Chapter 18 Where We Began
SERAFINA
Sunday morning arrives soft and gray, the light through my childhood curtains muted by clouds that haven't yet decided whether to rain.
I lie still for a moment, listening to the familiar sounds of my parents' house waking up around me.
My father's footsteps on the stairs. The distant clatter of my mother in the kitchen.
The creak of old wood settling into another day.
Rafael drove me home last night after we left the workshop.
The parcel with the jasmine vial is sitting on my dresser, still wrapped in its brown paper.
I haven't opened it again. I'm not sure I'm ready to smell it yet, to let myself imagine the formula it might become.
That feels like a decision I should make when my head is clearer.
The attack keeps surfacing in fragments.
Marisol's hand on my wrist. The sharp wrongness of that smell.
The way her face changed when I refused to drink.
I push the images away and focus on the ceiling, on the familiar crack that's been there since I was twelve, on the sounds of my parents moving through their morning routine.
I'm safe. She can't hurt me now. Rafael said that, and I know it's true. But my body doesn't quite believe it yet.
I get up and dress in jeans and a soft sweater, leaving my walking shoes by the bedroom door for later. When I come downstairs, my mother is at the stove and my father is at the table with his newspaper. They both look up when I enter, their faces careful and watchful.
"How are you feeling?" My mother sets down her spatula and crosses to me, her hands finding my shoulders. "Did you sleep?"
"Some." I let her hold me for a moment, then step back. "I'm all right. Really."
"You don't have to be all right." My father folds his newspaper and sets it aside. "Not after what happened."
"I know." I pour myself a glass of water and sit down across from him. "But I am. Or I will be."
I told them what happened last night, sitting at this same table while my mother let her tea go cold. This morning, neither of them asks me to tell it again. My father slides the bread toward me, and I take a piece.
"I keep thinking about how often she sat here with you." My mother pulls out her chair. "All those afternoons."
"I know." I wrap my hands around my water glass. "I don't think I've processed that part yet. Right now I'm just glad I didn't drink it."
"What do you want to do today?" My father moves the folded newspaper farther from his plate, making room for my mother's hand beside his.
"Rafael is picking me up after lunch." I take a sip of water. "I asked him to take me somewhere. A place we used to go when we were young."
"And you want to go?" My mother sits down beside my father, her hand finding his on the table.
"Yes." I'm surprised by how certain I feel. "I do."
They don't ask any more questions. They just nod and return to their breakfast, including me in the ordinary rhythm of the morning. I eat a little, drink my water, and try not to think too much about what the afternoon might bring.
***
By the time Rafael arrives after our late lunch, the clouds have thinned and sunlight reaches across the courtyard. I come out in my walking shoes, pulling the door closed behind me before my mother can ask whether I need a warmer sweater.
"There's a blanket where we're going." He opens the passenger door and glances at my sweater. "In case we stay a while."
"I'm hoping we will." I get into the car before I can soften what I've said.
The drive is short, winding through the groves that have bordered both our families' land for generations. I watch the trees pass, their branches carrying both fruit and the pale blossoms of another season. This is the landscape of my childhood, as familiar as my own heartbeat.
Rafael turns onto a narrow track I haven't driven in years.
The wheels bump over roots and stones, the car moving slowly through dappled shade. I know where we're going now, and something in my chest tightens.
The treehouse. Or what's left of it.
He parks at the edge of a small clearing and turns off the engine. For a moment, neither of us moves.
"I haven't been back in years." I look toward the trees instead of at him. "I didn't want to see those boards on the ground again."
"I remember." He takes a small bag of water and oranges from the back seat before coming around to my door. "Come and see."
We walk together through the grove, following a path that's been cleared recently. Someone has been here, cutting back the overgrown brush, making the way passable again. My heart is beating faster now, a strange mix of anticipation and dread building in my chest.
Then we round the last bend, and I stop.
The treehouse is standing.
Not the wreckage I remember, the pile of weathered boards that used to be the center of our world.
This is something new. Fresh wood gleams in the afternoon light, a simple platform nestled in the branches of the old oak that's stood at the boundary of our families' land for longer than anyone can remember.
