The Shadow Dreams

2 CHARLOTTE MILLER

2 CHARLOTTE MILLER

September 7

The first night in Monroe was rough. I took a taxi from the Hartsfield-Jackson airport in Atlanta, all the way into town. Given my present financial situation, it would have been more prudent to have taken the bus, but Mr. Holland was waiting for me, and I wanted to be there on time.

“Is this the only bag you have with you, ma’am?” The stocky cab driver lifted my small carry-on into the trunk of the car, craning his body to check behind me for more.

“Yes, it’s just the one for me, thanks.” I slid into the back seat, hoping for a quiet ride.

The driver hopped into the front seat and I passed him a slip of paper with an address printed in block letters.

“I’d like to go here, please.”

“Yes, ma’am. No problem.” He punched it into his navigation system, turned on some country music, and we were off. “So...” He started as he flashed a quick glance at me from his rear-view mirror. “... where are you visiting from?”

I really wasn’t up for chit chat but, not wanting to seem rude, I answered. “I’m moving here from Dallas.”

“Oh, wow. The Cowboys, huh? Nice. Welcome to Georgia. Wait, did you say you were moving here? You sure packed light.” He chortled.

“Yes, well... I guess I wanted a fresh start.” I forced my mouth into the shape of a smile and rummaged through my purse for my phone and ear buds.

“Ah, a fresh start. I like it. That’s good. It’s never too late.” He nodded his head in approval, shooting me a look in the mirror again, presumably to assess my age. “So, where are you staying in Monroe?”

“Actually, it's the place where you are driving me. The house was my grandmother’s. I never met her, but she left it to me in her will.” I popped my ear buds into my ears and scrolled through a list of podcasts on my phone, hoping the driver would take the hint.

“Oh, that’s sad. My condolences,” he said.

“Thank you.” I muttered as I thumbed for the play button.

“So, what kind of work do you do, ma’am?” The man was not one to pick up on social cues, that was for sure.

“I'm a psychologist,” I answered, instantly regretting telling him the truth.

“Really? Wow. You know, this one time...” I braced myself for the inevitable over-share. “... my cousin, Jose, thought he was possessed by the devil. He asked the church to give him an exorcism, but the priest told him he needed to talk to a therapist. Jose saw the therapist for about two weeks, but things got worse and my sister had to take him to the hospital. He was convulsing and screaming when she got him there. The doctors found an earwig that laid a bunch of eggs in his ear. When they hatched, they pierced through his eardrum and he went nuts! Haha. They took them all out, though. He was fine after that.”

“Well, it sounds like he received the help he needed. I’m glad your cousin is OK. Hey, I need to catch up on some of my files now. I’ll be listening to my audio and I won’t be able to talk. Is that okay?”

“Yes, ma’am. Of course,” he said, directing his full attention on the road ahead.

Thankfully, he didn’t speak another word until we stopped an hour later.

“Ma’am? Are you sure you gave me the right address?” the driver asked, looking at me, then out the window, then back at me.

I drew the crumpled legal papers out of my purse and read the address out loud, squinting at the crooked numbers on the house we had pulled up to.

“Is this Old Post Road?” I asked.

“It is.”

“Then I guess I'm home.” I stared at the building, but could not bring myself to get out of the car. I was about to be sick.

In its day, the 1840s plantation-style home would have been impressive. It had a wide, sprawling front entrance with double doors in the center and two large windows, each flanked by green shutters. There were four white pillars that stretched from the bottom porch and continued to the covered balcony on the second floor. I imagined this is where planters overflowing with ferns and periwinkle would have lined the banisters and cascaded down the front like a waterfall. This house might have been a dream back then, but today the massive wooden wreck was a complete nightmare. The lawn hadn’t been touched in years and had overtaken the steps to the front door. The overgrown trees and shrubs were collapsing from the weight of their own leaves. Ivy choked the white columns, snaking their way up to the second floor and along the broken shingles. I shuddered.

A person or thing left unloved for too long often became dark and bitter, but this house looked like something that had spiraled into madness. The grief and loneliness of this place was permeating through the windows. I could almost taste it. Wet moss and rot. I swallowed hard and tried to push the thoughts that were drawing parallels between this antebellum ghost of a house and my personal state of affairs from my mind. Not that I believed in fate or that the universe had a bias for irony. Still, I couldn’t help but wonder if men looked at me, a single woman of a certain age, the same way I was looking at this house. Do they see the cracks along my face and the sadness in my eyes? Do I, too, appear desperate and a touch mad? I reminded myself that this house was the first step on a path to getting my life on track. A knock on the taxicab’s back window startled me out of my daze, and I jolted.

“Ms. Miller?” A stout gentleman with round framed glasses and an unflattering suit peered through the glass.

I nodded my confirmation and paid the driver as the balding man removed my bag from the trunk. As soon as I stepped out, the driver sped off. That was rude.

“Ms. Miller, I’m Harvey Holland. It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m sorry it is under these circumstances. Inheritances are always bittersweet. I trust you had a pleasant flight.” He shook my hand.

“Please call me Charlotte. Yes, the flight was fine. Thank you for meeting with me here.”

“Oh, it’s no trouble at all. My office is just a few minutes down the road.” Harvey grinned, revealing a row of straight but small teeth. “So! These are for you.” He slapped at the pockets of his pants and pulled out a set of house keys. “And here are the remaining documents for your records.” He handed me a manila envelope that he had been holding under his arm. It was warm and slightly damp to the touch. I hoped he didn’t see me cringe.

“Thank you, I think.” I focused my attention back on my new home.

“I know it doesn’t look like much now, but this place was a beauty back in the day,” he said. I couldn’t hold back my grimace. “That’s the allure of Monroe. We remember our past through our architecture. With a bit of man-power, I’m sure you’ll have the old gal looking better than ever!” he nodded, as if to reassure himself. Man-power was an interesting choice of words. Sadly, I was fresh out. “I’d recommend staying in a hotel for a few days, though. You’ll need to call the city to get your electricity and water turned on,” Harvey continued. “You’ll likely want to have the pest control people out here, too. And the roofers, by the look of things.” He stepped back and looked the house over, squinting at the damaged shingles. My head spun and my chest tightened. This was not the fresh start I had imagined. “I can take you to the Red Roof Inn if you’d like. It’s only a few minutes from here.”

“That would be lovely. Thank you, Harvey. You’ve been so helpful,” I said.

And that is how I spent my first evening in Monroe. In a chain motel, crying my eyes out onto scratchy sheets, questioning every life decision that led me to this moment in time.