Knotted Roots (3 page)

“What?”

“Never
mind that.  How was your flight? I’m sure you’re exhausted,” she spoke as we
walked, arm in arm, through the tiny airport.  As soon as the doors to the
outside world opened up I was stunned by the sweltering heat. Mom was right;
this was a heat like no other.  It was as if I was swimming in a sea of sweat,
not walking through open air.

“Deep
breaths darlin’.  The air takes a little getting used to, but you’ll adjust,”
she smiled at me as we walked the short distance to where her truck sat
waiting. 

Figures. 
Could she be any more typical?  I mean, of course the little old Southern lady
would drive a massive truck.  I was willing to bet there was a gun rack
somewhere in there as well.

She
threw my bag in the back of the truck and walked around to the driver side of
the truck.  “Get in girl.  We’ve got a long drive to the house.”

“Great,”
I muttered as I opened the door and climbed in.

* * * *

“I
sure was sorry to hear about your parents.  It was bound to happen though. 
Your mom and dad are too different,” she spoke as we made the hour long drive
to her home on the outskirts of the city.

“Different?
No, they’re not.  They were meant for each other,” I replied with a scowl. 
“Besides, you haven’t seen my mom in, how long?  You wouldn’t even know what
she is like anymore.”

I
could tell by the look on her face that I had struck a low blow.  I hadn’t
meant to hurt her feelings, but that was not a topic that I wanted to discuss. 
The whole reason they sent me here was to get away from all of the drama that
occurred during a divorce.  They didn’t want me caught in the middle, or at
least so they said.  Seemed to me that I was already caught in the middle.  My
life was being shredded, bit by bit, and there was nothing that I could do stop
it.

“You’re
right.  It’s been far too long since I saw my daughter, but I know who she is,
deep down.  A mother always knows her child,” she said before she turned the
radio on and settled back in her seat.

Do
mothers know their children that well?  Amber’s mother knows nothing about
her.  She had to be reminded every year when her child’s birthday was. Most of
the time I had to plan the entire thing because she had no idea what Amber
would want.  So, I was not inclined to believe that all mothers know their
children that well.  Grandma Betty may have thought that she knew my mother
that well, but, in my mind, there’s no way to truly know someone you haven’t
seen in almost twenty years.

* * * *

The
drive to Grandma Betty’s house seemed to take forever.  The music blared from
the speakers, but it was as if there was a vacuum surrounding us, sucking the
energy out of both of us.  We were both hurting in that moment, but neither of
us knew how to help the other.  Then again, it was my fault that she was
hurting, but I felt that what I said wasn’t off the mark.  In fact, I was
positive that she had no idea who her daughter was anymore.

The
trees began to increase in number; their dark bark flooded my vision.  I had
never seen so many trees in my life.  They lined the road, their branches
spread overhead, creating a beautiful canopy for us to drive under.  The leaves
were all different shades of green, mixing together to create one of the most
beautiful scenes I had ever seen.  I had never given much thought to the
significance of trees, but after driving underneath their cover, I could
definitely understand why some people chose to live in places like this.  There
was something calming about our surroundings. 

We
turned off the main road onto a small dirt road.  I wasn’t expecting the bumps
and dips and it felt as if we were on a kid’s roller coaster ride.  I had never
driven down a road that wasn’t made of asphalt.  The plumes of dust that rose
up from the back of the truck clouded my view as I looked in the side view
mirror.  My mother had always joked that living in the South was like living in
a completely different world, but I had never known what she meant until that
very moment.

When
we arrived at the end of the dirt road my breath caught in my throat.  We
entered a clearing, and situated in the middle was a very large house,
dominating its surroundings.  The house looked like it had been ripped right
out of an old Hollywood movie, complete with a large wrap around porch and two
rocking chairs by the front door.  The house was almost completely white,
except for the bright red shutters that lined either side of the windows.  The
pathway leading up to this glorious home was lined with flowers of every shade
imaginable, all obviously carefully tended.  It was the most beautiful house I
had ever seen.