A little wooden room stands behind the open platform, its roof tucked beneath the branches.
There's a railing around the edge, a bench built into one corner, and a sturdy set of stairs leading up from the ground.
"Rafael." I can barely get his name out. "What did you do?"
"I started after you left." He stays beside me, not touching, letting me take it in. "After the day at the gate, when you told me you couldn't keep being the surest thing I never tried for. I came here and looked at the wreckage, and I thought about everything we'd lost."
"You rebuilt it." I'm still staring, my eyes tracing the lines of new wood, the careful construction. "You actually rebuilt it."
"I had help." He moves a little closer, his shoulder almost touching mine. "A carpenter from the village. I cleared the old boards myself, saved what I could. But the structure is new. Safe."
I take a step forward, then another. The stairs are right there, sturdy and solid, with a smooth handrail instead of the old rough edge I remember gripping. I put my hand on it and feel the smooth wood under my palm.
"You're coming up with me." I start toward the stairs, then look back to make sure he's following.
"Right behind you." He adjusts the bag on his shoulder, leaving me room to climb first.
I climb with my hand on the rail, unable to stop looking toward the platform above me. When I reach the platform, I stop and look around.
The view is exactly as I remember it. Both estates spread out below, the groves stretching toward the hills, the rooftops of our families' houses visible through the trees.
The afternoon sun is slanting through the branches, casting long shadows across the new wood.
There's a bench built into the corner, with cushions that look soft and new, and a blanket folded neatly at one end.
I hear Rafael's footsteps on the stairs behind me. He comes through the opening in the railing and sets the bag beside the bench, staying out of my way while I explore.
"I used to dream about this place." I turn in a slow circle, taking it all in. "After it fell. I'd wake up thinking I was here, and then I'd remember it was gone."
"I know." He stays where he is, watching me. "You told me once. A long time ago."
I cross to the bench and sit down, running my hand over the cushion. The fabric is soft, the stuffing firm. Someone chose these with care.
"When did you finish?" I press my palm into the cushion beside me, still trying to take in the fact that this is here.
"A few days ago." He moves closer, but he doesn't sit down yet. "I wanted to bring you here before... before everything that happened yesterday. I wasn't sure you'd want to come, and I didn't want to push."
"You didn't tell me." I can see the new stairs from here, the path beyond them. I've been so close to this place all week without knowing.
"I wanted to ask whether you'd come, yesterday after the gathering." He stops at the end of the bench. "Then you asked me first."
"Sit down." I move over, leaving room beside me rather than across the platform.
He sits, leaving a careful space between us. The platform creaks slightly under his weight, then settles.
"There's something I saved." He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small piece of wood, weathered and dark with age. "From the old structure. Do you recognize it?"
I take it from him and turn it over in my hands. There are letters carved into the surface, rough and uneven, the work of young hands that hadn't yet learned precision.
S + R. A heart around them, lopsided but unmistakable.
"You carved this." I trace the letters with my finger. "I remember. You were so proud of yourself."
"I thought I'd done a beautiful job." He watches me rub a thumb over the crooked heart. "I thought if I carved our initials, it would make everything official."
"Make what official?" I raise the little piece of wood between us, giving him a chance to hear how grand he sounds.
"That we belonged to each other." He reaches out and touches the edge of the wood, his finger brushing against mine. "Even then, I knew. You were the person I wanted to spend my life with."
I set the carving on the bench between us. How am I supposed to keep a sensible distance when he remembers this? I want to laugh at that ridiculous heart and keep it somewhere nobody can lose it.
"We used to stay here for hours." I pull the folded blanket from beside the bench and shake it open, then settle it across both our laps. "Arguing about who had to leave first."
"You always lost." Rafael reaches into the small bag he carried up and pulls out an orange, tossing it lightly in his palm. "You'd say you were leaving, then find one more thing to talk about."
"That's because you cheated." I take the orange from him and start peeling it, the bright citrus smell mixing with the new wood around us. "You'd bring up something interesting right when I stood up."