Chapter 22
Chapter Twenty-Two
Adam
I’m talking about Heartsboro, Georgia.
I was reminded of the one-stoplight town as I drove across the flat, wide-open landscape of the Midwest, watching the horizon change colors at sunset.
When I stopped for gas in the middle of the desert in Arizona and heard the twang of a Willie Nelson song crackling over the outdoor speakers.
Picking up a sandwich at a deli in Fresno and noticing the pink frosting of a cake protected under a dome on the counter.
My brief, but heartfelt voicemail I left Keri in the middle of the night to let her know I made it, ending with the stumbling words, “I love you,” that told her what my heart meant even though my head was fraught with angst and sorrow.
Maybe I shouldn’t have taken off as I did. I admit, panic took over when I got the phone call about the offer on my property. I suddenly felt like everything might disappear before I had a chance to return and say goodbye. But now, isn’t that exactly what I’m doing? Finally saying goodbye?
Roxy told me at the wedding that it was good to see me smiling again. Dancing again. Loving again. She said I should move on from anything holding me back and plant roots in Georgia, where I’ve obviously made great strides in my healing.
She wasn’t wrong.
I was ready to plan a road trip with Keri.
Ready to start our photography project as partners.
It’s a brilliant idea, and I want to run it by my agent, Dan, to get his thoughts.
But then came the phone call from the real estate broker, and my heart stopped.
Everything stopped, like a dead-end sign blocking a dangerous road.
I panicked, pure and simple. And now I have to finish what I started.
I have to face my property one last time and finally sign it over to the new owners with no regrets.
This is how I can move forward. This is the only way I can fully immerse myself in my new life with Keri.
The funny thing is, I don’t know why I’ve kept it.
I never wanted to rebuild, nor did I share the townsfolk’s resilience in their determination to restore the community.
Don’t get me wrong, I loved my life deep in the woods, but my sense of safety vanished.
Everything I loved was obliterated. When my land was reassessed at a paltry amount, the taxes were low enough for me to keep it while I figured out my next steps.
Now, I’m making the painful journey on the very road where my wife and child died.
Disbelief and grief still come in waves, but here I am, half-haunted and uncertain, torn between memory and what little remains.
Roxy was with me the first time I was allowed back into the fire zone.
We found nothing but my home’s brick fireplace and chimney still standing.
The rest of the house was in ruins, blanketed in ash.
I don’t know what I expected today. And I was thrown off by the eerily familiar, unseasonable weather and gusty winds like those on that tragic day two years ago.
For most of my adult life, I lived in this area and grew accustomed to the land.
But driving the ghostly roads today has unnerved me.
The trees that defined the town and neighboring ridge communities are lost and obliterated.
I pass decimated lots and barely recognizable structures awaiting remediation: houses, stores, churches, schools.
Everywhere, the ordinary has turned macabre.
Chimneys and hearths stand alone, disassociated from homes.
A few piles of stacked shells of burned-out vehicles and twisted appliances by the roadside remain, the only remnants of people’s lives.
I can’t imagine trying to rebuild amid such devastation.
The landscape is vast without the forest. It feels foreign to me, like another planet. But as I arrive and park near the familiar large boulders at my old driveway entrance, I know I’ve made it. I’ve finally arrived.
I’m home.
The remediated site of my destroyed property is nothing but a gaping hole in the landscape.
The area has been bulldozed, the last pieces of my life hauled away in dump trucks, like the other ninety percent of homes around here.
I step out of my van and walk across the earth, now scraped and leveled.
Molly stays at my heel, sensing something strange with her keen instincts.
Maybe it’s my erratic heartbeat or the sweat shining on my brow.
Perhaps it’s my wife and daughter’s spirits welcoming me back.
Whatever it is, Molly remains loyal, offering gentle licks and soft nudges to my hand.
“Good girl,” I say to her, my voice gruff with fatigue and emotion.
A mix of exhaustion, sorrow, and determination rises within me.
I want to be honest with myself and allow these feelings to surface, knowing I need to face this head-on to get through it.
I don’t want to play victim any longer. I need to climb out of this self-imposed, two-year hole and become a survivor, even if doing so scares me.
The wind picks up dust on the deserted land, the remaining leaves in the sparse trees here and there rustling against the gust. My hair blows back from my face, and I look up into the sky and notice a hawk.
The bird is circling in the currents, hovering briefly in the high winds before gliding with slow, heavy wingbeats.
I squat nearer to the ground, one hand anchored on Molly’s back.
With my free hand, I scoop up a handful of dirt and watch it sift through my fingers, the bits of earth and ash nothing but dust in the wind.
There’s nothing left for me here. I know this.
A book I read on grief said that our brains are rewired by reflecting on our progress.
I’ve covered a lot of ground, both emotionally and during the 2,500 hundred miles I just traveled on long stretches of highway.
I may not be exactly where I want to be, but there’s power in noting the roads I’ve been on and the tiny victories I’ve gathered along the way.
Today is one such victory. In those early days, when heartbreak made it hard to rise each morning, convincing myself to get up was a victory too.
Two years later, I wouldn’t trade a single moment to sidestep the sorrow.
