Chapter 1

1

I woke from my reverie with a start, as I felt the plane slow down and the engines whine to a different pitch marking them winding down in preparation of the approach of our destination. Setting the book in my lap, still open to the chapter I was reading, I closed my eyes and let my mind wander back briefly into the story I had been reading.

Was it bad to get lost in a story this way? I mean, completely drawn in, so that you are part of the world the author weaves? I always placed myself as the heroin or hero in a book, imagining myself the one in danger, the one coming to the rescue. In my mundane existence, the stories I read were the only thing that kept me sane, immersing my brain into a different world where beings that we now only accept as myth are alive and part of the real world: Vampires and were-creatures, elves and Greek Gods, anything to take me away. It seemed to happen all too often, drifting off into the fantasy worlds created by the authors I read.

I opened my eyes and peered out the tiny plane window into the early morning light, trying to catch a glimpse of my new home. This hadn't been an easy decision, leaving my childhood home to live with an aunt I had never met. I put up a fight at first because I wanted to control my own life and make my own decisions. But Gran insisted, never having actually given me a real choice in the matter. To make myself feel better, I convinced myself that this was a good thing. This change was what I wanted. That’s what every teenager dreams right? Leaving home and being our own person? Making our own lives and being in charge?

The only problem was I'd be living with Gran’s sister, my Aunt Claire, going to a college somewhere close to the small town of Chiloquin where she lived. So much for being my own person.

Gran had said “Claire can offer you things I cannot, and teach you things that I have long forgotten.” I had just looked at her blankly not understanding but wanting to make her happy.

I closed the book placing the black lacy bookmark that Gran had made for me on top of the paragraph I would return to when next I opened it – in about 5 minutes.

The engines whined down a pitch again, slowing the plane even further. The cabin pressure dropped subtly as my ears felt full and I had to force myself to swallow so they would “pop”.

I couldn’t help but think I had said goodbye to everything just a few days ago. I’d stumbled through those last few days so it all seemed like a blur; weeks not days ago.

I lay my head back against the seat, the built in headrest too far up, still, for my petite 5’1” frames’ head to reach, and went over those rushed last days at home…

***

I stood up and stretched before walking over to the window and looking outside at the miserable afternoon. I had just completed working on my list of things I needed to pack. Always overly organized, that was me. The sun shone on the lawn that was now more black and brown, burnt to a crisp already from the constant barrage of heat, a sign of another hot, humid August day here in the Midwest. It had been weeks since it rained last and the temperatures just kept climbing. 110 they were predicting today. Ugh. At this rate there would never be enough rain to quench the constant thirst of the life outside. Waves of heat were emanating from the already overheated ground like a clear body of water hovered just over it. I looked at the clock. 10 in the morning.

I sighed, and turned away from the window, grabbing the 3 edge-worn pictures off my cluttered desk next to it. Ok, I know, I said organized, but I knew where everything was on it. I sat down on the edge of my green faux-velvet covered bed, studying them again.

Time had finally come for me to depart on the next stage of my life. Tonight we celebrated, a farewell for my best friends and I, all of us heading off to different places for college. Well that and my 18th birthday. Gran decided that we needed to celebrate before I left, so she could be part of the next milestone in my life. Raye and Billy, my two best friends were the only ones I invited, not wanting to generate a huge ordeal of everything. Besides, it was more a reason to celebrate our last night together for awhile.

I was headed off tomorrow night to an Aunt, one of Grans sisters, in a small town somewhere near where I would be going to college. I’d picked a community college to attend for a few years out there instead of the nearby university. I wasn’t given a choice much in the place I’d be living so my options were limited. And this way if I hated everything, I would have a legitimate excuse to leave and not be tied down to anything.

It looked beautiful, a place I could love easily.

This all went through my mind as I studied the pictures in my hands, the only clue I had to what to expect when I arrived. Aunt Claire had sent them to me a few weeks ago, trying to break the ice since we had never met and to give me an idea of what to look forward to (or what I was in for). For some reason, my gran had never sent me to visit Claire as she had Cara and as Claire’s letter said, she unfortunately could only find these three faded and torn pictures from a few years ago when my other Cara had visited. They were all about postcard size and had a note written on the back of each one.

The first picture always gave me a sense of serenity, and made me feel like I should know this place, but didn’t. It was of a massive forest, a million shades of green, even on the ancient trunks of the trees, where moss grew from the moisture. It looked like a primordial rainforest. I half expected to see a dinosaur head somewhere in the photo. Instead, nestled in the lush green of the trees was a cabin looking as if some giant being had just placed it into the trees with no thought of making a clearing for it. It looked rustic and old, something you would envision from an old west film, except it was covered in vines. I mean, completely covered in vines of all different leaf shapes and sizes and an array of greens almost mind boggling. It was as if the forest was trying to reclaim that which did not belong, even though it looked like it belonged. The only places the vines were not were where they had been carefully trimmed around the million windows in the tiny building. I smiled. Some things I guess run in the family.

