Dark Awakenings: Volume 2 of the Little Girl Lost Trilogy. Cindy Hanna
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C HAPTER F OUR
This Old House
Princess and I round a corner, and our house comes into view. It’s a grand two-story Craftsman from the turn of the century. As I climb the steps to the wrap-around front porch, the oversized rocking chairs catch my eye. James had insisted upon them. Said they made it feel like home. ‘Course, he was right. How many nights did we spend on this very porch, watching for shooting stars? Or Sunday mornings spent sharing the paper over a steaming mug of coffee for me, hot tea for him?
I remove Princess’ leash and sit in one of the rockers, rhythmically tilting back and forth. Can almost feel James rocking beside me…. Perfectly synchronized. Never did that with anyone else…just James. But that’s done now. Part of the past.
Princess lies down beside me. For a few minutes, she balances her head between her front paws. Then, without warning, lets out a big sigh. You know the kind. The one that says, “Okay, guess we’re gonna be here for a while. Might as well get comfortable.” She exhales, then flops over onto her side, grunting.
I rock a while longer, and she begins to fall asleep. In the process, she snortles. Similar to the sound a horse makes. Love it when she makes that noise. That’s when I know she’s settling in for a long snooze. I rock for longer than intended. Don’t feel rushed. The stresses of life no longer weigh heavy on my shoulders. The feeling is liberating.
I watch Princess’ rear legs run in her sleep. Bet she’s chasing a fat squirrel with a bushy tail. She loves pursuing critters up trees. Honestly, you’d think she’d tire of never catching one. She doesn’t. She tackles each hunt with the expectation that this is the one—the time she’ll catch the little bugger. Gotta give her points for not giving up even in her dreams.
I gaze at the stars and spot a shooting one near the horizon. “One, two, three,” I count aloud, then close my eyes and make a silent wish. My younger brother Eric and I used to play this game when we were kids. I open my eyes and get up. Princess wakes and rises with me.
The cold makes me shiver, and we go inside. As I pass through the living room, I look at the decorations and furniture. I smile at the two black-and-white photos hanging on the wall above the sofa. James had picked them up while in Europe before we were together. The images captured in them—one of a lichen-covered stacked wall in the country, the other of buildings lining the waterways of Amsterdam—are peaceful.
My eyes travel downward to the new sofa. It was sad to let the old one go. If I close my eyes, I can picture it and how it still smelled of James’ cologne. But change is good, they say.
I notice the awkward chunky coffee table and smile. Another of James’ pre-us possessions. Couldn’t bear to part with it. Something about its simplicity. I tilt my head and appreciate the refinishing. Angel and I did a good job. The table looks fresher, almost new.
And then there’s James’ dark distressed leather armchair. He loved that chair. Would sit in it for hours reading a book before a crackling fire. Used to enjoy hearing the leather creak as he shifted his weight.
I pull my eyes away from the chair and head upstairs. As I climb the steps, my hand glides along the solid railing. Everything in this house is sturdy and made from dark woods. I like it that way. Gives it character.
At the top of the stairs, I see one of Princess’ tennis balls lying up ahead. I grin and race her to it. Arriving a moment before she does, I place my foot over it. She drops down on her front legs, rear in the air, tail wagging like a puppy, and attempts to grab it from under my foot. I mess with her for a bit. When she turns away, I give the ball a gentle kick down the hall. She pounces after it, takes it in her mouth and shakes it as if it’s a raw steak.
Princess sees me approaching, turns and heads into my bedroom. Sometimes this room is hard to enter. Even though it’s been almost a year and a half….
Ah, James…the pain of losing him still stings. To think of what we had and lost…. In the blink of an eye, it was gone. So senseless. It’s getting better, though. Most days are easier than before. Some are worse—much worse. But that’s okay. It’s part of the healing process. It’s horrible to lose one’s spouse. Especially when I needed him most, but I’m getting better. Peeling back the layers of my onion is helping.
I pass through the bedroom into the bath to the ball and claw cast-iron tub. Such a cool tub. Don’t make them like this anymore. It was James’ idea to install the suspended oval curtain rod so he could shower. Me, I love to sink into a tub full of scalding water overflowing with mounds of glistening bubbles. Makes me feel pampered.
I reach through the shower curtain. Gotta take that thing down. Never use it. I set the plug and turn on the water. Sitting on the tub’s edge, I watch the swirling liquid through the rising steam. I pour some bubbles from an expensive body shop—a gift from my mother—into the stream of water. At first, I’d protested the lavish gift, but she’d insisted. I smile as the room fills with the calming scent of lavender. The mounds of silky bubbles look like fluffy clouds.
I close the bathroom door to trap the steam. Although old houses are nice, they sure can get drafty. Guess people didn’t mind the cold as much back then. I shed my clothes and let them fall in a heap on the floor. I chuckle softly. James hated this habit of mine. Although I would always scoop them up and put them in the hamper when I was done, it drove him mad that I could stand to let my shed clothing lay in a crumpled heap while I bathed. He was just the opposite. As each article of clothing came off, it was folded and stacked in a neat pile. Never understood this extra step. I mean, the clothes are dirty and going in the hamper. What difference does it make if they’re folded or not?
I leave my clothes on the floor and, turning off the water, slip into the inviting tub. The moment I do, the warm soothing water washes away the day, and I close my eyes, lost in the luxury of my bath. What is it about a hot soak? How does it instantly relax, heal and cleanse?
I lay my head against the high back of the tub. Perfect height. Not like those modern tubs whose lip bites into the back of your neck. This tub hugs and supports my shoulders and neck and allows me to relax to the point that I almost drift off to sleep.
I soak until the water is cool and the chilled air seeps in. I turn on the faucet to add more hot water, only to discover that I’ve used it all. Damn! Gotta get a bigger water heater. Reluctantly, I pull myself from the tub and reach for my bath towel. I pat myself dry then wrap my hair.
By this time, the steam has begun to dissipate, and I can start to make out my likeness in the mirror. I don’t turn away. As the mirror unfogs, my image takes form. I see how my auburn hair shines in the light. It used to be longer, but I cut it to just below my shoulders. I admire the curvature of my hips and cinched-in waist and smile at my full breasts. A woman’s body. I lean in to survey the slight mask of freckles splashed across my nose and cheeks. Guess they’re always gonna be there. Funny. I thought…I don’t know…that I’d outgrow them? Can you outgrow freckles? Guess not, at least not in my case.
I hear the muffled ringing of the phone in the other room. Throwing on my robe, I venture to the bedroom and pick it up. “Hello?”
A familiar, “Hey there, Sally girl,” greets me.
“Angel!” I flop on the bed and tell her about meeting Carlos. She asks an endless barrage of questions, and I tell her what a fool I’d made of myself with my muteness. I remove the towel and absentmindedly run my fingers through my hair, combing out the tangles. My hair’s more than halfway dry by the time I hang up, and I can’t stop thinking about Carlos.
I throw on a pair of sensible flannel pajamas, not the lacy lingerie I used to favor, and climb into bed. I reach for my spiral-bound journal. Never got out of the habit of journaling in a simple notebook. Guess it reminds me of the original one James handed me, as my doctor, when I was an inpatient at the drug treatment facility. God! It’s only been four years? Seems