Shifter

by Jennifer Reynolds

  Although, I do find it odd that it wasn’t until I passed the faded, rusted sign welcoming me to my home state that the snow started to fall. I would have expected the snowfall in any of the northern states I had previously driven through, but not here, not in the Deep South. Yet, here is where old man winter decides to send me his holiday greeting.

  My mind, again, begins to reel in anticipation of discovering all the things that have changed since my sudden, forced departure. My heart speeds up as I turn onto the road the house my family has lived in for generations. Contact between my family and I has been limited these last ten years. My arrival should be quite the shocker. I am sweating despite the fact that I turned the heater off a half-an-hour ago, letting the cold winter air seep in the car and my bones.

  The only distracting noise that has kept me from slipping into a nostalgia-induced coma is the swish, swish of the wipers. I was lucky to find a vehicle that still ran and was in decent enough condition to make the journey, wishing for a radio that worked would have been pushing it.

  I park a few houses down from my family home, not wanting them to see the lights or hear the engine. The house is lit up, and I can see people moving around in every room. The sight freezes me to the seat, and I sit and stare in shock. My family is large but this sight is overwhelming. Every person in my family must be here.

  Other than at my grandmother’s home, there are no other signs of life in the neighborhood. Sure, it is only natural that some homes would be empty because their occupants have gone elsewhere for the holidays, but not every home, not every occupant. Each driveway has at least two inches of snow covering it, a sign that none of the neighbors have been home for a while.

  The cold air hits me in a wonderful, breathtaking gust as I open the door of my small VW Bug to get out. Tightening the hood of my jacket, I begin a slow, methodical walk toward the house. I assume it is the cold keeping everyone inside because other than me there is no one wandering around in this winter wonderland. There is no one building a snowman, having a snowball fight, or playing any of the other normal games people play in the snow.

  I cross to the opposite side of the street so that I can look straight at the house. I want to be able to take in the sight of the whole house before making my appearance. I want to savor the memory of my home the way it looks at this moment.

  The family room and dining room join in the front of the house. Both of them have extremely large windows. The curtains hanging in these windows are always open for us to see out, and for the world to see in. The Christmas tree, as fat and tall as always, sits in the middle of the family room window. My body aches to rush inside, so that I can smell the pine. I watch as the dark shapes of people, who used to be familiar to me, do odd errands throughout the house.

  I can imagine that my mother is in the kitchen with my sister-in-law, my grandmother, and my aunt preparing the turkey and dressing, ham with pineapples, mashed potatoes, green beans, and homemade macaroni and cheese. My great-great grandmother was so insistent that we do our best to make the traditional meals of her past. We didn’t always have the right meats and our pastas didn’t always turn out the way she remembered them, but we always had big holiday meals, and very few people knew the difference anyway. I can almost smell the delicious aromas circling the kitchen, and I can almost taste the savory food.

  My stomach grumbles at the thought of all that home-cooked goodness inside waiting for me.

  I can picture all the places in the house that my family has scattered. The smokers are in the garage. The children are in the family room, eyeballing the gifts. They are waiting for the adults to finish cooking and serving the meal so that they can open the colorful boxes and bags. A few adults are in the living room playing card games or board games, while others talk and catch up. All are oblivious to the fact that I am standing out here watching, waiting for the right time to come in.

  As I watch them, I see a small figure come to the family room window. She has come to watch the snowfall. She does not see me. Her eyes light up at the sight of the world outside. She is just as amazed by the snow’s flight to earth as she amazes me. I recognized her the moment she came to the window, her long brown hair, her short stature even for a ten year old. I know if I get close enough to her, I will be able to see our father’s blue eyes and dimpled chin. However, I cannot make myself go to her just yet, so I stand here watching her.

  Tears well up in my eyes, and I wipe them away before they get the chance to freeze on my cheek. Uncontrollably, my mind begins to wonder, and I imagine what it would be like if she saw me.

  I imagine that she looks my way and our eyes lock. With my heart pounding in my chest, my legs move on their own, taking me across the street and to her. She does not move until I am standing in the middle of the front yard. Then her eyes widen and nearly engulf her face as the realization of who I am sets in.

  She turns and runs to the front door.

  I do the same.

  I jerk open the screen door, as she pulls on the wooden door.

  We meet there and pause for what seems like a lifetime, both of us scared and nervous. I squat down and pull off my hat. She runs into my arms. My mom comes to see where she has disappeared. With tear-stricken eyes, I look up at her. Mom nearly faints at the sight of me, then she starts crying. Her cries alert the rest of the house to my presence.

