Page 37 of The Unmaking of June Farrow

I shook my head, wishing I could unhear those words. “I’m telling you that I have never been here before. I’ve never met you.”

He cranked the wheel, and the truck jostled left to right as it turned. I grabbed hold of the handle above my head to keep from hitting the window, and as soon as I saw what lay ahead, I sat up straighter, leaning closer to the glass.

A relieved breath left my lips.

The Adeline River Flower Farm sat back from the road, framed by the mountains in the distance. The house was a different shape, but it was still the same one I’d grown up in. The windows were in the same place, the porch and steps just like I remembered. But the front roomthat had now become our office wasn’t built yet. Instead, that part of the yard was covered in ferns and a chicken coop framed with gridded wire. Behind it, the land was striped with rows of flowers in full or partial bloom.

Eamon pulled into the drive, barely getting the truck parked before he opened the door, then he was slamming it behind him.

He walked toward the house as the front door opened and a woman’s face appeared, her hand twisted into the edge of the apron tied around her waist. His voice was drowned out by the sound of the cicadas in the trees, but I could tell the two of them were arguing.

I hesitated before I reached for the handle and pushed the truck door open. My feet found the ground as I watched them on the porch. The woman’s eyes jumped from Eamon to me.

I knew who she was as soon as I saw her. I’d seen her countless times in photographs. Esther Farrow, my great-great-grandmother, stood there looking at me with an expression that said she knew exactly who I was, too.

Their voices quieted as I crossed the yard, but Esther’s expression didn’t change from the deep concern that wrinkled her brow. She was completely still for several seconds before she finally gave Eamon a nod.

“Thank you.” His voice was heavy.

Esther Farrow stared at me, eyes trailing from the top of my head down to my feet. When they lifted to meet mine again, they were guarded. Distant.

“Annie!” Eamon took hold of the front door, pulling it wider. A few seconds later, a quick patter of footsteps sounded inside the house. It was followed by the bob of a head behind the window.

A small girl that looked to be at least a few years old came outside, hiding behind Esther’s long skirt. Her wild, waving blond hair was pulled into two unraveled braids and the dress she wore came down to her knees, where tall woolen socks were pulled up over her calves. By the time my gaze made it to her face, she was staring at me. No, not at me.Intome.

She stood so still, her pink lips the same shade as the apple of her cheeks. I pinned my eyes to the porch steps, unable to look at her for even another second. I couldn’t bring myself to ask who she was. I was certain I didn’t want to know.

Eamon reached for her and she untangled herself from Esther’s skirt so that he could pick her up. The girl tucked herself against him and her eyes found me over his shoulder, but Eamon shifted her in his arms, blocking her view. He carried her to the truck without another word.

“Hello, June.” Esther still stood in the doorway, hands clasped at her waist. “We’ve got ourselves quite a problem, don’t we?”

She watched me come up the steps, her sharp eyes not missing anything. They were an icy blue that was brightened by her fair, silver-streaked hair, making her look almost ethereal. Like she was cast in moonlight despite the glow of the late afternoon sun.

“Is she here?” My voice wavered.

“Who?”

“My mother,” I said.

The wordmotherwas unfamiliar on my tongue, and it sounded strange spoken in my voice. Foreign, even.

She took a step forward, meeting me halfway on the porch. “When you showed up here five years ago, that was the first question you asked me.”

Five years ago. Those three words landed one at a time, making my heart race.

“Where is she?” I whispered.

“It’s 1951, June.” She looked me in the eye, a well of compassion brimming in her voice. “Susanna is dead.”

Thirty years. I was more than thirty years too late.

I don’t remember falling asleep. I barely remember walking through Esther’s door. The first rooster’s cry came before the sun crested the mountains, and the sound was so much like home that for a split second, I forgot where I was.

No,whenI was.

The bedroom at the northeast corner of the farmhouse was one I’d slept in many nights when Gran was working late on the farm or she had to stay over to keep an eye on morning deliveries. Yet, in the lifetime of this house, this was still the first time I’d woken beneath this roof. The room smelled the same, and in many ways it looked the same, too. It felt as if I was the only thing that was different now, and that was a change that couldn’t be undone.

Susanna is dead.