The Root Cellar - Epilogue

A novella.

(Click here to read Part VI)

I wake up in a different place.

Can’t find any sharp edges with my eyes, as if they’re coated in petroleum jelly. And since it takes too much energy to blink—to turn on the washer-wipers—I just stare through the blurriness at the cloud of light I seem to be floating in. With the exception of whirring and beeping sounds inside my head, my ears seem to be functioning. But then I gradually realize the whirring and beeping isn’t in my head at all. 

It’s the patient monitor next to the bed.

And then I feel a hand on top of mine. That hand.

“Hey,” he says. After forcing myself to blink once, Rick’s face comes into focus. I’m envious of the moisture he seems to have in his own eyes. 

“Wha…?” I manage, even with my tongue glued to the roof of my mouth.

I feel a drinking straw brush my lips, then take the cue and suck down a few glorious gulps of ice water.   

“Can I call anyone for you?”

“Skip…”

“He’s fine. He and Lucy are at Eli’s place.”

I blink several more times, which not only clears Rick up but also brings the memory of the newspaper clipping back into focus, even in my delirious state. “Do you have something you want to tell me?”

“Yes. You’re in the hospital.”

“Why?”

“Because you have a bacterial infection.” Which makes sense. But what didn’t make sense is how I could have so stupidly poisoned myself by ingesting the decades-old contents of those jars. Apparently my desperate longing for a sense of rootedness trumped common sense. 

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I was waiting for the right time.”

Rick’s head is a planet now with star-like satellites orbiting around it. “You saw me naked,” I say dizzily.

“Only a little. The 911 guys got luckier.”

Rick tries to punctuate his inappropriate joke with an uncomfortable smile. I don’t grace him with a smile of my own. 

“The doctor says you need to rest. They’re pumping you full of liquid antibiotics and sedatives.”

“Tell me what you know.”

“I will. But when your fever’s down. Maybe tomorrow.”  

Although I slept most of the day, I sensed Rick only left my side to go to the bathroom, talk to the nurse in the hallway or go for snacks (during which I learned he might have an unhealthy relationship with sunflower seeds). Between blinks I was either deep down in the well or watching the insufferable Joe Namath pitch Medicare Advantage plans between episodes of the Andy Griffith Show. I ate a little for dinner. Hamburger macaroni and mixed veggies. I don’t know whether Rick was so busily doting on me because that’s his habit or if he was constantly trying to divert himself from my inevitable eyes. I suspect the latter. But he did stay the night. Slept in one of those horribly uncomfortable hospital room chairs.

I woke up late the next morning with more energy and a clearer head. 

The first thing I saw was a bouquet of perky gerbera daisies on the windowsill. The next thing I saw was Rick, standing at the end of the bed. He looked fresh and clean, but there was something different in his eyes I hadn’t seen before. 

“You went home.”

“Well, I never had a chance to get the fishy smell off yesterday.”

“Oops.” I wanted to apologize for the inconvenience with something like I’m sorry, but thought better of it.

“How do you feel?”

“I’m ready, if that’s what you mean.”

Both his expression and complexion began to change, like melting putty. He pulled up a chair beside the bed and slouched into it.

“Your family was killed by kindness.”

“What do you mean?”

“And the newspaper article was wrong. Six people died in the fire—not five. Turns out your grandparents showed kindness to the wrong person.”

I explode, yelling at the top of my lungs. “Will you just make the goddamn information transfer and stop tormenting me, please!” There’s no worse look for me than my moments of unconscious cruelty. So I’m looking around for a mirror, brushing my hair back and trying to compose myself. 

An orderly with a shocked look on his face appears in the doorway, eases the door shut.

The tears pooling in Rick’s eyes are about to spill over the dam. But he wipes them quickly before gravity can do its job. Then he crosses his arms. Either to stop the trembling or protect himself from me. Maybe both. 

