Page 1 of Clear Path

PART I

Vipassana: a Pali term that means to see things clearly, as they truly are. Also, insight.

1

GAP Mile 80.4, Union Hill, Pennsylvania

The sun slanted through the dusty window and carved a line across the woman’s weathered face. Rory snapped a photo timed to capture both the sunbeam highlighting the dust motes in the air and the contrast of the shadow falling across the woman's left cheek and the peeling wallpaper behind her. She circled the woman on quick, silent feet as she pressed the shutter release button on her Nikon D850, set to quiet continuous release to be as unobtrusive as possible.

Lowering the viewfinder, she asked a question to put her subject at ease. “What year did your parents build this house?”

“Oh, heavens, my parents didn’t build it. My grandparents did.” Lydia Hudson smoothed the skirt of her dress, the blue material shiny with age.

Rory had told her to dress comfortably, but she was unsurprised when Lydia opened the door wearing her church dress and glossy red lipstick. People couldn’t help themselves—it was one of many reasons she preferred spontaneous shoots. Herbest work always seemed to come from approaching a stranger at a bus stop and asking permission to snap a photo or stumbling onto an eye-catching natural composition.

But the circumstances dictated she make an appointment for this shoot. She reminded herself what was at stake and re-engaged the woman.

“Really? Do you know when that was?” She raised the camera again and waited.

She started snapping again when Lydia screwed up her face and tried to recall.

After a beat, Lydia spoke softly, her voice echoing off the bare walls. The home had already been emptied of furniture, clothing, belongings. Only memories remained now.

“Must have been, oh, a little over a hundred years ago. They lived here for fifty-some years. When they passed, both of them, one after the other in ’72, my mom and dad moved us in here. My brothers got married and moved away, but I stayed to help them out. After I met Ed, rest his soul, we rented a place across the road—that yarn shop and the pottery studio used to be duplex apartments.” She gestured out the window at the pair of upscale boutiques across the street.

Rory followed the motion and aimed her viewfinder toward the shops. She fired off a handful of quick shots through the streaked windows to capture the contrast between the past and present of Railroad Way.

She turned her attention back to Lydia. “You lived right across the street?”

A ghost of a smile crossed her red lips as she nodded. “I wanted to stay close. Then, after my parents passed, we moved over here with the kids. I guess I always thought one of them would take the place over when I was gone. Never imagined I’d outlive it.”

Lydia’s lower lip trembled. Rory pressed the shutter button before the woman could steel her expression.

The Hudsons’ home was destined to be demolished in just a few hours. After Lydia repeatedly refused to sell to a developer, the town instituted eminent domain proceedings on the grounds that Lydia was the lone holdout standing in the way of economic development. Rory had heard the gossip just that morning, a murmured conversation she’d overheard in the coffee shop while waiting for her latte and muffin. She asked around until she found someone who knew Lydia’s phone number, then called and introduced herself.

She’d expected to have to convince Lydia to let her intrude on such a private moment, but Lydia agreed without hesitation. So Rory had canceled her breakfast order, grabbed her camera equipment, and rode her bike down the trail to document Lydia’s farewell to her home and its demolition.

The subject matter was a perfect fit forPush/Pull, Rory’s upcoming exhibition. If she was lucky, she’d have time to add some of today’s photos to the exhibit. Even if not, the day wouldn’t be wasted. She wanted the installation to be a living record and planned to expand it online and possibly in her studio after the gallery exhibit was over.

“Are you going to stay and watch?” she asked quietly, not sure what Lydia would say.

She considered what she would do in Lydia’s shoes—would she bear witness to the destruction of her family home or would she leave before the demolition team arrived in hopes of keeping her memories intact?

Lydia squared her jaw and straightened her shoulders. She nodded.

“Are any of your kids coming up to be with you?”

She sniffed. “No, they think I’m a foolish old woman. They think I should just have taken the money and moved to aretirement community someplace warm and sunny.” Her voice held no bitterness but was tinged with sadness.

“I’ll stay, but I won’t photograph it.” Rory offered on an impulse. It suddenly felt too invasive, too ghoulish, to record the demolition with Lydia watching.

Lydia’s eyes snapped up to meet hers. Her gaze was no longer sad nor tired—it was fierce.

“Oh yes, you will. I’m not going to pretend this didn’t happen. You take all the photographs you want, young lady—of me and the house.” Her voice shook again, but Rory could tell it was rage, not sorrow, causing this quaver.

She nodded. “Understood.”

She waited on the bowed front porch while Lydia took one final, private walk through her home. She’d silenced her phone before the session, so now she turned off the do not disturb feature. Before she could return the device to her pocket, it vibrated as it began to deliver a backlog of text and voicemail messages. She glanced down at the screen. She had two missed calls from the Hot Metal Art Gallery, one voicemail message from the gallery’s line, and several texts from its owner. She silenced the phone again and slipped it back into her pocket. She’d deal with Tripp later.

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