  With my baby sister in one arm, hugging me tightly, the people I know and love dearly surround me. My brother, his wife, daughter, son, my stepfather, my cousins, and their spouses. I hug each of them in turn. The rest of my family gathers in the foyer. Words, laughter, and cries become jumbled and echo throughout the house.

  A large gust of snow blows me off balance, waking me from those happy thoughts. Tears fill my eyes, again, as I remind myself that that little girl in the window does not know who I am, and would never recognize me. I have changed a lot since I left, not just in my looks, but also in every aspect of my being, and she was merely an infant.

  I go back to watching her watch the snowfall, too afraid to go any closer to the house. I do not know why it scares me. My homecoming should be a joyous one after all these years, but I am afraid to go inside the house. I have done things, things no human should ever do. I have seen things that I will never be able to tell them, even if I could find the words.

  I am no longer the daughter that was destined to run this town. I am not the aunt that let the kids run wild when my siblings were not looking. Nor am I the woman who taught her younger sister about certain life facts when she became a woman. I am not who they think I am and will never again be able to be that person.

  My eyes catch the sight of another person coming towards the window. My breath stops, my mind races with thoughts and images as my heart cries with joy and sorrow. Of all the people I expected to see here, she was not one of them. A part of me knows that she should not be there, that it isn’t possible. But why my great-great grandmother, the mother of our society, the creator of our world isn’t supposed to be there, I don’t know. I can’t bring the information forward in my mind.

  I watch as she bends down beside my sister, a child that is starting to look too much like me at that age, and wraps her up in her arms. She whispers something into the little girl’s ear then points at the snow. A big smile spreads across her lips before she burst into laughter. The ancient woman picks up the child, and they disappear into another room.

  I know I have to go in, but as I try to force my feet to move, fear creeps back into my soul. My mind is hiding secrets. I have this strange feeling that something is terribly wrong inside the house. I can still see people moving around. The closer I get the more noises I can hear. I hear laughter, bits and pieces of conversations, even the small hint of Christmas music. I can smell the faint odor of cigarette smoke seeping out from under the garage door. The scent mixes with the smell of turkey and ham, making my heartache with memories.

  My gloved hand touches the ice-cold handle of the screen door. A voice
in the back of my head screams. It screams that there is something inside I do not want to see, something that I do not want to know. A truth about what really lies behind the door. Something about all of this feels unreal. I force myself to turn the knob, to open the door. My breath catches as I reach for the gold handle of the wooden door.

  As I slowly turn it to the right, everything goes silent. All laughter, all music, instantly turns off. With my next breath, I notice that the smells are also missing. My heart races as if it is afraid that at any second it may stop beating. My stomach turns itself into knots as butterflies try not to get caught up in them. As I push the door open, all goes blank.

  ----------

  I jerk awake with my hand stretched out in front of me as I if was reaching for something. Tears are streaming down my face. A silent scream lingers on my lips. Realization settles into my waking mind. It was a dream, all of it, a fading, wonderful nightmare. I lay on my bed made of scrap material in stunned silence letting memories replace dreams. My heartbeat slows as sadness takes the place of fear. I look around me at the reality that my subconscious did not want me to see.

  I see a ruined house covered in debris and ash instead of garland and icicles. A gaping hole replaces the two large windows where a brightly lit Christmas tree stood every Christmas for generations. There hasn’t been a tree there in ten years, and there will be no tree there this year or any other year in the foreseeable future. An icy winter breeze has blown open the tarp I hastily threw up to block the cold. I can just barely see the war-torn world around me.

  The war is over. At least we hope it is. No matter what, for me it is over, and that is the only reason I returned.

  If I had not seen the remains of the large tower down by the river, I would have never known I was home. I searched this city for days trying to uncover landmarks that marked this city as mine or that showed that at one time it had thrived long after it should have fallen to nature, as so many others have.

  Not for the first time, the knowledge that I am alone in the world hits me, and I slump against the wall. Our numbers weren’t large, but not since the year all of this began have they been nearly nonexistent. I scared myself the first time I spoke into the emptiness that is this new world. My voiced echoed throughout the city so loud that I jerked and hid behind an overturned car. I think that this must have been how she, my great-great grandmother, felt those first few years by herself after the world ended.

  I came back here to the shell of my family home mostly because it is one of the few homes still standing, relatively speaking. Most of the walls are still erect but nearly all of the windows have blown out and sections of the roof have fallen in. It will take a lot to make it livable, but I have nowhere else to go, nowhere else I want to be. All of the other houses on the street are all but leveled. A few brick columns stick out of broken foundations where fireplaces used to be. A wall here and there is all that is left of most of the homes.