Grief didn’t make me stronger; it made me softer.
My shattered heart will never seal back up.
That brokenness is where Mia and Evie live on.
Out of pain, I love deeper. Out of absence, I hold others closer, especially Keri. Out of loss, I keep going.
And Roxy’s absolutely right. It’s time to move on.
“Let’s go, Molly.”
She wags her tail and trots back to the van. I scan the area one last time. And then I walk a little unsteadily toward my vehicle, my eyes focused on my dog. She jumps into the front seat, and I slide in behind her. A little voice inside my head says, “Don’t look back.”
I start the engine and keep my eyes focused on the road in front of me.
***
“I wasn’t expecting you in person, Mr. Woodbury. Won’t you please have a seat?” The stout real estate broker motions with his hand toward the empty chair in front of his desk.
“Please, call me Adam.”
“Of course. Adam, it is.”
I watch him shuffle through a stack of papers sitting on his messy desktop, the remnants of his hoagie pushed to the side. The air lingers with the smell of onions and vinegar.
“Yup, here we go.” He triumphantly holds up a folder. “This won’t take long. I’m going to need your signature in front of a notary. Good thing my admin, Lori, is one.” He grins. “Once it’s signed, it will be filed with the county. We prepare all the documents and handle the recording.”
“That’s it?” I ask.
“There’s also a change of ownership report and some transfer taxes.
Easy-peasy.” He opens the file and slides it across the desk toward me.
“Make sure the deed contains the correct spelling of your legal name, and double-check the legal description of the property. As I said in my email, I’ll need two forms of identification as well. I’ll go get Lori so you can sign.”
“Okay.” I hear the click of the office door shut and sigh. This is it. This is me moving on.
I read the particulars and nod. And then I see it. The buyer’s name.
Dirk Enterprises LLC
“Dirk?” I say out loud. I rub my eyes and look at it again.
It absolutely has the word “Dirk” typed on the buyer’s line.
I am not seeing things. What are the chances this is Justin Dirk himself, dipping into his family’s millions to casually buy my property without talking to me first?
I rifle through the entire file to try and find a full name and come across a handwritten sticky note.
Buyer wishes to remain anonymous. Legal entity only.
“Are you kidding me?”
The office door opens, and the agent bumbles inside. “Here she is, here’s Lori.” A tall blonde wearing horn-rimmed glasses offers me a pleasant smile. “She’ll notarize the document once you sign…”
“—I’m so sorry,” I interrupt. I stand, gripping the piece of paper in my hands and shove it toward him. “Do you know this buyer?” He seems confused and takes a step back.
“Do I know this buyer personally? Well, no. We’ve only talked over the phone.
They are, uh, out of the country and have made arrangements to sign the contract virtually via electronic signature.
I hope you know this was available to you as well.
I wasn’t expecting you to drive across the country for your signature.
That’s why I was so surprised to see you today, Mr. Woodbury. ”
I slam the paper on the desk, making the duo jump. “I’m gonna need a minute to make a phone call. I may or may not be back.”
I rush past the two of them, out the office door.
Once I’m in the parking lot, I pull out my phone and hurriedly dial Roxy’s number.
I know they’re in Bali on their month-long honeymoon, but I really don’t care at this point.
I feel like I’ve been stabbed in the back by my cousin.
Why would she do this without talking to me first?
And what does Justin intend to do with my property?
Does he know something I don’t about the real estate market?
Is he part of some outside investor group, taking advantage of California fire victims down on their luck, ready to buy up cheap real estate in a picturesque corner of the state that lacks housing?
The phone instantly goes to voicemail. I groan and grip the back of my neck with my free hand.
The honeymooners are probably holding hands and skipping across the white sand beach while sipping from hurricane glasses filled with pink liquor topped off with colorful umbrellas.
I hope Justin forgot his sunscreen and gets fried by the Indonesian sunshine.
I clear my throat and talk as calmly as I can.
“Roxy? It’s Adam. You have some serious explaining to do regarding my property. I’m here at the broker’s office. Call me immediately when you get this.”
I shove the phone into my back jeans pocket, tilting my head back and closing my eyes against the bright California sun.
I need to calm down. I take in a few deep lungfuls of air and picture Keri in her cerulean pageant gown, posing for me on the precipice of Feather Falls.
Sweet Keri, who wanted to be here with me while I navigate this major transition.
And I told her no.
I stand on the hot asphalt of the parking lot with my hands firmly planted on my hips.
The way I see it, I’ve got two roads ahead of me.
On one road, I can keep blaming myself for what happened two years ago.
I keep going over it in my head and what I could’ve done differently.
I pushed people away, and I suffered because of it.
Because that’s what I thought I deserved.
And then there’s another road, where I finally find a way to accept what happened. Find a way to accept my choices. It doesn’t mean I have to like it or understand it or never think about it again. I just accept it. And I move forward, living the best life that I can.
“I’m done with this,” I mutter under my breath.
I pull my phone out of my back pocket again, my hands shaking as I dial the number. Three rings. Another voicemail.
“Hey, Keri. It’s me. Please call me back. Please…”