The second picture showed a long two lane street, wet with rain. The gray and white puffs of clouds reflected in the pools of water giving it a surrealistic effect, as if you’d fall into the sky. On either side of the street ran a line of buildings that, again, looked very much like an old west shanty town, complete with large signs proclaiming the names of the stores, a wooden boardwalk that ran the length of the shops and honest to god rails to lash horses to. It was as if time hadn’t touched anything there, with the exception of the line of cars in various cloud subdued colors and neon lights proclaiming the stores open. The only other difference between the town and something from history was that the buildings were painted in a steady stream of white, the age of the wood showing through in that old well used sort of way. One store front stood out from the rest with its brick red color. I picked up my “to do when I got there” list and sketched down “check out red store”. The back of the photo proclaimed this as “Main Street”.

The third picture was of a beach, more rock than sand with waves crashing against the shore on a cloudy day. Large boulders broke the surface of the water causing the white froth of the waves to appear through an otherwise uninterrupted sea of blue. Cliffs matted in green moss and small white flowers framed the picture, as if the beach had been in a small cove, undisturbed by human touch. Driftwood littered the small sandy parts with outrageous shapes and sizes. I shivered looking at the picture, envisioning it being as cold as it appeared in the photo. It was stunningly beautiful. I made a mental note that I needed to find out from Claire where it was. I wondered what Cara must have thought when she visited. It must have seemed odd to her to be on a cold beach.

Gran had two sisters. Together, the three of them would never get along. They were all too vastly different from one another. So, to settle the differences they had with each other, they all lived in different parts of the continental U.S. Gran, said that it kept family affairs to an easy minimum and she enjoyed the peacefulness of being alone.

Claire lived in Oregon in a small town called Chiloquin, about an hour from pretty much anywhere with civilization in mass numbers. When I first found out Gran was more or less forcing me to live there, I researched the town on my computer (that Lee made for me) and found that it was a Native American settlement originally. It rarely got rain but despite that fact, had lush growth surrounding it, nourished by the frequent streams, rivers and lakes. It looked like heaven for someone like me who needed to be outside like needing air to breathe. The place suited Claire, from what I had heard. She was down-to-earth and liked to live roughly, only taking advantage of small modern technologies to get by. I guess that was the reason for her remote choice of housing.

Cara, Gran’s other sister lived in the extreme opposite direction, settling in Florida in one of those semi-retirement places with maintenance and a small yard. She didn’t look all that old to me to even qualify for a place like that, but she said she was older than she appeared and Florida rules for places like that were different than here in the Midwest. After all, it was more like a resort.

She too lived in a small town with most of the outside residents being mainly of retirement age. She and Uncle Paul moved to Florida shortly after retiring 10 years ago. Uncle Paul had a bad heart, so they chose a place that was sunny, and relaxing, and that had medical care immediately available for him.

Cara was flighty and childish, always spending her time with the latest endeavor or invention that she had dreamed up. She had more energy than anyone of a retirement age should have and I loved her for it. I remember searching for green, and only green, sea glass on the beach behind her house for an entire summer, because she was insistent that it held magical properties and if she set jars full of them around the house it would bring good luck. I didn’t have the heart to tell her that the sea glass’ previous life had been glass bottles from the trash dumped in the ocean that had been broken and tumbled to become what it was. I told you she was eccentric.

I visited them usually for a few weeks every summer. The house was small and looked out over the ocean. A small island sat within swimming distance of the shore. It always amazed me that the jungle that inhabited it was forever glorious despite being plummeted by wind and waves. “You have a gift for nature” was what Cara always told me, when I mentioned its beauty. The island was where I would spend most of my time while I was visiting. I’d take the small buoy and row out to the island with my backpack of snacks, water, a pen and sketchbook and my latest book. The sun was always shining and it was hot and humid but an occasional breeze off the water kept it perfect.

Then of course there was Gran, who lived here in Manhattan, Kansas, and who couldn’t fathom ever leaving. Gran was the most settled and content with the mundane life she led. I guess the only thing the sisters’ had in common was the need for small town life, although we lived in the biggest small town out of all of them.

Gran said she moved only once, and that was when she left her childhood home, a time in her life she never wanted to discuss despite my questions. She kept saying that things would come full circle and being here was just as good as anything for her.

