for Sochien

Trefethren1

Home Sweet Home

Valerri Trefethren

ENG-226

Kelly Reynolds

5/February/2022

She opens the car door and takes her first step onto the dark country soil of her new home. This is the place she has dreamed of since age eighteen. That age where you start to notice your surroundings and find out what disenchants you. For her, it was city life. No peace, no quiet, just bustling drunks and strip clubs. She hated it. Always dreaming of a time, she could afford to escape. Finding land with a small house in the center. A bucolic setting with white shutters and the endless aesthetic of a picket fence. Finally, her dream had come true. As she walks up to her new home and surveys the property it sits on, she begins to feel an overwhelming sense of déjà vu (tedious familiarity). Up until this point Mary had not seen the property in person, only through badly taken photos provided by the previous owner. An elderly woman, who would not allow visitors until she had vacated the premises. Mary had found that an odd detail at first, but the price was below her range, and she did not care to wait for anyone else to snag this six-acre gem before she had the chance. She felt a connection to this place but could not figure out why. Unbeknownst to her, the property differed from the awkward photos she had seen. There was no picket fence, no distinguishable property line, and a shed that stood forbidding off in the distance that made her uncomfortable. But not enough to strip her excitement of looking forward to some peace and quiet. She grabbed her first box and headed for the front door.

Once inside her senses were triggered again by a familiar smell of fresh lilac that made this place seem like a dream she once had. Her dream was of her as a child riding a bright orange Sting-Ray bicycle, she had always wanted one, and the smell of lilacs. Mary can never remember much else about her dream, except it made her feel happy. Snapping out of the hazy familiarity, Mary notices a note on the kitchen counter that reads “Home sweet home at last. Love Mrs. Blanchard.” Love, Huh? That old bat must have really wanted out of this place, Mary thought. She then shrugged off the note and continued to unpack and settle in for her first night home. As the sunset and the sky turned to dusk, Mary sat in her bed sipping some Chamomile tea in hopes of winding down for a good night's sleep. It had been a long and exciting day, and sleep was a much-needed process for Mary. From an early age, she had trouble sleeping and remembering things. She could not recollect anything before the age of seven. Her psychiatrist used to tell her she might be blocking out a traumatic event as a coping mechanism, and her memories might come back with age. Mary HAD tried to block out a lot of her younger days, in and out of foster care until she was seventeen. She always wished she could have found her birth parents. This was typically her last thought before dosing off to sleep each night.

The next morning Mary was awoken to the cliché and almost comical sound of a neighbor's rooster crowing, it was at that point she thought, better than sirens and people fighting in her old alley outside her apartment. Getting out of bed and feeling overwhelmed by all the unpacking she still had to do, she decided to go for a run around the property to get to know her new space. Lacing up her favorite pair of running shoes and throwing on a blue hoodie she headed out to explore. Mary was a runner back in the city, always cautiously only wearing one earbud to hear anyone approaching her. She loved crime tv and thought of herself as somewhat of an informed citizen in those respects. But, this morning, she was on her plot of land and felt comfortable listening to her music in both ears. As she jogged the handsome landscape, she came across a lilac garden and a big oak tree with the name ‘Blanchard’ carved into its silvery brown bark. Her mind went to the mysterious old lady who once owned the property I would have loved to have met— Mid thought Mary was caught off guard by how close she was to the shed she had noticed yesterday afternoon. She could have sworn it was further away when she last saw it. It was as if this shed was baiting her to come inside. Pausing her music, she reluctantly headed in that direction full of anxiety and curiosity.

Upon walking up to the shed's door, she noticed a padlock had been cut off and was discarded in the dirt below her feet, and a not-so-pleasant smell coming from inside. It seemed strange to lock an old shoddy shed such as this, but nonetheless, Mary took a deep breath and opened the door. To her horror, what she discovered was an elderly woman dead with what looked like a single gunshot wound to the head. Mary scrambled to maintain consciousness after slamming the door closed again. Could this be Mrs. Blanchard? she wondered. After a couple of exceedingly long minutes, she worked up the courage to investigate once more. Going in the second time she noticed a letter pinned to the old woman's chest that said “Mary.” It was now certain in Mary’s mind that this was the deceased body of Mrs. Blanchard. But why? Plucking up all her courage yet again to retrieve the letter, Mary began to question this experience; Why am I not scared? Why have I not run to the house and called the police? Why me? Shaking, she grabbed the letter off the woman's smock-style dress and ran from the shed until she could no longer run any further, then she collapsed.

Lying on the ground attempting to catch her breath and undertake all that had just happened she opened the letter. The letter read: “Your name is Maryanne Jay Blanchard; you were born on this very property. Your mother's name was Anne and she died during childbirth. Anne was a beautiful woman who I was proud to call my daughter when she and your father married. We all suffered when she passed. Anne was his world, and she had always dreamed of being a mother and him a father. Your dad, my son, Arthur, fell into a deep depression and blamed your mother's death on you. He became vicious and I became scared to leave you in his care, consumed by the sadness he turned to alcohol. As the years progressed it got worse. I tried my hardest to give you a happy childhood, even bought you a bright orange bike for your fifth birthday. You loved it. I genuinely believed in time your father would come around and love you as I had. Until one day I came home to you crying hysterically on the front porch, hiding under an old wicker table we used to have tea parties on. When I went inside the house my heart fell. My Arthur had taken his own life. I found him motionless clutching your mother's picture. From that day forward I could only see him when I looked at you. I loved you Maryanne, but I failed you. I decided you would be better off, or really, I would be better off, if you were away from all this tragedy. So, I left you. I left you on the steps of an old church in a city far away from here. I felt the need to punish myself with grief and at your expense. I have lived a life knowing the truth and it has consumed me with the very same sadness that took my son. I am sorry, my sweet Maryanne. Putting the house up for sale was a final attempt to rid my soul of the wretchedness that has lingered here so long, then I saw a response from a Mary that was around your age and from the city. My heart fluttered like it once did long ago and I had to know if it was my sweet Maryanne. When I mentioned needing your address to send photos of the house it was not because I really needed your address, but because I had to know if it was you being drawn back to this place. When I first saw you step out of your dingy apartment, I knew it was my little Maryanne all grown up, and I had to set this in motion. Twenty years of guilt and shame biting at my mere existence had caught up with me and my selfish nature tightened around me. I lowered the price of the house and sold it to you. Having every intention of living to tell you this story, but I am weak, and the bite of my shame took my last breath. I am sorry my sweet girl, and I love you.”

It was all that Mary could do but weep in disbelief after reading this confession. Through all her emotions repressed memories began to surface. Her dream about her bike was real, and it was one of the happy days she had on this property. She remembered her grandmother's name, Sylvia. She remembered planting the lilacs she had been so fond of and carving the family name in the tree with her father during one of his good moments. Mary wept. She felt hopeless. Like she was caught in a horrible dream longing to wake back up in her shitty city apartment. Feeling more alone than she had ever felt as an orphaned child, she decided to join her family in death. After all, Maryanne was finally home.