Yellow Lace

The hill has short, green grass. It is the type of hill you feel proud for standing on. It is steep with a couple of bumps and indents on the way down, leading to a harbor filled with rocks, mud, and boats. It is something you only saw in dreams. Just looking upon the shady land gives you the intense feeling of comfort and calmness. I knew that the second I sat under the awning the trees created I would feel at peace with the ocean, with my body.
  I reluctantly draw my eyes away from the boats floating, slowly rising and lowering with the water, to the house perched atop the hill. Not quite as striking as the harbor, the house is a mix of brown and cream. The colors seem to blend together -- to make a new color. I felt at home the moment I stepped out of the carriage and surveyed the scene, but now that I have seen the house, I know I could spend the rest of my life here.
  "Have you ever seen such a place?" Carolina breathed, fixing her hair. "I can't wait to take a swim."
  I nodded, distracted. I wanted to run my fingers along the side of the house. If I touched it and felt the contours of the wood beneath my fingers, perhaps it would feel more like reality and less like a mirage.
  "When did mother say she would be arriving?" Carolina asked, adding one last bobby pin to her soft blond curls before sighing satisfyingly.
  "I was unaware she would be arriving at all," I said sharply, turning my gaze to Carolina's freckled face.
  "She will be," Carolina said strongly.
  I took a peek down the cobble-stoned driveway. I could see our ride turning the corner and disappearing out of sight, leaving behind nothing but two lost girls and the sound of clomping hooves.
  "How shall we live?" Carolina asks. "How would we get along without mother?"
  Carolina paused after the question and I misunderstood. For a fleeting moment, I believed she was seriously asking the question. But then she continued.
  "She has all our belongings."
  I let out a puff of air and took Carolina's hand.
  "We must explore, don't you say?" I said, trying to smile.
  "Oh, we must!" Carolina exclaimed. "Though I would hate to get this dress dirty. Just one spec of mud and mother would disapprove." She leaned forward and patted her dress.
  "That dress is old. I'm shocked that it is even in such good condition. And I'm sure that father would buy you a new dress if you wished."
  "Oh, I do hope he will!" Carolina said, her excitement rising even more. "Let's go and have fun before mother arrives."
  The flowers that lined the yard seemed to come alive as we ran down the hill. Carolina giggled at the littlest things, marveling over ladybugs and falling leaves. Her hair shined brightly in the sun and her dress flowed elegantly around her ankles. I could not help but feel a pang of jealousy at her grace. Even though I am four years her senior, she already seems to make a better woman than I.
  "Melody!" she yelled, her voice stretching between the trees. "You simply must come!"
  I had been trailing along the harbor, humming a familiar tune. I turned my head in her direction and followed her voice.
  "What is this?" she asked me when I reached her. I looked down towards the muddy ground. Carolina had found a box. "What have I discovered?"
  The moment I realized what the box contained, I quickly closed the space between us and took the trunk from her grubby hands.
  "Carolina!" I said, feigning anger. "Just because I allowed you to play does not mean I allowed you to become barbaric! Why are you doing a man's work? Rummaging and digging through the dirt! Oh, what will father say?" I hoped that my words would distract her from the box sitting merely one foot away from her side.
  Carolina's eyes brimmed with tears. "I'm sorry, Melody."
  My heart melted at the sight of her kneeling on the ground, filthy and crying. I knelt next to her and put my hand on top of hers.
  "I'm sorry I was so severe, Carolina," I said softly. "But you must promise me you will never, ever do such a dirty thing ever again. If you wish to explore further, we shall find you more appropriate attire and insist that father joins you."
  Carolina sniffed and touched the trunk once more. "But can we just look through the trunk? I am very intrigued by it. It looks so old . . . why would someone ever abandon such a lovely thing?"
  I did not answer, but simply held her hand in mine and stood. I fussed over her dress for a moment before we turned towards the house and started to walk up the hill.
  Carolina started to take my words to heart and began to worry as the house loomed closer. "I cannot present myself to father in such a manner! Oh, Melody, will you please help me dress when we get inside? I would hate to see his face. Even the maids would be more presentable and I!"
  I looked down at her and stopped. I attempted to fix the hair she just straightened, but leaves and dirt had found their way inside.
  "Would you like to wash? I suggest we ask Martha to give you a bath," I said. "I'll make her promise she won't inform father of your state."
  Carolina smiled and squeezed my hand. "Oh, Melody," she smiled. "I can always rely on you. But, oh! Do I even have clean dresses here? Where is mother?" Carolina's eyes darted across the yard as we reached the door to the house. "Where. . . ."
  "Come on, Carolina," I said, knocking on the door.
  Martha answered and shot Carolina a disapproving look. "I just cleaned, you know," she said angrily.
  "I am sorry," Carolina said, her head hanging.
  "Martha, be soft. She's just a child," I said, giving her a warning glance. She nodded when she saw the piercing look in my eyes. "Please give Miss Carolina a bath and report her back downstairs in an hours time so father can fully appreciate her beauty."   Martha nodded again and grudgingly took Carolina's hand and led her up the stairs. I sighed once they were out of earshot and sat down on one of the chairs in the parlor. I tried to let my body relax, but my head was spinning. Fear shot down my spine and settled around my toes, making my whole body shiver. I clasped my hands together tightly and held my breath.