Gran and I lived in a cookie cutter middle class home painted a lovely shade of… yellow… with white shutters in one of the many suburbs. Well it was, at least, that way 20 years ago. Old trees with large canopies but small trunks lined the street with sidewalks running under them. It was no wonder the trunks never grew, the concrete and asphalt inhibited their poor roots, causing them to gnarl and twist and the base of the trees. Neighbors were 10 steps away and most of them had chain link fences surrounding our moderate yards. Ours was open and full of roses and various other vegetation sculpted around the now dead grass. Gran enjoyed tending them and I had a knack for making them grow more beautifully than any of the other people in our neighborhood. This of course made the neighbors jealous and they tried desperately to keep up. It was that whole ‘keeping up with the Jones’ thing.

The front of the house had a small porch at ground level made of brick and there was a green awning to cover it. A trellis of climbing roses rambled close by and a bed lined in brick, full of roses and moss rose, sprawled neatly in front of the brick sidewalk leading to the porch from the driveway. Can you tell that Gran loved roses? A birdbath marked the middle of the garden, holding water even today so that the birds and butterflies didn’t have to suffer just because mother-nature was being unkind.

The back porch was also at ground level and made of concrete. On it sat a table and chairs, an array of different sized pots with an eclectic collection of plants in them, and on the corner, an old birch tree that shaded the porch from the hot sun. That was Gran’s favorite spot.

To the right of the porch was a small garden that consisted of a large collection of hens and chicks and a trellis barely holding the giant purple clematis the rambled along the gutters and the side of the house. Across the back yard up the slight hill was a row of 6 foot tall white flowered spirea, planted close as a hedge. In spring, it was a frothy white, glorious, fragrant sight. The limbs became arched with masses of tiny white flowers looking for all its worth of a floral waterfall. A tree with large branches sat just to the side and in front of the hedge, a rope swing hung by one of the lower branches and knots along the trunk made it for easy climbing. This was my favorite spot.

“Kiarah!” Gran called. Shocked out of my reverie the pictures went flying as I jumped at her voice.

I glanced at the clock on my nightstand. 10:28am. She’d just be getting breakfast finished. Had I heard the phone ring? Tonight was the last hurrah for my friends and I before we headed our separate ways. She knew I would have been perfectly happy with grabbing Raye and Billy and running off to the lake for the night, sitting around a bonfire with marshmallows and hotdogs. That was my kind of party. But because of the heat and her wishing to be part of this, we decided to stay.

I loved Gran. She is tall and willowy, with long gray hair interspersed with white and usually kept in a messy braid hanging down her back. Her face was age weary and weathered, deep wrinkles and creases marring the smooth beauty she had once been. She was beautiful now too, just in and old, wizened way. Her arms and legs were almost bone thin, but she still had a solidness and strength in her that belied her appearance. Her skin, like mine was as pale as the moonlight she loved to bask in.

She and her sisters are all I can remember during my 18 years, my parents having disappeared when I was a baby. She is kind but overly critical of everything, especially the fact that I really didn’t have a social life with the exception of my two closest friends. “That isn’t normal for a teenager”, she would mumble with chagrin in her voice.

I preferred to be alone with my thoughts. When the days were mild, I spent most of my time out of the house, doing anything that got me away from civilization, but preferring to be surrounded by vegetation if at all possible. That generally meant hiking somewhere close to the lake, typically a book in my backpack. The lake was my backup for lack of anywhere else to go. I loved to explore and find new areas off and away from the few hiking trails. After that being my main source of entertainment since I was granted freedom to leave the house on my own, it was difficult to find new places to explore. Something looked forward to remedying once living at Claire’s.

I picked up the fallen pictures and placed them back on the edge of my desk, looked longingly at my book resting on the bed, got up and went downstairs to see what Gran wanted. The smell of biscuits and bacon wafted up the stairs as I opened my door. My stomach rumbled.

“What’s up?” I asked as I hit the bottom of the matted avocado-green carpeted step. Green. Carpet, from the 1970’s no doubt as was most of the décor of the house.

She looked me up and down with a scrutinizing eye. “You’re in your Pj’s.” Her voice was a little crackly with age, like those witches in Disney movies.

“Gran, it’s 10:30 in the morning. Pj’s are ok.”

She grunted. “When are those rascally friends of yours coming this way?”

“Around noon, I think.”

“So early,” she sighed with exasperation in her voice. Definitely exasperation.

“It’s the last time we are going to see each other for awhile Gran.”

She nodded and sighed again. “I suppose since you all have been attached at the hip since grade school, it’s only expected.”

“Don’t worry; we are just going to hang here. It’s too hot to do anything outside today.”

“Good then. Are you going to stay in your pajamas all day?”

She wouldn’t give up. Gran was old school. You were dressed properly before you left the confines of your bedroom. Can we say 19th century?

“Of course not, I was just getting ready to shower when you called,” I said trying to keep my own exasperation from my voice.

“Good. Put that nice dress on Cara sent you. That way I can take some pictures and shut her up about it,” she grumbled.

“Fine. But can I do it closer to the actual party time…” I stopped with when she gave me that “don’t back talk me” look.

