From The Door to Trilesk

Kate gripped the steering wheel with white knuckles as a single drop of sweat dripped down the middle of her rigid back. Her muscles tensed with the effort to contain the panic that had driven her here: to her estranged, missing, aunt’s house. Like a wild beast it reared up and beat against her breast. Now Now Now. She dropped her forehead onto the steering wheel and groaned. None of this made sense. What was she even doing here? If her mom found out where she was… Well Kate knew how badly that would end. 

After all, what did she care what her mom did with it? It was just a house. Kate scoffed at the thought. Yeah.  Just a house that had been in her mom’s family for centuries. Just a house her mom and aunt had grown up in. Just a house Kate had never been allowed near, except for one summer years ago. Kate exhaled sharply. Just a house she had no memory of. Not a single one. So if her mom wanted to get rid of it, it shouldn’t matter to her. Yet somehow it did. Somehow this place pulled her back to it with every fiber of her being, ever since she discovered her mom’s plans. Somehow, something mattered enough to drive her here knowing the trouble it would cause if she was found out. She sighed again. There was still time to go home. She could start the car and turn it around, try to ignore the frantic foreboding, but she knew she couldn’t. She needed to see what was calling her back.

Kate gathered her courage, opened the door, and stepped out. She looked up and took in the house and yard that exuded her aunt’s energy: from the house’s paint color—dark purple fading into a lighter purple on top—to the metal art sculptures and concrete faces her aunt made that were scattered throughout the lush flower garden and left no room for mere grass, to the meandering stone path that ended under the giant canopy of an ancient oak tree. At least she thought it was an oak; she had really never seen an oak, or any tree, that big. The massive tree branches brushed the sky, and Kate swore the tree whispered as the leaves rustled.

Smells and colors exploded across the lush garden, and birds launched through the foliage, sweet trills of happiness bursting from their beaks. In fact, everywhere twenty-year-old Kate looked, plants and animals alike seemed, well, happy. But that was impossible, wasn’t it? Tiny voices everywhere seemed to welcome her home. Insects played their wings like cellos, hummingbirds darted to and fro, and other colorful birds Kate couldn’t identify added to the music with their warbles. A cloud of butterfly wings flitted like soft kisses over her cheeks. Home, her heart sang. Home, the plants rustled with the wind. Home, rejoiced the animals like a page torn from a child’s storybook. 

Kate felt wetness on her cheeks and swiped away tears that had fallen unnoticed as her body recognized the longing, well before her head acknowledged that she had missed this place something fierce. Kate blew out a breath and tried to shake the spell. She spotted a trio of concrete frogs by the front porch that seemed almost familiar and made her way over. Instinctively she pushed the middle frog’s head down. Its mouth sprang open, and a tongue unfurled to reveal an intricate, old, tarnished brass key. Surprised and half expecting it to be wet, Kate grabbed the key and somehow knew it would fit the front door lock. Such a small thing really, yet the thought of another family touching it, using it to get into her aunt’s house filled her with such sorrow. She shook her head to dispel the thoughts and walked up to the front door. She inserted the key and felt the tumblers turn and pushed the door inward. Everything was eerily still, as if the house was holding its breath, waiting for. . . . For what, exactly? Her glorious return? More likely the stillness was because no one had lived here since her aunt disappeared a year ago. Kate snorted at the ridiculousness and stepped across the threshold. She closed the door and marveled as the sun splashed colors over the carpet through the colored glass mural in the door that depicted a mermaid in the water. The craftsmanship was extraordinary, down to the small details that made it appear as if the mermaid were actually swimming. 

Kate glanced over the rest of the front room and guessed it was a parlor. It seemed all old houses had parlors. This particular one contained sofas and chairs set up for conversations and entertaining with lots of natural light coming from all the windows. Pieces from her aunt’s travels filled the room, each with a unique story to tell of how and where it had been acquired.

