Lead me through the fog

It should have been the wrong number that called her that night. It should have been the police that got to her first. Anything would have been better than the number that shone across the drained glass of her phone.

Her parents were dead.

It was a drunken bastard who took ‘em. Said the voice on the other side; the voice of which she had moved across the country to avoid. They died on impact— I’m sorry Cat.

Then the police rang.

Two days and a foggy consciousness later, twenty-nine-year-old Christine Baker sat beside the owner of the voice. Seth Emerson kept a lazy hand on the steering wheel as he waited for the lights to switch. Christine watched from the side mirror as his stubbled jaw worked. They hadn’t spoken a word since he had picked her up from the airport, and from the way he gnawed on his lip she could tell that it was agitating him. Playing music would’ve helped their situation but any sound that waved from his car speakers would have made Christine feel as though she was celebrating instead of mourning. So they drove in bitter thick silence, with Seth eying the iced lanes like they were made of gold and Christine wishing that she’d insisted on getting an Uber.

Christine swore she wouldn’t return to Michigan. And she kept that promise for a solid decade up until the heartbreaking stop of today. The small town of Chelmsrey, only a few miles from Marquette, had not changed a hair since she’d left. The string lights Mr. Charleston had dressed his cafe with still hung haphazardly from their posts. Dina’s flower shop still boasted rain-washed bouquets, vibrant spray-tanned stems. Because a healthy stem is better than faded petals, the middle-aged lady would always say whenever Christine asked. Christine made a face, she supposed Dina was an older lady now. They passed by the high school. It was about that time when the cheerleaders would set up house and sell tickets to Prom. Chelmsrey High’s announcement board read in big yellow and red numbers the estimated population of two thousand souls.

The air was cold and dry when Seth opened her side door.

“I got it,” Christine muttered. Her voice came out clipped, it was the type of voice she used in the courtrooms when defending her clients. Seth shoved his hands deep into his flannel, his muscles taught from beneath the crisscrossed fabric. Their brown eyes met when Christine rose to her full height. He’d definitely gotten taller since the last time she’d seen him,  at least a head and a half above her. And regrettably, he had grown more attractive, which, if Christine had become a Constitutional Lawyer, she would’ve made illegal. Seth slipped on a sheepish smile that warmed her insides.

“Ope, sorry, habit.” He busied himself with matters in the trunk and Christine turned her attention to the two-story house before her. She let out a trembled breath. Warm mist steamed from her sorrows as childhood memories flooded her with each inhale. Part of her thought that if she walked in, her mother would greet her. Her paint-stained fingers from years of craft intertwining with Christine’s manicured ones. Her father would salute from his potter’s lathe, thin but ever big glasses slipping down his nose.

The house, like the rest of the town, looked exactly the same. Bright trinket sun yellow sidings and earl gray shingles hanging low over a furnished porch. She walked up the steps in a solemn daze, she zeroed in on the thick wooden door sporting a sign that read: Hello Neighbor!  She caressed the worn sign, the paint had started to peel from surrendering to the long years and harsh weather. Christine tramped to the porch cushion and stuck her hand underneath the third square. A key waited for her, the spare that her parents had kept there for the past twenty years. It wasn’t as much for safety reasons rather than a simple forgetfulness or a bored neighbor who wanted to stop by. Everyone knew where they kept that key. Thinking back now, Christine worried about the danger her parents could’ve been in if the key fell into the wrong hands. It didn’t matter now though, she thought, her parents didn’t need protection anymore.

Seth made his way up the steps with her luggage in tow and she hurried to unlock the door. Instant regret and sadness filled her. The smell of acrylic paint and clay polishers smacked her in the face the moment she opened the door. The house hadn’t set in, hadn’t forgotten the memory of its owners. It was like they were still there, their invisible bodies still traversing the halls as if nothing had happened. Her breath caught in her throat. She wasn’t sure if she could do this; if she could live in this house for a week, preparing for the funeral, packing away their fresh belongings.

