Page 4 of Bound By Fury

And on the far edge of the house is a south-facing window seat, perfectly positioned for spying on the sullen boy sat kitty-corner in a tower of his own.

I capture the intricacies of Willow Estate in vermilion and charcoal and indigo on the edges of the page. My fingers drift from the textured grain of my sketch pad to my knees, the ghost of the purple-green bruises still darkening my skin in shades of gray.

It is a dying home for a dead woman.

“She’s gone.”

My mother’s words are trapped inside the confines of my skull, bouncing against the bone in a relentless echo. Sighing, I pull a smooth black stone from my pocket, dirt still caked in its dents and grooves from where I dug it out of the creek bed. I turn it over in my hands, barely resisting the urge to toss it into the stream that burbles beside me.

The air buzzes with unspent electricity. The humidity still thick enough to swim through, begging for the snap of lightning and a torrent of rain to relieve it. It presses against me, squeezes until my lungs get tight. I imagine that the weight on my chest isn’t just grief or pain but also the force of Gigi’s hug tethering me to the earth.

When my mother told me, something inside me broke, and I’m not sure I’ll ever fix it. She said she knew how much I loved Gigi. I still can’t believe that. How quickly she switched to past tense. I love her. Not loved. Love doesn’t fade the minute someone stops breathing. I want to be mad at my mother because anger is so much easier to feel than grief, but I can’t. Because she’s hurting too. Even if it’s not in the same way.

Besides, I have bigger things to worry about.

I slide the rock into my pocket, my legs weak as I hop to my feet. When the sky finally breaks and thunder reverberates through the garden, I welcome the commotion, so well timed with the storm brewing inside me. Tucking my sketch pad and kit under my shirt, I tilt my head down, avoiding the tears falling from the sky, wetting my face in the absence of the ones I have yet to shed myself.

In the distance lightning flashes, and like call-and-response, the feeling from the convenience store flares within me. An itchy, electric thrumming that I crush and ignore, squeezing my hands until my nails poke crescent moons into my palms.

Named after my grandmother’s lineage, Willow Estate is a cluttered menagerie of knickknacks and lavender candles and memories. It is a landmark curated and cared for and abandoned. Just like me. Like my mom.

Gigi isn’t my mom’s mom, she’s my dad’s. But he hasn’t been in any of our lives since he walked out the front door twelve years ago. All he bothered to leave behind was a cryptic note my mother won’t talk about and a man-sized chasm between us. My dad’s dad died before I was born, and my mom’s parents are Pentecostal snake handlers that speak in tongues and live about an hour west of Dollywood on the bank of the Tennessee River. We only talk to them around Christmastime.

Ever since my dad left, it’s just been us three. Three different shades from pale to deep brown, three generations, three dispositions, three women torn up from the inside with different ways of showing it. But it was good, even when it wasn’t. Even when I was stuck in the middle, their struggle to maintain control practically tearing me in two.

Not that it matters anymore, I guess.

I stomp across the stone pathway leading from the gardens and into the kitchen, the creaky metal storm door slamming shut behind me. The house doesn’t quite smell the same with her gone. A month and change without her puttering around the kitchen, apron pulled tight across her belly and flour-coated fingers powdering the crinkled edges of a cookbook, tsking at me when I get lost in a daydream while I’m supposed to be chopping the veggies.

I trail my fingers along the teal bookcase trimmed in scalloped edging, stuffed full of recipes from all over the world. Like my grandmother, I prefer to cook instead of bake. Cooking is art. There’s freedom in loose measurements and abundant seasonings. Baking is science, strict and unforgiving.

My mother prefers to bake.

Moving through the kitchen, I weave around the bustle of caterers and the harried-looking event coordinator and grab the trifold brochure from the island. The mourners are set to arrive within the hour.

Between the kitchen and the living room is a long, golden credenza where an ancient record player gathers dust. A small smile pulls at my lips as I close my eyes, visions of Gigi and me turning infinite circles, doubling over with laughter as Ella Fitzgerald and Nina Simone blasted from the crackling speakers, or of me hunched over my sketchbooks while Gigi stood at her easel by the window, the Carpenters singing about “Rainy Days and Mondays” as my mother sat in the living room, as she is now.

I’m silent as I cross the threshold, careful not to disturb her quiet sobs. It’s just something I’m used to—living along the boundaries of her emotions.

In the corner sits a stained-glass table with a small ceramic tray shaped like a hummingbird. Next to it is a hand-tiled frame holding a photo of Gigi and my dad. It’s old, probably from the late nineties. He’s tall like I remember, with a low fade and a heavy silver chain that lies over a black and blue football jersey. His pants are like three sizes too big. It’s a bit on the nose as far as Y2K fashion is concerned. I curl my top lip in disgust.

I stopped wondering where he went a long time ago. Because the who, what, when, where, and why of it doesn’t matter. He’s gone. He’s not coming back. We’re fine without him.

Or at least that’s what I’ve gotten used to telling myself.

Clearing my throat, I startle my mother, who whips her head toward me.

“Hey, honey,” she says, her voice wobbling.

I avoid looking at her swollen, red face.

Crossing the room, I lean down and plant a kiss on the top of her head. She smells like shea and coconut and that one perfume she bought at the mall a few years ago. I breathe her in as her fingers swipe the corners of her eyes. I wonder how many of these tears are for Gigi and how many are for herself.

Flopping on the couch across from her, I smooth the pages of the brochure against my lap and inspect the three unusually happy teens that grace the cover, their robotic smiles in stark contrast with the wrought iron backdrop.

Black Mountain Academy

Woven in swirls and loops, the iron flows in ripples like waves along the school’s gate, each finial tip ending in a severe point. And on either side, an eerie depiction of the mascot, the Black Mountain Wolves.