“I saw how the fire started, but I was only there by accident. Over time, the story of what led to it came out piecemeal from different people who knew your grandparents. They were shunned, mainly because of your grandmother’s background. Apparently, she had Creole blood. Some of the local busybodies suspected her of practicing black magic or voodoo or some such nonsense. A couple of days before the big snow, a hitchhiker showed up at the Grove Hill feed store late in the day with an army duffle bag slung over his shoulder. He was a soldier. He was black. He asked some white men gathered at the loading dock where he could find a room for the night. One of them was my father, who operated several illegal stills and ran bootleg liquor. Anyway, something was said. A fight broke out. You can guess who won. They dumped the soldier in a ditch not far from the feed store. Later that night, your grandfather was driving down the road, saw the duffle bag and stopped. He took the soldier home—barely alive. The rumor was that your grandmother started nursing and feeding him. None of this sat well with my father and his cronies, which was why they attacked the house.”

So there it is. The truth I’ve been hoping to find after all these years? My hammering heart wants to jump outside of my chest and run away. I can only manage a few weepy mutterings. 

“You were there—by accident.” 

“On the night the blizzard hit, I’d discovered my old man’s moonshine stash. The bottles were hidden under a tarp in the back of his old Chevy wagon. Boys being boys—and I was only ten at the time—I uncorked one. Started sipping, then guzzling. It tasted horrible, like breathing fire, but I started feeling so good I couldn’t stop. Then I passed out cold in the car right alongside the bottles. Later, though, I woke up to the sound of the car engine. Heard the car plowing over a snowy road. I remember being so cold. Eventually the car stopped. My father was yelling at somebody else in the front seat. When the two doors opened, I peeked out the back window and saw two flaming milk bottles tumbling through the air towards the house. Then they got back in the car and we drove away. So, yes, I was there by accident.”

“How did you know who I was?”

“Everybody knew a little girl named Katherine had been orphaned after the fire but was later adopted. When Michael told me someone named Katherine had just bought the old Mathieson place, I took a chance.”

“And here we are.”

“Right.”

I’m folding and refolding a tear-soaked tissue between my fingers. “And what’s in this for you?”

“Not sure yet. Maybe I’m more of a rebuilder than a builder.”

At which point our eyes meet and we smile at each other for the first time in over a week—like we mean it. 

* * *

A few days later, after I’d been released from the hospital, Rick told me why I never could find any of my family’s history online. Apparently Grove Hill was a klan outpost and his old man was one of the ring leaders. Bribes made sure all the county and census records of the incident were destroyed. Obviously, as a cover up. 

My family—along with an innocent young man—had not only been erased by the fire of hate, but any smoldering remains of their lives had been erased from history. 

I never mentioned my dreams and visions to Rick. Mainly out of fear he might think I believed in black magic or voodoo or some such nonsense (not a very attractive disclosure for a control freak to make). But I did spill the beans to Angela during one of our sessions—about the jars and everything I saw. She found these revelations fascinating but beyond explanation with the possible exception that they could’ve been PTSD-related hallucinations. 

* * * 

Springtime.

The windows are in and I’m standing beside Rick in front of the house—beside myself with happiness. But once again, Rick is not happy because the copper weather vane on top of the house is wobbling in the breeze. Not a horse, of course, but one in the shape of a pointing bird dog Rick found at an antique shop.   

“Eli!” he shouts. “It’s wobbling. Can you look at that, please?” A second later, Eli drops his hammer in the dirt and is scurrying up the ladder. 

Rick pats his breast pocket. “Oh, I almost forgot. He found this in the root cellar while installing the new shelves. Said it was under a crate.”

It’s a small, dirt-encrusted envelope the size of a postcard—unopened. A hole punched in the corner holds a piece of rotten twine that looks suspiciously like the twine that was attached to the chicken feed sack that held the Mason jars. 

My name—written in old-fashioned cursive that Depression-era grandmothers might’ve used—is on the front of it.  

#