Letting Go
BY KATIE GEORGE
Letting Go
Katie George
Copyright 2016 Katie George
Dedicated to none other than my baby sister.
Chapter One
Sarah
THE CAR RATTLED down the road like a half-dead serpent. It sputtered like the sound of a wheezing man, the chipped red paint on its body the color of American blood. The make and model did not matter, but what did matter was the fact that after eight months at college in California, Sarah Towson was back, riding home with her crazy grandpa in a car from the ’50s, heading straight to Breezewater, Georgia, from the airport in Savannah. Sarah was as happy as a baby getting its ears pierced, but her emotions only stirred in the inside. On the surface, a broad smile painted Sarah’s lips as she allowed the wind to stir her light brown hair.
Breezewater only reminded her of how much she hated growing up. She had been the typical loner, albeit with a few close friends, but she preferred Friday nights hunkered under starlight rather than parties with kegs, or even hanging out with friends in general. She was not a tea or coffee drinker; she hated shopping, but adored politics. Sarah liked God, but hated theology. She was not your typical nineteen-year-old college kid, but her parents loved her, and she didn’t mind herself, either.
In fact Sarah Towson was the apple of her parents’ sea-blue eyes. They had always wanted to leave their Podunk world for a bigger bite at America, but their attempts left them with nothing but Breezewater. It was like a leech, the town of Breezewater; it sucked and sucked until it took all the blood from its victim. There was something about it that some people adored, but for people like Sarah, even the mention of her hometown brought suffering and smothering.
It was on this day, the day of return, that they would see their daughter, for whom they had dutifully pooled their money so she could attend school far, far away. They understood her reasoning for the complete opposite side of the country, because if they weren’t so scared, they would leave too. But it was not that simple. Scott Towson’s dad lived in town, and he had given the company to his son, which offered a reasonable living, even opulent by Breezewater standards. Therefore, they lived in Breezewater, which was close enough to Savannah and Tybee Island.
It was a beautiful little town, not far from a few bigger coastal towns. It was on the gold beaches of the Atlantic, with gutsy swamps and more drama than a college play. Verdant, colorful gardens shaded large, ancient Southern homes. Low-hanging trees and Spanish moss provided a canopy over old fountains denoting a heyday most had never seen. Only a mile away, the deep waters of the Atlantic touched the Earth. Most people never left, because it was one of those towns; it was peculiarly Southern and peculiarly conservative, but this was to be expected.
Her thoughts drifted to high school, back to the friends she’d accrued there. She had made the thirty-minute drive every morning and afternoon to and from the private school in Savannah she had attended. It was small, with seventy or so in a class, but she’d hated it and wished for something more populated, which explained California’s allure, but also its venom.
Grandpa Rob scratchily yelled above the roar of the wind, “Your momma is just so excited to see you!”
Which explains why neither she nor Dad were at the airport to pick me up, Sarah thought. She knew her parents loved her, and they were by no means absent—they did pay for her college. But the relationship had become strained since Sarah left, which only added to the nerves pounding her core. She was nervous to see her family, which was weird. She should be excited.
“Yeah, it’ll be interesting,” she offered, her voice straining to be heard.
“And your sister, too. She’s thrilled.”
Somehow I doubt that. Sarah was not a pessimist, but she felt like one. Her sister Alison was six years older and already married by now, with a baby on the way. Their relationship was never great, but after a year separated, they had barely spoken. Sarah knew they were blood kin, but at times she doubted this fact.
She also knew her Grandpa Rob would not mention Zach. He never did.
“You know, Grandpa, how’s Dad been doing?”
Her grandpa asked, “What? My hearing’s gotten even worse, sugar.”
“Is Dad okay?” Sarah screamed this time.
Grandpa Rob nodded in a flashy manner. “Oh, yeah, yeah! He’s perfect. He’s been going to therapy, with your mom and not, and their relationship is going really well.”
Sarah bit her tongue. She doubted the truth in this, which caused even more downcast shadows to fill her mind. Though the sun brightly shone above them, tinging the tree leaves, it seemed sepia-toned, gray and brown.
Sarah stopped talking, but her grandfather continued singing like there was nothing wrong in the world. In a few minutes, Sarah knew, they’d see the hint of ocean after this long drive through the forest. Grandpa Rob had taken the scenic route, which added ten minutes to the trek, but Sarah appreciated this. She did not necessarily want to arrive home yet.
The air was salty like California, but a hint of difference was noted by her nostrils. Her eyes had become accustomed to the ocean, so when it appeared before her like a blanket of blue, she did not necessarily care. It was the norm, and always had been, while for others it might be considered a miracle. She only saw drowning when she looked at it. She fingered the pearl necklace dangling around her neck.
