Fly Away Home

Chapter 6

The charred scent of peaches invades my conscience like smelling salts. A coffee jingle about filling your cup to the brim every day replaces soothing music on the radio. I peel back the curtain with nervousness. It's all gone, including that mystifying man. My heartbeat is out of sync with everything surrounding me. How long have I been adrift in this unfamiliar state?

I recognize the shrill coming from my phone only after the third ring. I should thank the person on the other end. Without it, I may have responded to the smoke seeping through the oven door a little too late.

"Hello?" Out of breath, I have exerted no physical activity to warrant it.

"Claire Bear?" I haven't heard that name in years. Why does this ride through life feel like a sadistic combination of roller coaster and funhouse? The monotonous climb followed by a breathless fall is nauseating enough. But the assortment of trick mirrors and shifting floors only adds to the confusion. Are there any straight-and-level pieces on this journey? The dizzying effects keep me from reorienting myself when I need it the most.

"Hello, Russell." I don't use his childhood nickname, Stover. He was the sweetest big brother a sister could dream of while growing up. We never talked about what happened behind closed doors with our abusive mother. But he was always there to refocus my attention on something more positive.

I turn off the oven, retrieve my baking disaster from inside it, and crack the window. A faint drift of smoke dissipates through the gap. It stays open this time without a need for the wooden spoon. The house seems to know there's too much to handle in this moment, and it has little to do with the mess in the kitchen.

I might as well take another look. Craning my neck both ways, I hope to catch a final glimpse of him. Nothing. The phone cord wraps around me like a lasso, pulling me back into the present.

"Claire? Are you okay?" Am I okay? Why didn't he call to ask that while forced to sift through piles of boxes with bad memories by myself? Cynical thoughts bubble to the surface, but my soft-hearted center prevails. Could he be calling to apologize?

"I'm all right. Getting by." The internal walls rise, a self-defense mechanism in the form of short answers. It's easier to leave that extra space, where words normally go, to assess the situation. I did it with Hank and Lydia in the beginning. Trust is an elusive thing to grant when the rug has been pulled out from beneath you so often in the past.

"Donna gave me this number, but she didn't say much. Just that you were off on a quest to find yourself or something. Was there any damage back home? I saw that a wicked storm passed through Virginia earlier in the week."

Tumultuous weather manifests itself in many ways. I've been so consumed with establishing my new life in Georgia. I haven't shared my decision to move with anyone but those directly affected. My former boss and roommate. Am I a hypocrite? I hold it against Russell for not staying in touch with me, but I'm doing the exact same thing.

"I'm not in Virginia." He already knows this, but how do I divulge the details of my choice? It still doesn't make complete sense to me.

"Have you finally embraced the merits of a vacation, an escape from the daily monotony of your routine?" I'm searching for more of that uniform repetition, not less. Only in a different and more secluded place.

"I moved to Georgia." I blurt it out. There's no other way. It spills from my mouth in a slightly more elegant fashion than the burnt peach tart coming out of the oven.

"Georgia? Why?" I notice the genuine confusion in Russell's voice. Little sisters can always tell, even after drifting apart from their sole sibling. I hear his silent thoughts percolating beneath the surface. That coffee ad replays in my mind. The slow drip of assumptions fills a cup I'd rather dump down the sink.