“It’ll be okay, Cat.” Christine felt Seth’s hand on her shoulder and she stiffened. Disgust forced away the sadness and she focused on her pure hatred for him. Seth wandered his way into her parent’s kitchen and pulled out two beers. It was only then she smelled the nauseating scent of his cologne. Spiced pinewood. It was the same one he’d used since freshman year in high school. It was all over the house, ingrained in the upholstery just like the wayward paint stains. She narrowed her eyes at Seth as he handed her the cold bottle. “Did you eat?” His thick accent molded all the words into one and it sounded more like Jeet?  “Mrs. Baker made pasties.”

“Have you been staying here?”

“Do you want me to take your bags upstairs? Or are you going to stay down at Logan’s?” There was a small motel at the corner of town where teens liked to sneak out to and travelers liked to camp. No one remembered the name except the tourists, so all the locals just referred to it as Logan’s.

“Seth, answer me.” Christine spotted a faded college hoodie and held it up. “You have, haven’t you?”

“I’ve been looking for that all over… I forgot I lent it to Mrs. Baker.” his face dimmed to a saddened smile.

“Seth.”

“No Cat,” he took a swig from his beer. Christine pursed her lips at his constant use of that infuriating nickname. “Because God forbid I step on Baker’s property…”

“Yet you’re always here,”

“I can’t help that your parents love me—loved me.” Seth frowned. She too was still getting used to using the past tense.

“Well,” Christine set down her bottle on a small table. Glass clinked against glass, taking the brunt force of her ire. “I appreciate you driving me out and all, but I can take it from here.” She checked her phone hoping he would get the hint.

“If you need anything I’m right next door. It’ll be just like when we were kids.” Seth shot her one of those easygoing smiles he always kept handy and Christine was caught off guard.

“You still live next door?”

“Yeah, my folks left it to me a few years ago. They’re over by the bridge now.” Christine nodded, tapping the bottle to her lips as if she was pocketing the information to memory. She waited again hoping the silence would push Seth out instead of her. Soon enough her neighbor got the hint and dismissed himself on the lines of an excuse she was sure he made up.

At last, she was alone with her thoughts. Her mind raced with a checklist of activities she needed to finish before the end of her stay. There was the house to list on the market and things to be packed away. There were flowers to be picked and caskets to find. Endowments were to be made and…

Christine couldn’t finish her train of thought before the fog started to roll in.  It grappled her senses and numbed her pulse. Beer-scented waves took her to a place where life didn’t hurt anymore and she gladly welcomed it. She didn’t need to think about what needed to be done just yet. Christine would float across the foggy waves for a while, and then she would get work done.

As it turned out grief had its way of spelling out its own terms, rather than following the ones set by the host. Christine had managed to schlep herself and her bags up the stairs and into her childhood room where she had stayed for three days straight. She had drifted into a routine of periodic sleep and bathroom breaks when she wasn’t gingerly nibbling on her mother’s pasties with blurred pupils.  Her phone continued to explode with unanswered calls from relatives and friends who had heard the news. Christine drowned them out with the feathers in her pillow and traversed her way into the painless world of slumber. It wasn’t until the fourth day that her routine was shattered.

“Cat? Are you in here?” Seth snuck into Christine’s dreams causing her to groan in groggy vexation. His hand cupped her shoulder, nudging her into the world of the conscious. “Cat…” his voice was low and calming. She hated how it made her feel safe and how her skin burned from his touch.

“Stop calling me that.”

“Then stop acting like a cat.” He looked around at her faded room and his annoyingly understanding smile crept onto his lips once more. “The funeral home called, said they haven’t heard from you— told them you probably slept all day— but you know, we were worried…” He trailed off, leaving a lake of dark excuses between them. Christine dragged her hands over her face, forcing herself to confront reality. She knew she couldn’t wallow in bed forever.

“I’ll call them today. I just…” she pressed her palms deeper into her sockets, pinching the fog away, “I’ll call them today, okay?”

“I took care of it for you,” Seth said as he pulled her to her feet. “Come here, I made breakfast—well, coffee anyways.” Christine didn’t argue, instead, she followed on cold feet down to the kitchen. She raked a hand through her curls trying to tame them into obedience. “So what else ya got on the list for today?” Seth asked once she had finished her mug.

“Packing.” She had to find the list of items her parents would be buried with. She vividly remembered her father saying how he would love to be buried with the things he admired and she was determined to fulfill his wish. Christine sat down the mug and fingered her hair again. Seth watched her from his leaned back stance on her counter. Their eyes met and her neighbor reddened before covering his face with a mug of his own.