  If Carolina opens the box . . . if she goes looking for it again . . . agony ripped through me and I stood up, steadying myself on a little side table. I put my hand on my forehead and headed back outside.
  I tumbled down the hill, my legs barely working correctly. I felt dark and deceiving as I frantically looked around for anything: a shovel, a hoe. Only the gardener would know where such things would be kept and if I were to ask for one, he would certainly become suspicious. I rushed towards the woods and felt little strips of lace tear off my dress. The growing shrubs and trees tried to catch me in my race, but I kept going.
  I realized I had been running and searching for much too long. The box was just in the opening of the forest; Carolina had not traveled too far. I tried to turn around and head back to the house, to the harbor, but I had no sense of direction. All I know was I needed to get that box.
  I could hear the water slowly bumping into the wood of the harbor. The soft, swooshing of trees colliding and retracting, the light rustle of leaves below my feet. I could see the moss on the trees and the deep, rich red in the veins of the leaves; the slight orange glow of the sinking sun on the horizon.
  But I could not see or hear the box.
  My fingers trailed along the trees, trunk to trunk, getting little scrapes from the bark. I seemed to glide through the forest, leaving little stains of dress behind me. If someone were to come looking for me, I would be quite easy to find running aimlessly through the maze the forest created.
  I had long ago begun to sweat, but it was now seeping through my dress and making me very uncomfortable. The nice, cool ocean water was more inviting than ever before. I did not dare touch it, though, for boats entered and left the harbor at increasing speed.   I finally saw, once again, a true stream of light coming from the edge of the forest. My legs pumped harder for just a couple seconds and I found myself standing before the largest ship I had ever seen. People seemed to be loaded onto the boat like cargo. A captain stood before the entrance with a piece of paper in hand, counting the members aboard. He would randomly shout out a number every couple of seconds but there seemed to be no one listening. All of the men in line carried large trunks and I could not see any women or children at all.
  I wondered if there was a war going on and people were being shipped as soldiers or if they were being shipped as slaves, but they did not fit the description of a slave. Most of them seemed to be very fit and professional. None of them paid attention to any of the other boarders.
  My eyes drifted away from the captain and down the line of men. Only a moment passed before I noticed my father, standing about twenty feet from the entrance.
  "Father!" I yelled without thinking. I was about to shrink back into the trees, but he had already caught my eye.
  "Melody?" he called back.
  Other people in line turned their direction to me and a deep blush spread up to my cheeks. I was looking absolutely horrible. I knew my dress was covered in dirt and my hair could not have looked presentable. I looked down at my knees and tried to hide my face.   "Melody, what are you doing?" he called.
  I had caused a scene, and I was already regretting it. I suddenly understood why all of the ladies at my finishing school told me to keep quiet and only speak when spoken to.
  I rushed back through the woods and without thinking, wound up back at the hill. I collapsed on the ground, coughing and choking on air. It seemed as if my throat closed. My lungs would not accept air . . . and then suddenly it was gone. I was able to sit up again, but I was dreadfully thirsty. My mind was still racing, but I had no idea what to do. I ran over to the ocean and gulped down the handful before I tasted or thought.
  I started to cough again, for the salinity was revolting. Water seemed to leak through my nose and burn. I put my hands over my face and decided to lie down on the ground.
  "Melody?" I heard a female voice call. "Melody!" They sounded much more urgent now. "Oh, Melody . . . darling, what have you done?" I felt hands search my body for cuts, bruises. I felt ashamed and violated.
  "Stop," I said, opening my eyes. "I'm fine."
  "You most certainly are not!" the girl yelled. It was just Martha. "I finished washing Carolina and when I took her downstairs, both you and your father were missing! Is he aware of your state? Did he do this to you? Oh, what has happened?"
  I realized how frantic she was and tried to calm her. "I'm sorry, I was foolish. I took a walk through the woods . . . but I swear, I'm fine."
  She was not convinced in the slightest but accepted that as an excuse for the time being.
  "Have you seen your father at all? He is not prone to leaving without notice like this. Carolina is so excited to show him how pretty she looks in her dress."
  I bit my lip and contemplated what I should tell her. Should I say I saw him board the ship? But what if he comes home and tells Martha I hallucinated? "I . . . I have not seen father, no."
  Martha nodded and started fussing over my condition again. She helped me stand and insisted that she carry me into the house. She mumbled on about how she was going to have to bathe me, too, and about how she was not sure my dress could ever be repaired. I was not paying full attention, for I just remembered my original task: bury the trunk.
  I groaned inwardly when I realized there was a very good chance I would not be able to leave the house for a while.
  After I had my bath and get dressed for bed, Martha set up a nice fire in the living room for me and gave me a scalding hot cup of strong tea. She insisted on braiding my hair while telling me stories of her childhood. "You girls have it so easy now a days," she told me, shaking her head. "My governess used to make me walk around the house with a block of wood on my head! She said it helped with posture. I still hate her for it."
