Page 51 of Buried Roots

Why do I feel so sad about a person I’ve probably never met? It has to be because now, I’ll never have the chance to. And that’s evenifshe is my mother, which so far, I have no proof of.

I wipe the tears from my eyes and return my focus to the computer. “What happened to you, Annie Walsh?”

Owen’s not here with me, as I thought this was something I needed to do alone, but now, I’m not so sure. I wish he were here. This might be my mother, whom I’ll never have the chance to meet.

I wonder if I’m okay to keep going. I should probably take a break, but I know I can’t. I won’t be able to stand being in my own skin not knowing everything I possibly can.

Opening her obituary, I learn she died on July 20th, 2013, and my brain spins into a calculation. Annie died so young—only thirty-two years old.

Scanning the obituary, I don’t find a lot more information. No cause of death, no survivors listed. It only says that Annie was taken from us far too soon and that she was loved by many. On the bottom, it asks that in lieu of flowers, donations be made to the Women’s Bright Futures Foundation, a place for runaways and domestic abuse survivors. She must’ve gotten help there after she ran away.

Looking the place up, I see that it’s in Atlanta. With that, I go back to my properties’ website and find Annie Walsh’s list of addresses. They’re all in Atlanta, and one looks familiar. I double-check to make sure.

Yes! It’s Bo and Lily’s address before they moved here to Violet Moon. The place they lived at the time I was born. Pulling it up on Google maps, I see that it’s dilapidated and vacant, but something about it looks familiar. I hope it hasn’t been torn down since this photo was taken.

Ineedto go to that house.

I told Owen I was fine doing this trip alone, but he insisted on joining me on this drive to a rundown neighborhood, about twenty minutes from downtown Atlanta. When I start up a winding road, it’s clear that Bo and Lily preferred the country life even when living in the city. The homes are fewer and farther between by the time I pull up to the white house, which is dilapidated but standing. I flash Owen a smile. “It’s still here.”

Owen’s lips split into a grin. “Told you.”

I stare at it, hoping to remember it, but nothing comes to mind other than a vague familiarity that I can’t quite put my finger on.

“Anything?” Owen says, squeezing my hand.

“Not yet.”

“How are you feeling?”

I hesitate as I struggle to put my feelings into words. “I’m terrified of getting answers. I’m terrified ofnotgetting answers.”

“It is a double-edged sword.” He stares out the window, contemplative. “Once you know something, you can’t unknow it. There’s no turning back.”

“Exactly.” I like that Owen gets me. He’s been tight-lipped about his past, but whatever he’s been through has definitely shaped him.

Before I go inside, I check my phone. It’s Friday, and there are workers at Bo’s Château, so I have to make sure I’m available if they have questions or run into problems. I told Natanya I’d write her the second the Kleins’ selection of fixtures arrive at the warehouse today—they’re meeting to make their decisions.

I have no messages or emails, so I’m all caught up for now.

We get out of my rental car and approach the place; the driveway is cracked and the porch is sinking but sturdy. The windows are boarded up, and, unfortunately, there’s a padlock on the door. “Let’s try around back.” We go through the gate of the sagging chain-link fence and enter the backyard. It’s full of weeds, overgrown shrubs, and a rusted fire pit near the back of the property. We wander around to see if we can find any place to get in, or at least look inside. Unfortunately, the blinds are all closed. “Dammit,” I say.

Owen puts his face up to a window and moves his head at different angles, clearly trying to see if he can get any view through the blinds. “They’ve got this place locked up tight, probably to keep squatters away.”

“Yeah.” Something flashes into my mind, but it’s not a memory. It’s a piece of knowledge. “There’s a key to the back door hidden in the birdhouse.” I don’t know how I know that.

Owen gives me a wide-eyed look before I put my hand through the round hole of the birdhouse and pull out a key. When I hold it up, he says, “You’re remembering.”

After we return to the back door, I slide the key into the deadbolt and, sure enough, it clicks.

Hope blooms in my chest as I open the squeaky door. The smell of dirt and must hit like a blow. Cobwebs fill the place, and a few cockroaches scatter.

All the furniture has been taken out, but I know the layout. I point straight in front of me. “My bedroom is down that hall.” Almost in a trance, I walk through the kitchen into the living room and then down the hall, my body taking me through a familiar route. Automatically, I turn to the left and into my room. I continue on, moving straight into the walk-in closet. When Owen joins me, I put my hand on the knob of the small door that leads to a big attic space. I utter, “There’s a mural of a farm and farm animals on the wall in there. It was my favorite.”

When I open the attic door, there’s exactly what I said, but it’s much smaller than I remember. “Mom painted that. She was a good artist. I used to play in here for hours.”

After we’ve both ducked through the door, he stands back to give me space. “Keep going. You’ve got this.”

“Okay.” But as I turn a circle, taking in the splintered door, the green drapes, the red crayon on the windowsill, one memory after another rushes into my mind. Not all of them are good.

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