A framed picture caught Kate’s eye and she wandered over and picked it up. The camera had caught a much younger Esmerelda, mid-laugh, looking directly into the lens. She looked so vivacious. Her hands trembled as she set the picture down. The knowledge that she would never be able to ask her aunt what she was laughing about or who took the picture or why the memory was so important that her aunt had the picture framed washed over her. Her aunt had been such a unique person, never afraid to be her true self, confident and happy with who she was. Kate looked forward to her aunt’s visits on birthdays and holidays when she could bask in that energy, so different from her mom’s, for at least a few hours. As the years went by, she saw less and less of her as her aunt’s travels took her away more and more. Kate vividly remembered the last time her aunt came to see her. It was two years ago on Kate’s eighteenth birthday. She had been so wrapped up in her friends and becoming an adult she blew off all her aunt’s attempts to talk to her. After all, at that point Kate barely knew her. Everything was fine until she caught her aunt looking at her with such sorrow that grief gripped Kate’s heart so tight she could barely breathe. She moved to talk to her aunt privately but each time her mom appeared, making conversations difficult, until finally it was too late. Her aunt left and the feeling faded into the background, making Kate doubt the whole encounter. Questions gnawed at her, but Kate ignored them and turned her attention back to the room. She took a few steps towards the center of the room, intent on exploring the rest of the house, but stopped in her tracks as her aunt’s presence wrapped around her like a warm hug. Gone was the stillness. Instead, it felt like her aunt just popped into the kitchen for a moment to make some of her homemade lavender iced tea. Lavender iced tea? Kate shook her head, confused. She’d never had lavender iced tea, yet she tasted the subtle flavors of mint and lavender on her tongue. 

“A bit of tea time.” Aunt Esmerelda marched into the room followed by an eight-year-old Kate. Her aunt carried a tray holding a large French press, stuffed with lavender and mint, steeping in hot water. Tall glasses clinked with ice, and a white plate laced with delicate blue flowers was piled high with Kate’s favorite lemon cookies. They both wore explorer outfits complete with binoculars, boots, and hats, all smudged with dirt. 

“The trick is to steep it for ten minutes. Not one minute more or less,” her aunt stated as she set the tray down.

“Lavender’s my favorite!” eight-year-old Kate quipped.

“What about hibiscus? You said that was your favorite yesterday.”

“Well, it was my favorite yesterday. Today my favorite’s lavender!”

“Lucky for us we have our own unlimited supply of lavender.” Aunt Esmerelda tickled Kate’s nose with the tiny purple flower. Past and present Kate giggled, and Kate’s eyes grew wide. She remembered this! She remembered all the iced teas they would make from her aunt’s herb garden. Hibiscus, lavender, chocolate mint, orange thyme, along with exotic-sounding herbs with the most amazing flavors that made the best iced tea. How could she have forgotten that? She watched her younger self fling her little body into her aunt’s arms in a fierce hug.

“I hope this never ends, Aunt Esme. I love you,” little Kate whispered. She strained to hear her aunt’s reply, but it was too soft. Their laughter trailed away like a puff of smoke as the vision faded. She stood rooted to the spot, willing it back.

A slow burn between her shoulder blades brought her back to the present and she stretched her neck down and turned her head to the side. How could she have forgotten this? What other memories were locked inside here? Kate let her feet lead her further inside the house, and ignored the flicker of fear at the thought of her mom finding out she was here. This was worth the tongue-lashing, or at least that’s what she kept telling herself. It was one thing to think about it and quite another to experience it. Kate winced and pushed the thought away. It was only for one day and her mom would never find out.

Kate ventured down a hallway as it opened up through a large stone archway. She stopped as her eyes took in the room that opened before her. It was a solarium, like the ones you would see in the old movies, that was almost as large as the rest of the house. Glass panel walls soared above her to merge with a glass ceiling, each pane separated with black iron scrollwork that must have taken weeks, even months, to finish. The floors were inlaid with patterned cream, green, and gold tiles, placed to create the look of flowers sprinkled throughout the floor. Lush, tropical plants, both large and small, filled the space. Here and there cozy couches and chairs created bubbles of private oases, ripe for reading a good book, or just getting lost in one’s own thoughts.

Kate’s feet instinctively carried her along until they stopped in a corner of the room occupied by an empty easel that sat expectantly. A beige canvas lay underneath to protect the floors, an art piece unto itself with splashes and drops of overlying hues—vibrant reds, blues, and purples, soft pastels in pinks and lilacs, stark blacks and whites. Jars littered both surfaces of the two tables that flanked the easel; some were filled with brushes from finite to large house painter’s type, others filled with what had been watered-down paint, now dried, cracked, and clinging to life on the sides of the jar. A stack of white canvases leaned against the wall. Forgotten and forlorn, this nook spoke to Kate about all the endless possibilities. Her fingers twitched, eager to grab a paintbrush and start creating. Joy followed by chagrin made Kate squirm. How had she not known her aunt was an artist? Had anyone else in her family painted? She sighed. She would probably never know. Her mom never talked about what little family they had, and if it had to do with art… forget it. Her mom never said anything that might encourage Kate’s career choice.

