Page 3 of Falling For Us Again
I truly am.
“I’ve never tried to stop you from doing what you choose. All I’m asking is that you go to Hartlow and think about this deeply before you make any decisions. There are so many things you don’t know.”
She turns and walks to the kitchen. “I just made some cinnamon rolls. Want some?”
“Yes, please,” I reply absentmindedly. The sweet aroma of the cinnamon rolls envelops me, but my thoughts are too tangled to fully appreciate it.
What does she mean by things I don’t know?
I haven’t been able to think about anything else since Aunt Mila brought up the circumstances of my mother’s death. Now more than ever, I need to know what happened to give myself peace.
The thought of returning to Hartlow, even briefly, is agonizing, but I am prepared to make the trip. One final visit to confront the ghosts of my past and to move on, for real, this time.
***
My car glides gently into town, the colorful "Welcome to Hartlow" sign looking slightly different than I remember. I guess somethings can’t remain the same forever.
My palms are sweaty as I drive through the familiar streets towards my childhood home. I don't know how I still remember the route, but it seems imprinted in me.
I take in the scenery. The roads and houses are modern and quaint, with some unchanged from a decade ago. The church is exactly as it was back then, and I quickly look away from it.
New supermarkets, restaurants, and apartments have sprung up everywhere.
When I left Hartlow ten years ago, it was at dawn before anyone woke up. Now, I return as the morning is starting.
My sleek Mercedes attracts curious glances from the few passersby, but I’m comforted to know that with its tinted windows, no one can see who is inside.
I sensed my childhood home before I even saw it—an onslaught of memories crash into me, triggered by the familiar scent of lavender and dried peonies.
I grip the steering wheel tightly as the house comes into view. If I hadn’t spent years learning to control my emotions through therapy, I might have had a panic attack right then and there.
I hate everything about this place.
The house stands as a haunting relic of the past, its once-bright exterior now faded and weathered by time. The paint is peeling, revealing the bare wood beneath, and the grimy and cracked windows, offer a glimpse into the forgotten life within.
Overgrown ivy snakes up the walls, its tendrils weaving through the gaps in the shutters, which hang askew on their hinges.
The front yard is a tangle of wild grass and weeds, nearly swallowing the crumbling stone pathway that leads to the sagging front porch. An old swing, rusted and creaky, sways gently in the breeze, a ghostly reminder of happier times that I can barely recall.
But I know, as a child, there were happier times before everything went to hell.
As I look on, a sense of abandonment and melancholy settles on my shoulders, I feel so prominently that the very soul of the place has been left to languish in the absence of its owners.
I take in a deep breath before I step out of the car. The familiarity of everything is a little staggering. At that moment my phone pings. It’s a text from Aunt Mila.
“By my calculations, you should be in Hartlow now. If it gets to be too much for you, call me, and I'll be there immediately.
I love you, x.”
A reluctant smile creeps onto my face as I read her message. What would I do without Aunt Mila?
I open the trunk of my car to take out my luggage. An uncomfortable feeling of Deja vu sends chills down my spine, flashing back to that day I put my bags into Aunt Mila’s car as I bade farewell to this town.
I haul the luggage to the front porch and find the keys in my bag. The door creaks slowly as I push it open. My hands instinctively reach for my locket, which I’m wearing around my neck today as I step in. I switch on the flashlight in my phone until I find the light switch by the door because being in the dark gives me anxiety.
To my surprise, the living room is well-kept, a stark contrast to the exterior of the building. It looks exactly as we left it years ago, with furniture draped in white sheets. It’s like stepping into a forgotten time capsule. This is the room where my father first threw a plate at me in anger.
I can still see it all in my mind as I instinctively run a hand through my blonde hair. The way the plate slammed into my head, the look of sheer horror on his face before I lost consciousness.