“Imuna get the boxes from the attic. Ya gonna need more than two hands to get everything done in time, eh?” He jogged away, leaving Christine to piece together the fact that she wasn’t going to get rid of him that easy; and to understand why part of her was happy he was going to stay.

Seth kept coming by to help with packing and funeral planning. Christine, even though he found ways to get under her skin, enjoyed being with her neighbor. It felt as though he was the only color of normalcy she could hold onto. They had fallen into somewhat of a routine with Seth keeping a mostly one-sided conversation going. He gave her the long rundown of what she missed over the past decade. Christine would respond with the occasional sarcastic remark and then Seth would plow into another long story about one of the townsfolk.

“Oh, Cat! Lookit,” Seth exclaimed, leaning over to showcase a horribly drawn portrait of a woman. Christine stiffened before trying to grab the canvas. Seth dangled it over her head, marveling at the chicken scratch markings. “Remember when Mrs. Baker was tryna teach us how to draw?”

“How could I forget?” That was one of the worst days of her life. It was only second to the day when she told her parents she wanted to pursue law instead of art; that was when they truly lost all respect for her.

“Please tell me you have better skills now?”

“Nope, can’t even draw a stick figure.” Seth burst into a bout of laughter. It was the kind that had him rolling on the carpet and clenching his gut. She didn’t see what was funny. The more he laughed the more irritated she got. She caught a glimpse of the framed sketch that Seth did. The drawing was of the same lady, but somehow he was able to make her look like a living goddess. Her parents hadn’t even bothered to paste hers on the fridge. “Cut it out.” She left the man child to catch his breath and snipped the drawing from his fingers. He rolled over to his back and stared up at her with a lazy smirk.

“Remember how Mrs. Baker kept saying how we had to feel the art and we took her literally.” Her back to him, Christine bit back a smile. She did remember. Seth kept brushing the tip of the brush against his cheek and by the end of that afternoon, they were all covered in paint. She remembered how they had to spend hours under hot water to get the acrylic from beneath their nails. Christine made a beeline for his art and threw it into a nearby box. The walls felt bare without the art of parents but a sigh of relief left her as a result of it. She wanted nothing more than to finish packing up the house so she could list it for rent and head back to California.

“I don’t have time to go down memory lane, we need to pack as much away before the realtor comes.” Seth sat up straight, brown eyes wide.

“Whaddya mean realtor?” Christine sealed up the boxes with tape. She moved through the house, a snowstorm in mid-July, taking vases and trinkets and tossing them into boxes. “Cat, you can’t be thinking of selling?” Seth followed her, his voice was dark and tight.

“My life is back in California, I can’t deal with the upkeep.”

“But this is your parent’s house, your childhood home, Hell, even mine!” Christine stopped in her tracks. She kept her gaze firmly on the framed placard above the fireplace. It was her adoption certificate and next to that was a photo of her two-year-old self in the arms of her parents. Her dark brown skin stood out against the pale peach of theirs. It was her in that photo and not Seth. She whipped around to face him,

“You had a childhood home! 217 Oak Grove Road, not here!  You have no say in this!”

“Christine… just think about what you’re doing here.” Seth breathed. The room around her drained itself of the little color she had left in this world. The fog came rushing back at full speed. Air trickled from her lungs.  Seth took a step closer and she put her hands up, keeping him at bay. She didn’t like how his face mirrored all the uncertainties she had about selling. Christine pushed past him, tossing more and more into boxes. All around her were photos of him and her parents. Her cheeks heated the more she spotted Seth weaseling his way into her family. He had spent nights at their cottage and dinners at Christmas and Easter. He had even tagged along to their father-daughter fishing trips. For every breath she took, the burning stain of Seth’s presence wrenched her parents further away from her. Even in death, she was still the second-best child. She swiped the photo books and frames from the fireplace mantle, eyes stinging with salt tears. “So many memories have been made here, you can’t be willing to throw them away.”

“You don’t understand,”

“You’re right I don’t.” He took her hand and pulled her towards the door.

“What are you doing? Let go of me!”