“Whoa.”

“You
okay over there?” asked Grandma Betty.

“Um...yes,
I think so.  This is your house?” I couldn’t keep the wonder out of my voice. 
I didn’t want to offend her again, but I was caught completely off guard by her
home.  Where my mother had evidently grown up.

“Hasn’t
your momma ever shown you pictures of where she was born?” she asked, a small
smile playing across her lips. 

“No,
never.  I can’t believe...” I looked over at her and my smile wilted.  The look
on her face showed a mix of regret and longing.

“That’s
a shame.  We had some good times here,” she said as she turned off the engine
and opened her door. 

I
followed her lead, grabbing my bag from the back of the truck and dusting off
the grit that had collected from our trip down the dirt road.  I hurried to
catch up as she made her way to the bright red door that stood in welcome, a
beacon to all that visited.  I guess I now know where my mother got her love of
red. 

She
unlocked the door and swung it open, stepping aside to let me enter first.  I
walked through and instantly was stunned speechless.  I had never been in a
home quite like hers.  The hardwood floors were cherry, a perfect contrast to
the lovely cream color of the walls, giving the home a warm feeling that I
hadn’t been expecting.  It was nothing like what I had pictured in my mind when
my parents first told me where I was spending my summer.

“Okay
sugar.  Your room is up those stairs, first door on the right.  Your boxes
arrived this morning, so they’re already up there waiting on you,” she said as
she stomped her feet on the welcome rug by the door. 

“Thanks,”
I muttered as she walked away.  I climbed the stairs, running my hand over the
ornate railing as I made my way to my new bedroom.  When I reached the top of
the stairs I encountered a long hallway, doors lining the way to the end.  I
reached for the first door on the right and slowly opened it.  There was no
creaking noise, as I thought there would be, just a quiet whoosh as it opened.

I
walked in and dropped my bag on the floor.  The walls were a pale pink with
white molding around the top that complimented the cherry floors that were
evidently found throughout the entire house.  In the middle of the room stood a
large canopy bed, complete with a light pink ruffled top and a bed skirt to
match.  A white desk sat in the corner and was topped with a laptop and desk
lamp, but nothing else.  Nothing personal.  A large dresser stood on one wall
of the room, surrounded by all of my boxes that had been sent. 

I
walked over to the bed and plopped down on the edge.  It was all so
overwhelming.  This wasn’t my home, and yet I would have to pretend as if it
were.  As I gazed around the room I would call mine for the next three months,
a soft knock sounded at the door.  I walked over and opened the door to find
Grandma Betty standing there.

“So,
what do you think?  Is it going to be okay for ya?” she asked nervously.

“It’s...great,
I guess,” I said as I moved aside to let her into the room.  She glided in and
took a seat at the desk, swiveling around to face me as I sat back down on the
bed.

“This
was your mother’s room when she was your age.  I always dreamed of having
another young lady spending time in here,” she paused, “I just wish it was
under better circumstances.”

“I’m
sure,” I shot back, the sarcasm dripping from my mouth.  I couldn’t help but
feel angry with her, as if it was somehow her fault for the situation I now
found myself in. 

She
glanced at me, a look of confusion flashing across her features, but it was
quickly replaced with a sugary sweet smile.  “This is going to be a great
summer, for both of us.”

“Whatever
you say,” I replied as I flopped back on the bed.

She
stood up and shook her head.  I knew I was being obstinate and rude, but she
deserved it, as least in my mind.  This was what happened when you deserted
your family.  This was what happened when you ignored your granddaughter her
whole life and then tried to jump right in when the proverbial poop hit the
fan.

“Go
ahead and get unpacked.  We’ll head out for dinner once you’re done.”

She
walked out, closing the door behind her.  I looked around at all the boxes that
were in the room, unsure where to start.  I began to feel overwhelmed again so
I went to the window, opened it, and tried to take a deep breath.  The humid
air felt even more suffocating than it had at the airport.  I had an
overwhelming urge to run away.  I could disappear in the woods that surrounded
the house, never to be seen again.  Then I could pretend that my world wasn’t
spiraling out of control, turning into my own personal pit in hell.