  I shiver as cold air grabs me. The many blankets I have wrapped myself in cannot shield me from the frozen air seeping in through the gaping holes in the house. I contemplate lying back down, trying to get a few more moments of sleep, but the ground is too hard. My body aches from all the long nights I have had to sleep on the semi-burnt remnants of these hardwood floors. Besides, I really do not wish to return to that dream, as lovely as it was.

  My stomach grumbles.

  I promise it food today.

  It knows I am lying.

  Food is becoming harder and harder to find. Not much has survived that long ago attack. I started out with a decent stash of vegetables and meat but my stash has been gone for a few days. I rationed them the best I could to make them last longer. I have spent every day since I ran out scouting for food, when I’m not finding ways to make this place livable again, but so far, all I have found are a few jars of canned green beans.

  Piling layer upon layer of torn clothing onto my body, I start to hum the words to Elvis Presley’s version of Blue Christmas, one of her favorite songs. I want to stop the words from forming in my head. Although, I know if I do, I have to go back to listening to the deafening sounds of nothing. The nothingness should be a blessing after the sounds of war from the last years, but the song just makes the silent flashes of memory hurt even worse.

  Quietly, I make my way throughout the day. Methodically, working on different sections of the house, I try desperately not to think about anything. Not of all the years I spent fighting. Or all the people I have killed for no reason in a war that never should have happened. I try not to think of the family I once had or the family I could have had. Every time one of these thoughts tries to creep into my head, I shake it out.

  I do not want to think.

  I just want to work.

  Around noon a thought does comes to me, an idea really, and it is one that is adamant about staying. I have not visited them today. I probably should stop visiting them, but I ache so much for them. A quiet tear rolls down my cheek. I change clothes, trying not to look like I have just been through hell. It does not work. Most of my clothes are burnt and torn.

  Dressed as nicely as I will ever look, I stare out the back door. My family had kept the most beautiful flower gardens here once the greenhouse had gone up. There once had been a stone birdbath in the center of the yard surrounded by the prettiest purple irises. There had been gardens that wrapped completely around the house but the ones in the back yard had always been my favorite.

  Today, those gardens are gone, along with my favorite willow that had once engulfed the left back corner of the yard. There is not a single speck of green left anywhere on the frozen ground. Large, circled, scorch marks caused by the fires that accompanied the battle will make sure that nothing grows here for a very long time.

  I look into the small acre of land just beyond the back gate at all the small pieces that had once been grave markers lined up so perfectly. The small, makeshift cemetery is creepy and sad.

  Pulling my coat tighter around me, I walk up and down the rows, reading the names and dates that are still legible. The markers are plain and crudely crafted. I do not have any flowers to decorate them.

  Thick clouds fill the sky, but there will be no snow. Not this Christmas.

  If I let myself I would stay out here all day, talking to them, watching over them, but I can’t live life that way. Reluctantly, I go back in the house and pull the thick bundle of pages I’ve been guarding with my life for years out of my bag. I do it every day, but haven’t been able to bring myself to read the story.

  Today will be the day, though. It just feels right. Feels like it is time.

  I crawl back under my blankets and force myself to read aloud the first line, “This is the story of the end of civilization and the birth of a new world and its imminent demise.” The words immediately take me back to the day I decided we needed a history of how this all began. I laugh at how overly dramatic I was despite the fact that the words are true…

  Read more of Alone at:

  https://www.facebook.com/Alone.Jennifer.Reynolds

  Acknowledgements

  I want to thank my mother for always believing in me and being the first person to ever read this novel. I thank my best friend and one of my readers and editors, Candace Forbs. She had faith in this project when I had given up all hope of ever finishing it. And I want to thank my second editor, Kathryn Cruse for all of her hard work in helping me finalize this novel. All three of these women have given me the courage and confidence to make this novel happen. Ladies, again, I thank you.

  Secondly, I want to thank, Keisha Montgomery, for graciously posing for the cover of this novel, and her mother, Rachel Handback, for taking the photo and allowing me creative reign with it. You ladies have shown me so much love and support through all of this. I couldn’t ask for better friends and fans.

  About the Author

  Jennifer Lynn Powell Reynolds is a native of North Alabama. She has a Master of Fine Arts degree from National Universit
y and a Bachelor of Arts degree from the University of North Alabama.

  Writing has always been a large part of her life. She has worked on a number of different projects throughout her life, but her focus had mainly been on her education. Now that that part of her life is over, she is focusing on her writing career and loving every moment of it.

  Aside from spending her days immersed in the fictional worlds she creates, she works part time at Stained Glass Artistry.

  You can reach Jennifer at:

  https://www.facebook.com/AuthorJenniferReynolds

  or

  https://www.facebook.com/Shifter.Jennifer.Reynolds