona’s lap, seated on the yellow couch. Her big toothless smile reached through the years and warmed my heart. Yona squeezed the little girl in her arms, pressing their cheeks together. Was I that little girl?”
I blinked, forcing back fresh tears. Curiosity led me from room to room in search of more information about these women. After a while, I forgot about the cobwebs, dust, and stuffy scent that clung in the air. They—my mother and grandmother—had walked through that house, slept in those beds, cooked in that kitchen, and ate in the dining room—and I had been there with them. That realization made me want to explore more.
Memories of life before Florence were so faint that it felt like a dream. I was little when I went to live with Ma. I didn’t remember anything about my mother and grandmother. Missing someone I didn’t know wasn’t something I thought was possible, but now I longed for them; to see their faces, hear their voices, and feel the love that seemed evident in their eyes. The void that swelled in my heart felt fresh, like it had only been days since they had departed.
I searched for evidence that the women in the pictures were my mother and grandmother. I found piles of old photo albums under the coffee table in the living room. Sitting on the couch, I opened the first book. Pictures slid from under the plastic. Time had turned the edges of the photo album brown. The adhesive no longer held them in place. There were so many books. I found a picture of a woman in a cap and gown, head tilted and smiling. It read Class of 1989. I flipped the picture over and saw the picture had been signed. “To Aunt Goldie. Thank you for everything. Love, Yona.”
This was my mother. My hand flew to my mouth. Tears blurred my vision, while air circulated in my chest like a tornado. My hands trembled as I pulled the picture to my chest and sobbed.
When I finally got my emotions together, I flipped through more pictures. The little girl on Yona’s lap was me. I looked to be around four years old. I took several of the pictures from the albums and put them in my purse.
I stood, needing to do something else with myself for a moment. I moved to see more of what was in the house. I only realized how fast I was moving when I got upstairs and had to catch my breath. I paused, scanning the rooms on the second floor before stepping into the one closest to the front of the house. This had to be Aunt Goldie’s room before being taken out by an ambulance.
All the other rooms were neatly kept, except this one. A chunky four-poster bed sat boldly in the center of the small room. A paisley comforter matching the thick drapes was crumpled near the foot of the bed. Pillows had been tossed across the mattress and floor. Dried coffee stains colored the lace doily covering the top of the nightstand. Next to it, a scattering of prescription pills were sprinkled onto the beige carpet below.
I stepped inside slowly. There was an obvious sense of urgency in Aunt Goldie’s final moments. The closet door had been left open. I craved the stories these walls could tell me if they talked. I ran my hand across the thick wooden headboard before pulling back the heavy drapes. Sunlight accosted the space, filling the room with a brightness it hadn’t seen in months.
I sat on the bed and closed my eyes, imagining the woman on the funeral program moving about in this room only months ago. When I opened my eyes, I noticed another picture of my mother on the nightstand. I was sitting on her lap again. This time, wearing a birthday hat and a huge smile as we sat on the yellow, plastic-covered couch in the living room downstairs. I studied the image closely, recognizing the uncanny resemblance of the child to the mother. The same large brown eyes, high cheekbones, and honey complexion. Squinting, I brought the picture closer and noticed imprints from writing on the back. My heart leaped into my throat. I removed the picture from the frame and flipped it over. “Holland’s fourth birthday.”
I pressed the picture to my heart and choked on a cry that wracked my body. Covering my mouth didn’t stop the sobs. I held the image in my hands until my blubbering subsided to a whimper. I was both extremely happy and incredibly sad. I never expected to become so emotional.
I sat on my aunt’s bed until only a sliver of sunlight was left. My stomach growled, reminding me that I needed to get back to my hotel and find something to eat. I finally stood up with the picture still in my hand. I passed the open closet on my way out of the room and tried to push it closed. Something blocked the way. Placing the picture aside, I knelt to see what kept the closet door from closing. I found a large, flat leather bag with papers spilling out of the opening. I carried it to the bed and tried to stuff everything back inside. The words Death Certificate caught my eye. The name on it read Yona Reeves. My mother , I mouthed, with my hand on my heart.
I dumped the bag and riffled through the contents to find even more documents, letters, bills, and a journal. This was more of a glimpse into my past than I had imagined.
“Oh my goodness,” I repeated over and over as I skimmed through the pile.
There was so much information. So many gaps that could be filled. I gathered the papers, put them back in the bag along with the picture from the nightstand, and ran downstairs. I grabbed my cell from my purse and ordered an Uber. I needed to get back to the hotel and look through everything.
I watched the app as my driver drew closer. When he was outside, I locked the door behind me and raced toward the car, crashing into a man I hadn’t seen coming.
“Oh!” The bag fell from my hands, hit the ground, and spilled the contents all over the sidewalk. “No!” I screamed, kneeling so fast I bumped my knee on the concrete. I ignored the pain. These weren’t just papers. They were pieces of my life.
“I’m sorry. Are you okay?” the man said. The rich timbre of his voice caressed my ears, pulling my attention away from the papers.
I looked up into apologetic brown eyes, hooded by lashes that would make any woman jealous. Skin like smooth dark chocolate, and lips so full they begged to be touched. I blinked, realizing that I’d stared much longer than was reasonable and necessary.
“Let me help you,” he said, running after the papers lifting in the slight summer breeze.
“I’ve got it,” I snapped in frustration. I couldn’t let this man’s gorgeous face cause me to lose focus. These documents were too precious to be allowed in the hands of a stranger. It dawned on me that this little mishap was my fault. I’d been so caught up in what I’d found I hadn’t paid attention. I blew out a hard breath. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s fine. I wasn’t paying attention either.” He shared the blame and continued helping to pick up the papers.
I dared to look at him again. “I—I—” My words fumbled. I looked away. His strong jaw made me pause. “I…” Embarrassed, I fumbled again. “Thanks. I’ll get the rest,” I said, averting my eyes. Stay focused, Holland. There was no time to be gawking at a complete stranger that I’d likely never see again, no matter how fine he was. My Uber was waiting.
“Here.” The man stood, straightening the documents before handing them to me. My skin tingled where his hand brushed against mine. I wondered if he felt that too.
“Thanks.” I focused hard on stuffing the papers back in the bag. The driver blared the horn. Holding Aunt Goldie’s bag closed, I rolled my eyes. “Coming!”
“Have a nice day,” the guy said, walking off.
That voice, full and sexy, had the sultry resonance of an R & B crooner. Was he a singer? This was New York. I’d heard celebrities walked around here like it was nothing. If this were Florence, he’d have a mob following him. I groaned. When I dared to look back, he was facing me but moving away as he walked backward. He waved, turned, and kept going. Long legs carried him away in a rhythmic, confident stride.
“Damn.” The word slipped from my lips in a whisper as I closed the car door. He. Was. Fine .
As my Uber rolled down the street, I watched the house until it was no longer in view. Then I looked for the man I’d crashed into. He was gone.