Chapter 6
THE DRIVE
The day of my departure grips me like a hawk to its prey, taking me to some unknown destination, whether I like it or not.
Thankfully, and to no surprise, Ashton lets me borrow his car for the drive down to Louisiana.
He’s loaded the trunk with snacks and emergency supplies in case of a flat tire, or God knows what else he thinks is an emergency.
Sometimes I wonder what he wouldn’t do for me.
It can be a burden to be surrounded by people who want to protect you so fiercely. If I were a delicate rose, I think my petals would surely crinkle beneath that pressure. Though I would be lying if I said I never felt that way. And now here I am, comparing myself to a flower.
The more I think about it, I’ve always found the thorns on a rose a funny addition.
So far from its flowering bud that any animal could surely nip the most alluring part without being snagged by the thorns in the slightest. The thistle from my dream would be more of a flower I would like to mimic.
Its petals untouchable and bold. Saying, “Here I am, but good luck taking what’s mine. ”
However, I don’t feel any burden from Ashton’s friendly deed at the moment as he hands me the keys, and makes traveling miles and miles to a destination I know nothing about, a whole lot easier.
I thank him a million times before I load up the fairly new blue station wagon he spent years saving up for.
My anxiety has me biting my nails down to the nubs as I think about even getting so much as a scratch on it. To say my driving is dependable is an exaggeration. I’ve had no need to drive where we live, and it shows.
It shows in my nervous fingers as I fondle the keys, wondering how something so small could be so dangerous when put in the wrong hands. It shows on Ashton’s anxious face mixed with the hopeful energy that I won’t crash his pride and joy. And worst of all, it shows in my driving, or lack thereof.
Ashton reminds me he’s coming down with Lollie in three months to retrieve it once I know at least one car left to me at the estate works.
Lollie is hovering beside me, her perfume smelling like a sweet spring morning.
I turn, giving her the tight embrace I so desperately need, holding in the tears that sting the back of my eyes.
When I let her go, I see she is in a similar shape, but tears are already free-falling down her cheeks.
These last few days have brought on the waterworks for both of us.
I use the back of my hand to wipe the dampness I feel moving down to my chin.
Tears are treacherous little things. When they choose to fall, they do as they please, whether or not for the right reason. This is the right reason.
In all my years of knowing Lollie, I don’t think we have ever been apart for more than a couple of days, let alone three months. We even went to all our summer camps together growing up, and I remind myself that she too will be down to visit come October.
“Don’t forget we are here, Jade,” she voices. Lollie’s eyes are sharp and serious in this moment. I can feel her friendship strongly through that look. “For anything. Don’t forget.”
“I won’t, Lol,” I say in response. I give her my best attempt at a smile, hoping it reassures her. “It’s only a little time away. We’ll be together again before you know it.” I hope the words I choose are what she wants to hear, being our last words face to face and all.
I pop Carya in the passenger seat and close the door before she can glide her way out of the car. Her slinky body curls up, gazing out the window like she knows what she’s leaving behind. I have no idea how she will do on the car ride, and I’m not eager to find out.
Lollie blows me a kiss as I back away from the drive, and I stick my arm out the window, waving goodbye to both her and Ashton. Ashton’s hands in his pockets, his eyes trail the back headlights. Lollie stands with her arms hugging herself, tears still glistening on her face.
I curse the traffic and ease into the slow lane to let some of the impatient drivers pass by, still trying to catch glimpses of my musing friends in the rearview mirror.
I look back at the oak that was full of crows the day prior and breathe a sigh of relief that there is not one in sight. First good omen of the trip.
After that, the hours after fly by. Once I find my groove in the driver’s seat, I’m feeling rather proud of the time I’ve made, and the absence of accidents on my part.
My hands keep a tight grip on the wheel as we make it into Nashville, and I give myself an imaginary pat on the back.
The map that sits crinkled in my lap says this marks the halfway point.
In less than eight hours, I’ll be in uncharted territory and completely way over my head.
“Almost there, Carya.” I look at my sweet feline companion, feeling insanely blessed to have her presence.
I turn up the dial on the radio. Queen blares through the speakers and sends a lively buzz through my hair along with the wind blowing through the halfway rolled-down window.