Then they were cruising past beach houses, so close together in perfect little rows. It reminded her of Malibu, except these houses cost a fortune less, and mountains did not jut out along the coast like a heavenly specter. Instead, the greenery behind was like a head of thick, emerald hair.
When they entered town proper, a flicker of enthusiasm drained into a bucket of nerves. Sarah shifted in her seat before pulling her long, thick hair into a ponytail. She breathed through her teeth, not exactly sure if she was ready for this next step or not. She had been able to handle life in Southern California all by herself, so how could Breezewater be more challenging than that?
They curtailed the little town itself, instead taking the coastal road to the south, before turning westward in anticipation of the small, affluent subdivision the Towsons claimed home. The subdivision contained about twenty or so homes near the million-dollar mark, most of the owners working in Savannah of course. The real selling point of the subdivision was the five-minute drive to the beach, along with private access to a lake filled with bass fish.
They entered the drive for June Villa Estates, passing four homes before the Towson property. Every lawn was perfectly manicured and the brightest shade of green, just like Sarah remembered. The landscaping was magnificent, like something out of a gardener’s dream, the scent of honeysuckle demanding Sarah’s utmost attention. The large magnolia in front of the Towson mansion was bigger than she’d remembered, and she gazed at the large white blossoms, some brown from an abundance of rainfall.
Grandpa Rob parked the convertible into the driveway with ease. Sarah did not see any cars home, nor did she expect her father to be home yet. She grabbed her two suitcases from the back, those containing her most prized possessions. She’d mailed her other things home already, and the rest of her stuff was in a storage cubicle she was sharing with some other college friends from out-of-state.
She opened the side door to the Tudor-style mansion, entering the house that had always felt homey, but was not exactly home to her. Her mother had been intent on keeping the house prim-and-proper all the time, and it had been photographed in an Atlanta-based magazine a few years back, especially for the infinity pool out back surrounded by hundred-year-old oaks. It was a haven for animals, this property; but with only an acre of land, Sarah wasn’t sure how open it really was. Though she was used to clumped and a lack
of privacy, she did not feel accepted or comfortable in her childhood home. Eerily, the place smelled like a combination of roses and lemons, which Sarah associated with hotels. She wondered if this house had been reduced to a fleeting hotel for her, and she was saddened.
When they entered the spacious kitchen, complete with golden granite countertops and the latest appliances, Grandpa Rob called out, “Helena? Anyone home?” When no one responded, he shook his head and scrunched his lips. “Well, I don’t know what to tell ya. Maybe they thought we’d get here later than we did. I can help take your stuff upstairs, dearie.”
“Oh, no, don’t worry about it. I’ll just make myself at home. Are you going to stay for a little while?”
Grandpa Rob was a retiree and had nothing more to do except socialize with anyone he deemed fit. In fact, he’d had enough of his granddaughter and was ready to hit the coffee shop two miles away, in the new shopping district, where an elderly woman named Joan Richards frequented. Grandpa Rob was known as a womanizer to the elderly female crowd, and Joan Richards had been shy around him, but he wanted to change that perception. If Joan wasn’t around, he’d strike up a conversation with a local, or even an out-of-towner.
“Honey, I’m going to go out. I’ll catch up with you and the gang a little later. Call me if you need anything, okay?” He reached up to kiss the beautiful girl he called his kin. He bragged about her to all his friends and rivals. My granddaughter is in California, and she’s even dating a millionaire’s son, he’d say, though he was known to exaggerate everything anyone told him. Plus, he did not necessarily enjoy the fact that Sarah was nearly an inch taller than his five-foot-seven stature. He’d shrunk in the past few years, a symptom of aging.
Sarah nodded, relieved. She would head upstairs, unpack, and pretend to make this place her home again. This time, though, her childhood guinea pig was buried in the ground, her best friends were far away, and her favorite person in the world was locked up in a schoolroom or wherever he was.
She struggled to carry the bags up the sweeping staircase in the foyer, but managed, and found her room—used to capacity only a year ago—to have been completely revamped into a sewing and design room. Sketches littered the walls, along with fabrics of all colors and types. Tulles and laces were draped over a settee, while a few examples of finished dresses were strewn around the room. Sarah suppressed the tears, because it was as if she had been erased, but this was to be expected. She had been home for Christmas, and that time, she’d cried. Not today.
She gently walked to the guest suite nearby, setting her luggage on the ground before turning to see Zach’s messy room. Clothes were balled on the floor, a site reminiscent of his sister’s dorm room, and the bed was not made. Pictures lined his wall. They were drawings he’d created in art class of the ocean, the ultimate dog he’d been asking for years, and even one of Sarah herself. Her eyes widened at the photo of the two of them on his wall. They stood together in front of a ride at Disneyworld, and it was quite grainy and old. Sarah still had braces in the shot, and Zach looked to be about seven or eight. Sarah couldn’t help crying then.