 An alarm halted Kate’s thoughts and she swiped her phone to silence it, leaving a smear of sweat. It was almost time for her meeting with Morgan. Kate’s hands trembled at the prospect. Morgan Lovejoy was the successful owner of an art gallery that hosted a ONO—One Night Only—Exhibit that drew collectors from around the world. Along with the top artists, Morgan would choose a lucky local artist to showcase at the event, and Kate desperately wanted to be the one chosen for the event.

She headed towards the front of the house and her stomach tightened in knots. This was the part she hated the most. Meeting face-to-face, letting some stranger judge her work, exposing her soul to wounds by the slightest frown, or offhand comments the other person never remembers but in turn scars. It was brutal. And talking about herself and her work? It made her feel like a child playing dress-up in oversized fancy clothes, not like the adult she had been for two years. She tried living by the adage “fake it till you make it,” but sometimes faking that confidence grew heavy. When would she feel more like an adult? When would she feel powerful, confident, and fully herself? Not some pint-sized version who, to be honest, had no belief in herself right now. 

A gentle breeze wrapped itself around Kate and followed her to the car. She opened the door but froze when she heard her name whispered in the wind. Kate. She shook her head and plopped into the car. Nerves were getting the better of her. It had been a crazy, emotional day, more so than she could have ever foreseen at the start of the day. She just needed to get through this meeting and then she could melt into a pajama puddle at home.

A few hours later her roommate and best friend pounced on Kate as she walked in the front door of their apartment.

“What happened? How’d it go? You haven’t answered any of my texts! I mean, I know you’re horrible at texting back, but I thought you would have made an exception for this! Tell me! Tell me everything! Was she amazed by your talent?” Maggie fired at Kate, barely giving her time to respond.

Kate shrugged her shoulders, letting her portfolio slide to the floor. 

“She was not amazed. She said my pieces had promise but were missing something.”

“What could possibly be missing from your work? It’s incredible.” Maggie asked with a frown.

“Authenticity.” Kate turned to face her best friend. Her stomach clenched along with her teeth at the sting of rejection.

“What does that even mean? You paint fantasy, which does not denote authenticity.”

“I don’t know, Maggie. She absolutely refused to elaborate or explain it anymore. She said it was for me to discover. She did say that if I found my authentic inner artist to let her see the pieces and she would consider me for the exhibit. She’s still a few weeks away from making the final decision on who gets the spot.”

“What are you going to do?”

Kate threw up her hands.“I have no idea, Mags. I have no idea what it means to be more ‘authentic’ or paint with more ‘authenticity.’ Right now, I kinda hate that word.” 

“You’ll figure it out,” Maggie replied with full confidence as she flounced on the couch.

“Easy for you to say. You’ve made a name for yourself.” Kate hated how surly her voice sounded. Her best friend was a talented sculptor with a loyal following who sold her pieces before they were even done. She’d worked hard to be where she was, but she made it look easy, and sometimes Kate felt jealous of her best friend.

Maggie looked at Kate and held her gaze.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to lash out. I just want this so badly.” Kate dropped her shoulders.

“I know you do, Kate, and you’ll figure this out. I have faith in you!” Maggie leapt up from the couch and gave Kate a side hug before skipping down to her room. “Do you need to use the bathroom?” she shouted down the hall. “I’ve got a date with Damon, and I need to get ready.”

“THE Damon?” Kate asked. “When did he finally ask you out?”

“He didn’t. I got tired of waiting so I asked him out for sushi. Sometimes you need to take the initiative in life rather than wait for the Universe to deliver.”

Kate mulled over Maggie’s words as she walked down the hall and stopped in her doorway. Arms crossed, she looked at her room through a different lens. Four empty white walls, beige carpet, a faded purple comforter wadded up on a single bed she’d had since she was twelve, a battered $25 dresser from the thrift store pushed against a wall, and an old yellow sheet covering her window in place of an actual curtain. Her easel occupied a corner next to a tv tray covered with tubes of paints and a pitiful collection of her most used brushes. It felt stark and bare compared to her aunt’s. Maybe if she had a place like that to paint in, her pieces would be more inspired. 

Kate’s eyes widened and her pulse raced—whether in exhilaration or fear she couldn’t say—as an idea took shape. She wasn’t taking any classes this summer and she only worked part-time at the restaurant, which meant she had some free time. Her mom refused to step foot into her old childhood home, and there was no one else nor any other family, so she could, in theory, use her aunt’s space to paint on her days off with no one the wiser. It would take her mom months to go through the courts to have Aunt Esmerelda declared dead and sell the house and land. It was the perfect plan. Nothing could go wrong. Nothing. Mind made up, Kate changed into her favorite jammies, crawled into bed, and fell into a restless sleep filled with nightmares that faded in the morning light.