Page 73 of The Autumn We Fell in Love

What Tristan came to say isn’t good. Not even a little.

Except for the one thin ray of light that shines through the gray news — that Isla Ingersole, love of my young life, is coming back to Edgewood at last.

Even while I grieve Mrs. Ingersole’s plight, I can’t help looking forward to seeing her daughter in just a few hours.

Isla

As I ease my ancient Subaru off the Massachusetts Turnpike at the Edgewood exit, I try to ignore the sense of foreboding climbing up my throat. Taking deep belly breaths, I listen to the directions my driving app is sharing. I don’t really need them. But then again, I haven’t been back to Edgewood since Guin was two. In the seven years since we left, she’s only seen her grandparents and uncle on our turf, never back in the tiny western Massachusetts town I hesitate to think of as “home.”

“Are we almost there?” she asks, peering out the window. I flick a glance at her reflection in the rearview mirror. She’s leaning forward, blue eyes intent and alive above her freckled apple-shaped cheeks. Her black hair is cut short, to the base of her skull, with thick bangs sweeping across her forehead to be tucked behind an ear. It’s a style that she asked for, one that I was nervous about. But it’s perfect — both beautiful and ballsy, just like she is.

“Yes,” I tell her. “Just a few more minutes.”

Seeing her curiosity, I feel another twist of guilt that I kept her from Edgewood for so long.

But then, I have my reasons. Good ones.

Only now, knowing of my mother’s condition, I question if they were goodenoughreasons.

I give myself a little shake, steering the Subaru onto a narrow road, golden autumn forest sliding by on either side of us. I did have good reasons to leave. And even if staying away was a mistake, I can’t go back and undo it. I can only look forward, start fresh from today.

Which is why we’re speeding over the road to my family’s home that I haven’t driven in seven years.

The app tells us that their house is just a quarter mile away. I swallow, hard, but Guin’s bouncing in her seat.

“Keep your eyes peeled,” I tell her, unable to suppress the smile that seeing her excitement brings. “Remember, it’s a —“

“Dark brown house with a red door, two stories, no shutters, with a big maple tree out front,” Guin recites, squinting out her window. I wonder what she’s thinking at this moment. She’s always been curious about where her grandparents live, and knows so much about it, details that she remembers without actually seeing the place. I hope real life Edgewood can measure up, even a little, to what she’s imagined and held dearly in her young mind for so long.

I recognize the reaching branches of the ancient maple before the trees clear. On so many trips down this road as a teen, those branches were like a banner reaching through the darkness of my world, calling me to safety.

A moment later, we’re there. The green lawn rolls up to a quaint New England home designed to look like the birthplace of Louisa May Alcott — a.k.a. a typical New England style. Its facade is all chocolate-colored wood planks, its depths only broken by the cherry red of the front door.

I turn into the driveway that snakes around the back of the house, clutching the steering wheel to keep my hands from shaking. Putting the car into park, I kill the engine and sit, unmoving. Silence filters into the vehicle, surrounding me, but inside I feel caught in a cacophony of feelings and memory.

There comes a click and then Guin’s opening her door, sliding out of the car. Drawing a shaky exhalation, I set my jaw and step out of the car myself.

When the soles of my brown boots touch soil, the world does not end. Reality does not split and dissolve around me. Life does not cease to exist as I know it. This feels surprising, almost impossible. But here I am, standing on the earth of my family’s home, tall and strong as ever, if a little unsteady.

As Guin dashes around to the front of the building, I notice that the house seems smaller than I’d remembered. The wood paneling is scuffed and worn, many planks cracked and in need of imminent replacement. Following Guin, I see that even the paint of the front door is flaking.

The place has aged in my absence. This truth catches at my heart, makes it stagger.

The worst is when my father opens that door before Guin can land a thumping knock. His face is alight with happiness, but his clothes are shabby in places. The crown of his head has less hair, and of what’s left, more of it is gray. When he’s done hugging Guinevere, he turns to me, and I detect a limp.

My father embraces me. He murmurs, “I’m so glad you’re here,” then pulls away. He smiles, but his eyes — as blue as my daughter’s — are so tired that tears well in mine.

He notices, and runs a weathered thumb across my cheek. But he doesn’t tell me not to cry. This is something I’ve always loved about my dad — he knows that some things need to be grieved, some hurts need to be felt before they can heal.

I feel like all my old wounds are about to be ripped open and joined by new ones. I’m afraid of the reality of my mother’s condition that awaits us inside the house I grew up in.

All I want is to be a girl again, to crawl into my daddy’s lap and have him comb his strong fingers through my hair until my fear disappears.

Except I’m not a little girl anymore, and my dad is the one who needs me. It’s my turn to be strong for him, and my mom. I owe them, big time, and I am determined to be as strong for them as they were for me.

So I blink away my tears, squeeze my dad’s hand, and smile at him. “I’m glad we’re here too, Dad. Let’s go see Mom.”

Ash

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