As I
stared out the open window, I watched the trees sway in the breeze and the dirt
swirl around the shabby excuse for a road. I felt the vice around my heart
tighten to nearly unbearable.  The reality was that no matter where I went, or
who I lived with, when I returned to New York at the end of summer my entire
life would be different.  No more family vacations.  No more designer clothes.
No more familiarity.

CHAPTER THREE

Unpacking
of all of those boxes was torture, but three hours later, I was finally done. 
As promised, Grandma Betty drove us to town for dinner.  The drive was just as
awkward as I imagined.  The silence was thick and suffocating.  Grandma didn’t
turn the radio on this time, but the scowl on her face had the same effect. 
She didn’t want to talk to me? Fine, I didn’t want talk to her either.  No
problem at all.

When
we pulled into the parking lot of the restaurant I burst out laughing.  The
outside of the small building looked ordinary enough, well, except for the
blazing neon sign that read Daisy’s Diner.  Only in the South would you find
such a place, apparently named after the owner, and especially with a name like
Daisy, or at least so I thought.  When we parked I couldn’t help but let yet
another giggle escape my lips.  Grandma acted as if she heard nothing, which
made me feel horribly guilty for laughing to begin with.

When
we entered the little diner I took in the checkered tablecloths that covered
the small tables, as well as the red vinyl booths that surrounded them.  It was
like stepping back in time.  It was simple and rustic, two things that we
didn’t have where I grew up.  There was even a jukebox in the far corner,
country music blaring from its speakers.  I followed Grandma to a corner booth
and we sat down, my thighs automatically sticking to the vinyl of the seat,
which made it impossible to slide in any further.  I had to settle for the
middle since I wasn’t willing to chafe the backs of my legs just to scoot
closer to the window.

I
looked around, taking in my surroundings.  This was definitely going to be an
interesting summer.

“You
look a little shell shocked.  What’s on your mind?” she asked as she glanced
between my face and the menu in front of her.

“I’d
rather not say,” I replied, trying to hide my smile as I perused the menu I was
clutching.

“I
see.  Hmm, lemme guess.  This fits your idea of us Southerners, right?  The
small town diner, complete with all the ‘cheesy’ trimmings,” she replied as she
stared straight into my eyes.

“Come
on! I mean, it’s so cliché.  How do you not see it?” I asked.  If looks could
kill, I would be bleeding on the floor at that moment.  Evidently she didn’t
find it funny at all.

“Cliché? 
You think you’ve got it all figured out, don’t ya?  You think you know what all
of us around here are like, but you have no idea.  Not really,” she paused and
scanned the diner.  Her eyes settled on a man across the room that looked to be
in his late thirties or early forties.  “See that man over there?  What’s his
story?”

“I
don’t know him!  How am I supposed to know?” I replied.

“You’ve
got us all figured out, so you should know.”

I
looked closely at him, studying him from across the room.  He was dressed in
dirty jeans, a torn t-shirt, and scuffed work boots.  “In all honesty, he looks
homeless,” I said as I looked back at Grandma.

“Wrong. 
That’s Dr. Livingston.  He’s the only family medicine doctor for 50 miles.  If
anything happens to you, God forbid, he’s the one who will be treating you.”
The smug look on her face was more than I could handle.  She knew what I would
see when I looked at him. 

“Is
there a point to this?” I asked, trying to look unaffected and bored, and
probably failing miserably.

“There’s
always a point when I open my mouth, which is more than I can say for you,
young lady.  You sit there on your high horse and look down your nose at
people.  Yet you don’t really
see
them.”

“You
set me up on that one! What did you really expect me to see when I looked at
him?  Look at the way he’s dressed, for goodness’ sake!” I was getting loud and
had to make a concerted effort to lower my voice.  “I don’t need a lesson in
hidden beauty, thank you.”