Looking for Me (28 page)

W
as it the release of Noah, his flight symbolic in marking the end of my family’s history at the farm, or was it the wildlife center’s being named after my brother that left me lost for gravity? Whatever it was, I arrived in Charleston feeling, for the first time since his disappearance, that Josh was truly gone.

Weeks rolled by, and though I kept up with my work schedule, a big part of me wasn’t fully present. Mistakes were made. I put the wrong hardware on drawers and forgot where I’d placed work orders. Twice I spilled cans of stain, and once I forgot to lock the front door at closing time. Then came the day when I painted an antique chair cerulean blue, only to be horrified when I realized it was the wrong chair.

I was spinning out of orbit and didn’t know how to stop.

In the gray months of winter, I began to hibernate. I’d curl up in bed after supper and stay there all night, the covers pulled to my chin as I listened to the hiss of the radiator. Often I’d awaken in the wee hours and stare at my brother’s photograph on my bedside table. There were times I’d dream of him, times I swore I smelled him. One bitter-cold January night, I woke to hear him whisper,
The horned owl keeps secrets.

The fog of grief had pushed its way into my life, blurring the hope I’d held for so many years. It was time to face the truth. My brother was dead, and he probably had been for a long, long time.

In December I began rising before dawn. Throwing a warm coat over my pajamas, I’d pull on my hat and gloves and take Eddie for long walks through the sleeping streets. It became a ritual, a meditation of sorts. Some mornings I’d walk all the way to White Point Garden, others I’d head toward the mists of the French Quarter. I had no planned routes, and it didn’t matter where I went. All I knew was that I had to keep going.

On the fifth of February, Eddie and I were out for our early-morning walk. It was my birthday, and it was unbearable. In my mind I could hear the collective voice of my family singing “Happy Birthday” around the kitchen table, and I could taste Mama’s five-layer coconut cake. With each step I grew more disconsolate, and by the time I’d walked around Colonial Lake, I had half a mind to just go back home, crawl into bed, and stay there for the whole day.

But Eddie seemed desperate to turn on Queen Street, so I obliged. He tugged on the leash and picked up speed as if tracking a scent. After we crossed Archdale, he stopped to sniff a tree lawn. While waiting for him to make up his mind on where we were headed, I noticed a tangle of vines spilling over a limestone wall. Attached to the iron gate was a red-and-white For Sale sign. I nudged Eddie forward so I could take a closer look.

Surrounded by untended gardens that had gone wild, the Greek Revival home was a depressed old place with blistered white paint, a sagging front porch, and cracked green shutters that hung askew. Two of the upstairs windows were boarded up, as if the house had closed its eyes in shame and whispered,
Look what’s become of me.

As I stood surveying the property and wondering how it had come to such ruin, I realized that unless I pulled myself together and found a way to ground myself into my life, I could end up just as sad and empty as that old house.

I thought about how low I’d fallen since my last trip to Kentucky, how I’d slipped into a state of seclusion that had drained color from my cheeks and left smudges of blue beneath my eyes. I also thought about how I had become a liar. Whenever Olivia asked me what was wrong, I told her I was overworked, that I had been fighting a sinus infection and needed lots of rest. I told her anything I could think of to keep her from asking questions. I didn’t want to talk about what it was like to face my brother’s death—not with her, not with anyone.

For the remainder of my walk, I thought about my long-held belief that everyone was offered a rite of passage. Mine had occurred at the age of eighteen when I’d released the clutch of that old Ford Falcon and rolled out of my parents’ driveway. But maybe we were offered a rite of passage many times throughout our lives, if only we were awake enough to see it. I arrived home knowing that I had to save myself from spiraling further, and while taking a long, hot shower I knew that it was time to make a phone call.

Later that morning I unlocked the side door to my shop and found Inez running invoices on the copy machine. I raised my voice and said, “Good morning, Inez.”

She turned off the machine. “Hi, Teddi. Happy birthday. I made you a pineapple upside-down cake. It’s in the kitchen, but Albert’s already eaten half of it.”

I laughed. “Thanks. I have a favor to ask. I know you’ve got a busy day, but I have an appointment at ten forty-five. I won’t be gone long. Will you watch the shop for me?”

“No problem.”

After opening the front door for business and cutting myself a piece of cake, I sat at my desk and made a few phone calls. When the hands of my watch read 10:25, I hoisted my handbag over my shoulder and walked out the door. I headed down Wentworth and turned on Smith, where old homes lined the streets, each with its own unique quirks and details. Some had wide, sweeping porches like the open arms of a favorite grandmother, others were tall and narrow, and a few were long neglected.

Within ten minutes I arrived at my destination, and just as I reached for the antique bell chime, the heavy wooden door swung open and a silver-haired woman gasped. “Oh! You scared me half to death.”

I extended my hand. “Hi, I’m Teddi Overman. I know I’m a few minutes early.”