“Showing you what you’re leaving behind.” His jaw was set and blond brows furrowed. Then she was in his pickup truck again. “John Louis park,” Seth pointed to the dethawing pond amidst benches full of pastel moms and jubilant kids. “Mr. Baker took us there to sketch and play pond hockey.”

“Yeah, and you hit me square in the head with the puck.” Christine snapped.

“I said sorry--” Seth looked at her sheepishly, and despite her anger, her heart did a small flip. “Lookit, the diner! Remember how we got milkshakes practically every Saturday because Mrs. Baker for the life of her couldn’t figure out how to make one?”

“You guys always wasted time by sketching still-lifes instead of actually drinking them.” Seth huffed and sped the truck forward.

“Melissa’s Art Corner. We had the best memories there.”

“With my parents… I was always forced to come along.”

“Then what about the baseball field?” Seth asked after they drove through various milestones of their childhood. The wheels rumbled on frosted gravel and into the parking lot of the old field. Christine remembered the roaring games she would watch from the sidelines. She remembered a young Seth flying through the bases like an eagle. His legs turned into wings kicking up storms of dust. His and her parents would fly out of their seats meeting him halfway to victory, while she sat, still grounded, with a book in hand, occasionally looking up to catch his golden smile. Christine glared at Seth. She hated how the more and more he made her remember, the more he was sewn into the memory of her parents.  With his charming smile and immaculate art skills, he had stolen them away from her. The more she stared at that field and anything around Chelmsrey, the more she wanted to burn all the bridges down.

“I don’t give a damn about the baseball field or the art corner! None of this is gonna change my mind.” Seth let out a dry laugh,

“I thought you’d lost it,”

“What?” But she knew what he meant.

“It’s like ever since you left you’ve been tryna hide that you're from the midwest. Your accent, your mannerisms… like you're ashamed…”

“Jeepers cripes— Just because I’m selling the house doesn't mean I’m ashamed!”

“Then why are you doing it? Tell me one good reason,”

“I don’t have to say anything to you.” The air around them sparked. “Take me back,” Christine said through gritted teeth.

“You’re making a mistake,”

“You have no blood right to dictate what happens.”

Seth gripped the wheel until his fingers turned white, but his neck was red with frustration. “Well, neither do you.” The spark that had them gravitating fizzled and Christine snapped back.

“I don’t want to see you ever again.” She bawled her fist to keep from slapping him senseless. Her accent came out thicker than his as she seethed. Seth’s face fell with a horrific realization.

“Cat wait—I didn’t mean—” She yanked open the side door and hopped out of the truck. Seth jogged after her but she shrugged him off.

She bit her lip when her voice began to crack. “Screw off.”

By the time she walked home, her neighbor’s words had set in along with the sinking emptiness of truly being alone. Her parents’ house echoed with the chilling intonations of disappointment. She wasn’t an artist like her parents. She didn’t see the world in color as they had. She didn’t sit around wasting her days in overly expensive paints and clays. She was a woman of the people, a political servant to provide justice for all. She wanted, needed, to make a change, and art wasn’t going to do that.

Christine threw down her coat sunk down to the hardwood. Her parents, and Seth for that matter, never understood what she was trying to do. They saw her as the all-work-no-play-girl who sucked out all the fun. She remembered the faces of her parents when she told them she was going to pursue law. She could never wash away the hint of disgust they hid under their concerned smiles.

They’re so many lawyers already… you sure the world needs one more? Her mother had asked. Christine covered her mouth as a sob escaped her chest.

Why don’t you consider graphic design, like Seth? Her father had suggested. They were always comparing her to Seth. Seth this. Seth that. It was never time for Christine. The adoption certificate caught her eye. It read that her parents had picked her to be their child. She was supposed to fulfill all their hopes and dreams. She was supposed to be the flicker that flamed their eyes. Instead, Seth was that child. Seth was the one truly adopted into their family and traditions. Seth got to have two sets of parents while she could barely grapple onto one. Her body trembled as sob after sob racked her.

“I'm sorry mom and dad. I’m sorry I couldn’t be the daughter you wanted.” Christine wept.

