A cold wind blew across the Delta. The burned fields smelled of freshly plowed earth. Winter cloaked the land, leaving the normally lush landscape painted with a dull watercolor wash of gray and brown. The only movement was a lone car headed south down a dusty dirt road toward an abandoned old house.
The slamming of the car’s door scattered a handful of quail. She looked up on the rise and saw the old house. It was empty now — but she still felt this journey was necessary. The house, like her family, had once been the talk of the county. Her father, a banker had been beloved in the community. Her mother also was equally well-thought of around town. But Janna knew the truth. She had spent her whole life keeping her parent’s secrets from being revealed.
She walked up on the porch and looked around. Weather had stripped much of the paint off. Birds had nested and windows were broken. Time had exposed the old home’s weaknesses — much like her family’s. Janna had flown in from Boston to take one last look at the old place before it was sold.
So many memories. So many that weren’t good.
“We sure miss your folks,” the customer said when Janna was recognized in Turnrow books in town. “The town hasn’t been the same. They sure were good people.” Janna did what she always did. She agreed — it was a little white lie that fixed the crack.
But there was a price to pay for those lies. Janna walked into the back door and into the kitchen. She looked at the notches on the door frame. Her growth was marked in neat little lines. That line was when she was eight. That’s when her mother accused her father of the affair. The next line was when she was nine. That’s when he had his heart attack. The next line was six months later when her mother started drinking. The next was when Janna basically ran the house. Each line represented a farther distance from her childhood.
Her self-esteem died by the time the last line was notched on the doorway. She was 13 going on 40. That’s when Janna’s childhood officially died. And that’s when her facade was created. Janna the brave. Janna the smart. Janna the tough.
It was more like Janna the devastated.
She walked up the stairway. The house’s poor foundation had caused massive cracks in the walls — just like the cracks in her own facade. Each step creaked as she walked up it .The house was empty — well except for one thing. And Janna was on a mission to retrieve it.
Her old bedroom still had its faded, pink peeling wallpaper. She thought about the nights she had laid in bed dreaming of escaping this Godawful prison. She had, of course. She got a scholarship to Brown University and ended working in a law practice in Boston. But she had left something behind.
The closet door was slightly ajar. In the corner, there was a loose board. She lifted it up and found a small book.
It was her diary — A chronicle of everything that had happened. It was the first step of her rebuilding her life and healing once and for all.
She looked at the loose picture inside its front cover. Her anger eased to pity as she saw the young face staring back at her.
“It wasn’t your fault,” she muttered as she saw herself at eight. “It wasn’t your fault. You were just a child being forced to be much, much more.”
A tear trickled down her cheek as she closed the book.
As Janna drove away, the old house let out a groan and partially collapsed. Dust flew as the boards settled to earth. The once great house, like the family who owned it, had finally given into its bad foundation.
There was one survivor. And she was headed home.