I do my best to hit the high notes, which gets me a very unamused and concerned look from Carya.
The sun hits her just right, so she becomes a warm, amber glow.
I’m of the mindset that this adventure may be just what I need. Michigan has been the only place I’ve belonged since I was a child. In the summers, we would travel to the east coast, but never went below Kentucky.
My mother would always give some excuse about the weather being too warm down south, but secretly, I knew she was avoiding the subject of my father.
From what I have deciphered from the few things she has said about him, he is from one of the southern states.
Her tight lips about the matter were all I needed to know that some things hurt too much to talk about.
I dip my head forward, peering out the front windshield to get a glimpse of the blue cloudless sky.
Above my car, I see the most magnificent rusty brown hawk.
Soaring and keeping a watchful eye on the road.
I remember the hawk that sat on that old hickory from my youth—always watching.
Holding both pride and protection within its cream-hued breast.
The one I see now is fairly high in the sky, and although it doesn’t look large from my perspective, I can tell the wingspan is one that would do well enough to carry off Carya if she weren’t fast asleep in my lap.
The beauty of the way it soars effortlessly, as if it were made of sky and cloud, brings me to a place of content and longing.
I continue to coast through an ever-changing landscape.
My car roams through green hills that morph into roads that zig and zag through edgy mountains leading to valleys with cities full of lights.
I drive out of one of those cities now as the looming night creeps upon the sky.
The hawk is long gone, but its guidance provided an imaginary safe passage to where I hope to near soon.
The map crunches in my grip as I scan the colored lines on the paper trying to find the road to the estate.
There are no marked roads on the map to lead me to the house.
I keep driving deep into a more wooded, secluded path that leads to a dead end.
A path of tall trees lines all my sides apart from a small opening that must have been a private drive at some point.
I take a chance, an action I have slowly been getting more comfortable with since this week started.
The road is unmarked, and the entrance to the drive is covered in brambles. I cringe when I think of Ashton’s car scratching along their prickers. I get out of the car, inhaling the warm southern air. The evening hangs heavy as I do my best to push most of the spindly shrubs away.
My hands are left littered with tiny cuts from the thorns, not the most welcoming sign. I keep pushing them out of the way, trying to clear a decent path. Hidden within the brush are purple thistles that I recognize from my dream just mere days ago.
A humming within my chest makes me aware of the ring inside the pocket of my jean coat located just atop my heart. A ring could not leave such sensations. It must be nerves making my heart race as much as my mind is in this moment. I pat my pocket gently. Still there.
I turn down the drive, and it opens a bit with beautiful cypress trees lining the drive.
Spanish moss hangs from their branches listlessly, like they have nothing better to do but lounge in the dimming late July sun.
The driveway lasts a full ten minutes, and it seems to have been a little better kept the further I make my way in.
I sigh in relief as I’m greeted by a bronze and white sign, The Rooted Realm Estate. My risk paid off, and I smile with satisfaction at my decision. The interesting name shows its true meaning right away. There are trees lining every inch of this acreage.
A valley of vast oaks to my left. Cypress, pines, and cherry trees line the right, and the largest hickory I think I have ever seen sits in its own respective nook in the back of the property. These trees all seem eager by the way their roots push to the surface like worms after a fresh rain.
In awe, I stop my car. The engine slows to a soft purr before I turn it off and step out cautiously.
I follow the circle drive holding Carya in one arm, and carry my suitcase in the other, which is challenging to say the least. Carya is a ball of motion trying to skirt her way out of my grip, but I barely notice because I am overcome by all that my eyes are taking in.
A massive Acadian old white house stares back at me sitting up on a slight hill.
A dark pink cast of color sits across it, weaving into its window panes from the soon to be sleeping sun as she finally trades off with the glow from the waxing moon.
An odd magnolia tree sits off to the side of a wraparound open porch.
There are twelve deep steps to make their way up to the front door, which seems excessive, but the house itself looks built up as if the bottom level is halfway above ground.
I am eager to see what is held behind these doors.
Doors that are full of the most ornate designs carved into the heavy wood with old worn copper gates embedded within them.
The doors are calling to me, much like the old hickory from my old childhood home did.
I answer their call immediately and move forward, drawn by the strange pull of the house, as if it already knows me.