I stand at the picture window in the upstairs bedroom I designated as a holding space for my father’s things. Surrounded by dusty filing cabinets and strange artifacts, I hold one such relic in my hands. A photo album. I went to look for my camera, but didn't find it. I’m not sure why I thought it was in here to begin with. It didn’t take long before I dipped my hand into one box I’d sworn I would go through as part of my New Year’s resolutions.
I drew out a photo album, and now I’m staring at my mother’s face. I trace the line of her jaw through the cellophane that covers the late nineties album. There are pictures of me and Blake at birthday parties. Both our own and at other’s. Most of them little friends that have been long forgotten in the weathering of time.
Some of them, though, are of Noelle and me. The one friend that I’ve been able to hold on to all these years.
The photo of my mother is a close-up, taken by my father, likely a year or two before she died. A year or two before Blake and I were born. She died unexpectedly during childbirth. It was fast and my dad was ill-prepared for such a premature loss. He never elaborated on it any more than that. I suppose as a kid–and as an adult–I saw little purpose in figuring out more about it.
Now, with him legally dead, his house off the market, and me living it what was once one of the most famous homes in Oklahoma, it’s the first time I’ve slowed down enough to give it some thought. It’s been on my mind lately. Today, going up here to get the camera, and not finding it, I guess my subconscious got me to stay in here, surrounded by my father’s things.
Surrounded by the past.
My dad never put out photos of my mom when Blake and I were younger. It was like he thought he could protect us from the loss of her if he kept it to himself. As if it wasn’t a blow suffered by all of us.
He kept everything to himself, allowing no one else to shoulder the weight, even for a moment.
The thought saddens me.
I should be perky, peppy, and excited for the road trip that awaits. And just as that thought is occurring to me, I hear tires on gravel and the rumble of a V8 engine in my drive.
I snap the album shut and look up. I see Cash’s pickup truck coming up to the house.
He pulls into the circle drive and gets out then heads for the front door. I shove the album back into the cardboard moving box it came out of. I’ll go back for it when we get home.
Cash Kelly, the supernaturally interested YouTube sensation, has offered to take me for a four-day getaway.
Okay, maybe that’s a little romanticized. He’s letting me tag along on a trip to a Bigfoot festival that promises a good deal of paranormal hijinks.
Or at least some presentations by the most prominent researchers in the field today.
I give up my search for my camera. The one on my phone will have to do. I jog down the stairs, going as quickly as my short legs allow, and then I hear his knock at the door.
“Coming!” I shout. I grab the handle and swing the door wide.
Cash stands there, shades on, a black leather jacket and a heather gray t-shirt on over faded blue jeans and boots that look like they’ve spent a fair amount of time searching the woods for Bigfoot and his cronies. He looks the part for the weekend. I hope I do, too. I’m wearing a sweater, jeans, and boots, as instructed by my host.
“You ready to go?” Cash asks, tilting down his sunglasses, revealing his icy blue eyes.
I imagine he could have used those in another life as a detective. They have a soul-piercing quality to them, even I have to admit.
“Ready as I’ll ever be,” I tell him.
He steps inside and grabs my bags.
“Hey!” I say. “I can get those.”
“My Daddy taught me never to let a woman carry her own luggage,” he says as he heads back across the lawn to the circle drive where he loads it all into the back of the truck.
“Thanks,” I mutter under my breath as I close the door and lock it behind me after grabbing my purse from the coatrack.
I hot foot it out to the truck. Cash is already inside by the time I climb up and close my door. He’s got the heat cranked up, something I’m grateful for. It’s an overcast day with a high of thirty-six degrees Fahrenheit.
The walk from the house to the car was enough to put a chill on my bones. It occurs to me we haven’t really established how much time we might spend in the great outdoors over the next four days.
“What’s the plan?” I ask as Cash heads for the main road. I glance back at the house once, like I always do when I’m leaving, wondering if I turned everything off even though I know I did.
The house has seemed more empty lately. Which makes sense, seeing as how Cash helped me rid it of a rather sad ghost over the holidays. Her unfinished business is now finished and I miss her.
Somehow the house felt more full with her in it. Or maybe it was because Cash was coming over every night to help me resolve things. Maybe that was what made the house feel full.
I know one thing, though. I want that feeling back.
I want a crowded table and a house full of people. I want laughter and love in that house. My current status as a single woman with no prospects makes it hard to imagine a future where my table is full.
Cash heads for the highway as he answers me.
“Well, we’re staying with my friend Clayton and his wife, Lisa,” He pauses, concentrating on merging, then continues. “He’s an old buddy of mine. A huge Bigfoot guy, too. Really into the stuff. He’ll definitely go with us to all the festival events. I’m not sure if Lisa will. She’s about eight months pregnant.”
“Eight months pregnant?” I ask. “Are you sure they’re up to hosting us?”
“She swore they were. She was the one that suggested it. And Lisa is in her element when she’s the hostess. She probably hasn’t gotten to do a lot of that since they moved down southeast.”
I nod, silently agreeing though I know nothing about Lisa other than what Cash is telling me right now.
However, I’m sure she doesn’t want to host two guests when she’s nine months pregnant. If she does, she’s a better woman than I am. I’d have told Cash to kick rocks.
I did my due diligence researching the event, but the website was pretty rudimentary. It has a few pictures and a line up from last year. It hadn’t been updated for this one. When I looked on social media, I wasn’t able to find too much about it either. But what I did find screamed off the grid militia people will be in attendance! So a social media footprint would be shallow for the event.
“So what’s your friend like?” I probe, wondering if Clayton falls into that category. And his wife, too.
“He’s alright,” Cash says. “They moved down there when they bought a weed farm. So that’s what he does. Lisa is planning on staying home with the baby once it comes.”
“You know,” I say. “When I was in high school, I wouldn’t have known who to even ask about buying weed. Now there’s a dispensary on every corner.” Right across from the ubiquitous pharmacies and churches. Medical marijuana is booming in Oklahoma.
“I knew exactly who to ask,” Cash says, looking over at me with a smile. “I never pegged you for such a straight arrow, Blair.”
“Well, I sort of fell into that role. Blake knew all the places to score weed and God knows what else.”
“So you’re the good kid,” Cash says, more conclusion than question. Like he’s putting together a puzzle about me.
“You could say that,” I offer.
“Well, it’s been a long time since I’ve smoked weed,” Cash says. “Somehow, weed and the paranormal just don’t mix.”
“What is it? Are you afraid a demon might possess you in your inebriation?” I tease.
“Something like that,” Cash says with a smirk. “Really,” he goes on. “it’s more that you just want all your senses functioning at their best. Like this weekend. Smoke a joint and you’re gonna see Sasquatch for certain.”
“Good point,” I tell him.
“Blake still doing drugs?” he asks, his tone ginger.
“Who knows?” I say. “Blake doesn’t tell me anything. I think his major problem is gambling, though.”
Cash makes a non-committal noise and we leave it at that for the time being. I rest my forehead on the glass of the passenger side window and wonder what, exactly, I’m in store for down here.