Have I mentioned I HATE dresses? Not that it was actually a dress, but a skirt and frilly blouse was close enough. Enough to elicit my gag reflex, that is.

“Well then you better get to it. Raye and Billy just called and said they were on their way over.”

“Great. Thanks for mentioning that,” I mumbled as I walked over to the table. Why had she asked me about time then? I shook my head. Hopefully she didn’t hear me. Instead I tossed back, “Good, they can help me chop vegetables for the salad and pizza. Cake looks great by the way! Thanks!” I said this last to appease her. She tried, she really did.

I dipped a finger into the icing of the cake on the table.

“Get your fingers out of that! There’s breakfast on the stove if you’re hungry!” Gran scolded.

“I was just taste testing the icing, really.” I grinned back at her. She couldn’t help but smile too.

She shook her head and went back to kneading the dough in front of her.

The cake she made was in the middle of the oval dining table that was usually covered in an enormous array of scrapbooking materials. Gran must have found a hiding place for all of it because today the dining table was overlaid with a peach table cloth and an aged white lace one on top of that, as was traditional for the rare treat of company: Red for Christmas, green or peach for the rest of the year. They were one of the first purchases she made when moving into this house 50 years ago.

The cake was in the shape of a flower, complete with individual petals with something sparkly on them. Don’t get me wrong, it was gorgeous as cakes go. But it was GREEN. The entirety of the cake was green with the exception of the leaves that should have been green but were actually now a hideous shade of pink. Green may be my favorite color, but… Never mind. It was pretty. Just…a little much.

I grabbed a biscuit from the stove and stuffed a piece of bacon in-between my teeth, grabbed a cup of the fresh brewed coffee enticing me with its aroma, and balancing it all traipsed upstairs to get ready. I sat my coffee on the bathroom vanity and placed the biscuit precariously on the edge of the cup. (The bacon was already gone…) Just to see, I ran to my room and checked my phone for any messages from my two friends, seeing that they had managed to tell me they were on their way before calling Gran. Good. They weren’t the traitors I thought they were.

I stopped by the hall closet for a towel on the way back to the bathroom, taking in the scent of cedar and fabric softener. I would miss that smell.

The upstairs held three bedrooms and the only bathroom. Two rooms faced the front of the house and were where Gran and I slept. The “backroom”, which was directly across from my bedroom, was more of a junk room. It was scattered with boxes of decorations for all seasons and had a table pressed into the corner, with 2 twin size beds in, you guessed it, green floral bedspreads coming out from each side. I suppose this could be used as a guest room if we got desperate, or had any overnight guests. But, since that was rare, I used the table to piece together puzzles when there was nothing else to do. The hall closet sat between my room and the backroom, and the bathroom on the same side as the backroom, across from Grans room.

The hallway was covered in the same avocado-green carpet as the stairs and living room. The bedrooms all had dark hardwood floors, dark furniture, and white folding shutters over the windows. The only modernish room we had was the one and only bathroom. It had white tile floor, white paneling and light olive green walls. A picture of a floral field painted in hues of greens and pinks, hung above the towel rack, also white. The tub was an old fashioned claw foot, my favorite thing in this whole house, well with the exception of the “bar” in the finished basement.

I closed the door behind me, drew the bath water and stepped in. I didn’t need to wash my waist length red hair today, so a bath it was. I lay back against the towel folded up at the edge of the tub and let the hot water ease the tight muscles in my neck and shoulders. I guess the thoughts of leaving must have made me tenser than I’d really noticed. Voices downstairs woke me with a start. Damn I was jumpy today. Wait woke? Had I really fallen asleep? I washed and rinsed quickly in the now tepid water, stepped out and almost killed myself and knocked half the bottles on the matching old stand sink off while slipping on the tile floor. Oops. Forgot the floor towel.

“Crap,” I muttered to myself.

“Everything ok up there?” Billy yelled up. “Or do we need to help you walk again?”

I wrapped the towel around me and ran to my room before anyone saw me, slamming my door unintentionally, hearing a “hubba hubba” come from Billy as I made my dash. One of these days they would learn to use the doorbell. They didn’t believe in doorbells.

I went to my closet to grab the white skirt (ugh) and blouse that had a huge lacy ruffle from throat to hem Aunt Cara had sent as a gift. She was trying to kill me, I swear. There was a personal hell somewhere for me that had only frilly lacy dresses and torturous high heels. I guess she thought that for once I could look like a girl and that the white would somehow highlight my already very pale skin.

Well, I guess if it made Gran happy, I’d endure it for a few hours. She only wanted a couple of pictures anyway. Yay me. I rapidly pulled everything on over the white bra and undies I’d already fished out of the clean laundry basket I had yet to put away, ran a brush through my wet hair, and ran, barefoot, downstairs, contemplating every step of the way how to escape and get back into my jeans.