“Judy McIntyre. Please come in. But I’ve got to warn you—it’s a mess. The cleaning crew was supposed to be here over the weekend, but they never showed up. Anyhow, I was just on my way to get a few things from my car. Feel free to look around. I’ll be back in a minute.”

The sound of my heels echoed through the empty house when I walked into the living room—or parlor, as it was called back when the house was built. Sunlight seeped through the dirty windowpanes and fell across the dusty hardwood floor. The high ceilings were framed by ornamental plasterwork that seemed in surprisingly good condition. Stepping to the fireplace, I ran my fingertips over the scrolled end brackets and dentil molding. Crafted of creamy white marble, the fireplace was a beautiful old thing in need of a thorough cleaning. To my right a pair of Doric columns flanked the entrance to the dining room. Sheets of cabbage-rose wallpaper hung loose from walls, revealing areas of cracked plaster and broken lath.

Retracing my steps to the foyer, I climbed the stairs to the second floor and nosed around. The largest of the three bedrooms had a fireplace and a set of tall French doors. After several tries I finally got them open and stepped onto a narrow piazza that ran the length of the house. The gray-painted floorboards were warped, and I could see signs of rot along the bottoms of several balusters. Below me was the side garden, or at least what once had been a garden.

From downstairs I heard Judy call out, “Hello! I’m back.”

Closing the French doors, I walked down the stairs.

“I’m sorry, I had to get my briefcase and some paperwork. As you can see, this house needs a lot of help. It’s been in the same family since it was built in 1867. Isn’t that amazing? The last owner was an eccentric spinster. The neighbors said she had that problem, I forget what they called it, but it’s when a person is afraid to leave their house.”

“Agoraphobia.”

“Yes, that’s it.” Judy flicked on the foyer lights and sighed. “Poor old thing, she wouldn’t leave the house, but she didn’t want anyone coming inside either. So whenever something broke, she just stopped using it.”

Judy pulled a folder from her briefcase and handed me an information sheet. “She passed away twelve years ago, and the house has been closed up ever since. There was a legal battle among the heirs, but now they’re ready to settle the estate. The house went up for sale a few days ago. You’re the first person to see it.” She let out a little laugh and added, “Other than me, you might be the first person to see it in fifty years. Let me show you around.”

Judy turned and walked down the hallway, sending a cloud of dust rolling across the floor. “This house has wonderful bones,” she said over her shoulder. “Have you seen the kitchen?”

“Not yet.”

“I won’t even try to make excuses for it. Last time it was updated was back in the twenties. But it has lots of natural light, and there’s a huge pantry.”

We entered the kitchen, and I laughed out loud when I saw the stove. “That’s a crazy kind of wonderful. My gosh, it’s the size of a Volkswagen!”

“And believe it or not, two of the burners still work. Now come see the pantry . . .”

I followed Judy all through the house, and though she jabbered too much and had far too many opinions, I liked her anyway. When we returned to the foyer, I stopped and looked up the staircase. “The bedroom next to the master would be perfect to convert into a combination bath and walk-in closet. I love the high ceilings and the layout of the rooms. But this poor old house needs total rehab. From what I can tell, all the mechanics are shot.”

“No question about it. I’ve been selling houses for twenty-nine years, and if ever I’ve seen a bargain, this is it. I can tell by the look on your face this isn’t the right home for you, but there’s a darling house over on Cannon Street that just went on the market,” she said, leafing through her file. “I have the spec sheet here somewhere. It’s on the small side, but—”

“I’ll take her.”

“Take who?”

I reached out and patted the wall. “The house.”

“You want
this
house?”

“Yes. So why don’t I go outside and pull the sign off the gate? I don’t want anyone else setting foot inside until she’s all fixed up. She’s embarrassed.”

Judy looked at me over the top of her glasses. “The house is
embarrassed
?”

“Yes, very embarrassed.”

Judy studied me. “If you don’t mind my asking, how many houses have you looked at?”

“This is the first.”

“Oh, my word! Let me show you others so you can do some comparisons.”

I shook my head and stepped into the living room. “Sometimes a person just knows.”

After work that evening, I met Judy at her realty office. Twice she asked if I was certain, saying I reminded her of her daughter, “smart but impulsive.”

I just smiled and signed the papers. Nothing she said could have persuaded me otherwise. That old house needed me just as much as I needed her. But more than that, I’d discovered something on the floor of the master bedroom’s piazza that had sealed the deal.

Before going to bed that night, I opened my handbag, dug out my coin purse, and removed the tiny talisman, so tiny, in fact, that I believe anyone else would have missed it. I held it to the lamplight by its quill. The feather was downy soft and tipped in bright yellow. I smiled as I remembered the four simple words my brother had written many years ago:
The goldfinch sends happiness.

In the end happiness is just what I got. The restoration, which took a crew of craftsmen nearly six months to complete, was more monumental than I could ever have anticipated. But it was worth the headaches and the “What was I thinking?
”
moments that go hand in hand with old-house renovations.