  Her stories lasted only so long before she yawned and confessed she must see herself to bed. I followed her up the stairs and she showed me where I would be sleeping.
  "Be quiet," she whispered. "Carolina is already asleep."
  "Will we be sharing a room?" I asked, confused.
  "Yes. Your father thinks it would be in the best of interest for Carolina, at the moment."
  "But this house has plenty of bedrooms! Are you positive I have to sleep in the same room as her?"
  "I am sorry, Miss Melody, but it is not up to me. Goodnight." She left me stranded in the hallway.
  I opened the door and softly closed it behind me. I fumbled around, feeling for an oil lamp. I found one within seconds and turned it on. It illuminated the room with a soft, orange glow. I took a good look around and could not muster a smile. The windows were large and covered with maroon drapes that stretched to the floor. The beds were a mixture of tan and cream with a small border of a deep red that matched the drapes. The floor was wood, hard and cold. The wall was covered in wallpaper with a flower design on it. The colors of the flowers were not natural . . . they were very dark and gloomy. Almost as if they wished they were not flowers. The attraction I felt to the house earlier in the day seemed to have evaporated.
  "W-who is it?" Carolina muttered from the corner. I did not notice her until she spoke.
  "It's just me, Carolina," I said softly, turning the lamp off.
  "No, keep it on," Carolina said, sleep leaving her voice slightly.
  "But . . . aren't you tired?" I asked, turning it back on.
  "I always sleep with a lamp on," she said.
  "I didn't know that," I replied. "Why did Martha turn it off, then?"
  "She said the oil would run out. She said I was fine in the dark."
  "She did not lie," I said. "Both are true."
  "But mother always keeps the lamps on for me if I wish. Has she arrived yet? I know she will simply love it here."
  I closed my eyes and walked over to my bed. I did not reply to her, but kept the lamp on all night, for if that's all it takes to soothe her, it's worth the oil wasted.

In the morning, father had not arrived back home. Carolina was now walking around and asking question after question about both mother and father's whereabouts. Martha decided it was best, for everyone's sanity, if she take Carolina to town and have her help pick out the groceries. I was very enthusiastic about the idea and they were out the door within an hour.
  I knew I had secured myself a good chunk of time. I quickly went outside and walked towards the woods, promising myself a better, calmer, turnout than yesterday.
  It found the trunk within minutes. It was next to a very large, old oak tree. I knelt on the ground and carefully lifted the trunk in my hands. I picked it up and walked to the harbor.
  I tried to take solace in the boats, crewmen, and commotion. But I knew my father was somewhere, out to sea, never to return. He had always talked about the Americas and the business opportunities overseas. I did not let a tear fall for him. I pushed him out of my mind and focused on the box.
  I sat under one of the awnings the trees created. It was muddy and smelt of fresh soil and grass. I knew I would have to take another bath before Martha and Carolina returned home.
  The box was slightly heavy, but I did not have to strain myself lifting it. The design was elaborate and I had no trouble understanding why Carolina was so fascinated with it. I was just very glad she had decided to keep the box closed before I arrived.
  I had spent many years studying this trunk. It used to sit on the floor in my parents' old bedroom. When I was a child, around the ages of five and six, my mother would take the trunk and empty it of its content on the bed for me to awe over. I knew that inside the box, I would find an old dress from my mother's debut, dance cards from various dances she had been to as a child, a school uniform, and many small, meaningful items from her childhood.
  One of my favorites had always been her copy of the Bible. It was filled with dried leaves and flowers, letters sent from friends and family, and my mother's secrets. She never let me look in her Bible . . . I suppose that's why it was always a favorite of mine.
  As I slid the locks of the trunk and opened the top, a familiar smell spilled out: tobacco, musk, and flowers. I inhaled deeply and laid my hand on top of the lacy dress begging to be released of its confinement. I knew it was white at one point, but now it had yellowed with age, just like the pages of her Bible. I, with shaky fingers, retrieved the sacred book from the bottom of the trunk and held it to my chest. I closed my eyes and ran my fingers down the spine, across the edges of the pages.
  The tears began to fall as the actions of the last week began to roll over me. I could not believe that father would leave Carolina and I after such a horrible ordeal. I did not believe he could be so inhumane.
  The wind began to pick up and I put the Bible back in the trunk and closed it. A piece of lace was sticking out, but I did not bother to fix it. I held the trunk tightly to my chest as I had done to the Bible. It was hard and cold; nothing like my mother. I frowned down at the trunk and wondered how I could have ever thought it symbolized my mother-- my family.
  Maybe, if I throw the trunk away, I can also throw away my past. For a fleeting moment, I wished for the same fate as Carolina: a wiped memory, a clean slate. I almost wished I could have been in the horse-drawn carriage that toppled over, killing my mother and killing Carolina's memories. Their deepest wishes, their deepest secrets lost in the midst of a busy road in London.
  I stood up and raced over to the harbor. No one took any notice of my presence and I was glad. And maybe, if I were able to blend with the trees, the trunk would be able to blend with the water. Barely making a splash, the trunk was gone and sinking, surely making its way out to sea.