The next few days Christine moved with a mechanical numbness. She wandered aimlessly through the fog her mind had created. Seth had come by a few times but Christine shunned him away until he stopped trying. Her phone’s ringtone reverberated through the walls of her head. It was the realtor calling about their appointment. She ignored it and the house went silent for about two minutes before her phone rang again. This time it was the funeral home. She ignored that too. Christine dove into packing away the things in her childhood room and living room. Each item she put in a box felt as though she were erasing another mark Seth had left on her life. She expected weight to lift off her shoulders, instead, she sunk deeper into the fog of distress.

Somehow she found herself reopening a box labeled Photos. Christine thumbed through the endless analog images of her childhood. She searched the past for ways to forgive her parents for not finding her worthy, but she came up flat. Her breath caught on one photo in particular. She and Seth stood in front of the fireplace, getting ready for prom. The camera caught her red eyes. S-=he had been crying that night. She didn’t have a date at the prom because her boyfriend ruthlessly broke up with her a week before. Her dad was happy since he not-so-secretly wanted Seth to be her date, but it was Seth who threw pebbles at her window until she mustered enough confidence to attend.

Come on, we’ll make him jealous together. Seth smirked as he offered her his arm. Christine snapped the photobook shut as her cheeks warmed. She threw the book, remembering his words from before, and anger returned to consume her. Her body moved without warning and she suddenly found herself banging on her neighbor’s door. Seth leaned against the doorframe, his eyes were ablaze with unread emotion.

“What.”

“I hate that every memory I have—every time I think about my parents, it’s like I’m tethered to your shadow. I can’t draw, I’m not some carefree graphic designer like you—like my parents wanted,” Christine gripped her curls as thorned tears budded. “My life isn’t in color, it’s been black and white since they left, and— I couldn’t—I just,” her tongue overflowed with emotions Christine couldn't make sense of.

“Cat I—”

“It’s you!” Again her body moved before her brain could catch up. She pounded his chest, tumbling into him. “It’s you they should’ve adopted, they didn’t want me…” Seth caught her wrists, and she looked up at him through blurry vision. “They didn’t want me, they didn’t—”

“Don’t. Say that.” Seth's voice was low and harsh but oddly soft. “Mr. and Mrs. Baker loved you more than God above. They were always saying how much of a change you’re making, the work you do with those families and their kids, you inspired them to be better— you inspired me to be better.”  His words were the lighthouse guiding her from the fog. His voice warmed her frozen bones and his touch seeped color back into her vision.

“But,” Christine breathed,

“Look, I never meant to get between what you guys had,” He sighed, looking away. “Part of me, I guess, liked how they were so welcoming—I didn’t get much attention at home, you know with Bonnie being in and out of the hospital—and I know that doesn’t make up for what you went through, but I’m sorry.” Christine felt sour for forgetting that he was going through his own mess.

“Cripes, Seth,” the air between them heated as they realized how close they were to each other’s lips. Christine sucked in a breath and Seth cleared his throat. Reluctantly they pulled apart into a loose embrace.

“Lemme show you something.” He led her into his living room and handed her a wrapped canvas. “Your parents had dropped this off right before the accident.” Christine took the large painting and unwrapped it slowly. Low and behold her, face stared back at her, peeking from the colorless fog. In the distance beyond the lake was the proud light of a lighthouse. “See, you were always on their minds even two-thousand miles away.” She saw the slave she’d been to her doubts. There were chains of the fog lulling her to resent her parents for doting Seth, and the light of her parents beaming from the giant bulb. They guided her, calling out their love for her. She looked up at Seth and smiled her first smile since the accident. “They have a lot of similar pieces down at the hospitals and adoption centers back in the city. All the profits go towards the Together We Rise charity.” Christine couldn’t believe what she was hearing. All this time she thought lowly of her parents, thinking she was the only one trying to make a change. Guilt pierced her heart and she wondered if she would ever be forgiven for her doubts.

“I guess I win the award for worst daughter, eh?”

“I think that can be revoked if you don’t sell…” Christine let out a small laugh and thumbed the precious strokes of the canvas. She couldn’t imagine selling anymore, she planned on keeping what was left of her parents.

“Thank you.” She took his hand in hers as their gazes locked. “For everything.”

Seth kissed her hair as he led her through the fog.