Wind On The Willows
Grace knocked, nostalgia the outside of her parent's home brought differing emotions. She went with pleasant, for the time being. The door was a still the strange variant of blue and purple, one her Mother mixed. It had been repainted several times, spots of older paint missed lower down the panels. She laughed, imagining her Father, crouched, paintbrush in hand, paint pot by his side, glasses perched precariously on the tip of his nose, squinting to find missed patches. Terracotta potted plants either side of the door, decoration clearly well loved trimmed neatly, tiny yellow and white flowers dotted throughout hanging baskets, along with tulips, scarlet beauty radiating in gloomy skies, brightening the road. Magenta buds, Cecilia's favourite colour were in smaller pots, either side of the large ones. The woman breathed in what she knew wasn't clean air, but she was home, in her beloved London.
The door opened. Grace picked up her bag, warmth coming from the home inviting, not only from the abode itself. Gregory's cheery face greeted her, one hand scratching his head, the other in his scraggly beard.
"Morning, Dad."
Gregory beamed.
"Good morning, my dear. Come here."
He opened his arms.
Grace feigned worry.
"Dad squeeze?"
Her Father shook his head.
"A civilised hug, bear hugs are reserved for if you're crying."
Flatly, his daughter stated.
"I have no want to cry. I have full want for a cuppa though..."
"Kettle's already on..."
Grace grinned appreciatively, handing her bag to her Dad. He smirked, taking it, helping her into the house.
The woman sat on plush maroon leather, taking the weight off her feet was heavenly. She slipped off her ankle boots, easing the buckle loose. Messaging her ankles, she took her purse off the table next to her, then put it back. She wished to look at her phone, wondering if she'd get any messages from a certain man. This feeling was a tad abnormal, that fading quickly, switching to ripples through her chest, her stomach their goal.
Concentrating on her surroundings, hazel eyes swept the room. The living room's oak beams, the vaulted Tudor style ceilings, black and white scheme cosy. As always, the heating was on, some would say ridiculously high, but she would say perfect. Both Fielding's suffered from poor circulation in their hands and feet. They'd turn white, toes painful, wriggling them giving jolts of pain.
Grace hid her bag on the floor at her side, as far away as possible that she couldn't grab it easily.
Gregory entered the room, two large mugs in one hand. Grace chuckled, unable to carry one of those in each hand. He tilted his head, seeing the desk devoid of purse, placing a mug on the coaster. His daughter nodded gratefully.
"Adam been in touch?"
"I get 'eagle eyed' from you..."
She nudged. "No, not since this morning, which would have been early morning in Detroit. He said 'hi.'"
Gregory questioned.
"I distinctly recall him being more, articulate."
"He said he would like to socialise, meet up some time, with you."
"Meet the parent? Must be serious."
He took his mug, 'asbestos' hands handling scorching heat like it were tepid.
"..."
"Fill in the empty space, devoid of description? Alright."
Grace took her mug, keeping her hand on the handle, breathing on the liquid a few times. Drinking some, her Dad had made it perfect, remembering just how she liked it.
"Adam's thirty-seven, six one, brunette, adopted, augmented, though, few are visible. His eyes, for one are a mixture of gold and green, unlike anything I've viewed before. Despite him seeing them as 'not his,' I see emotion behind them, he shows more than he knows. He is articulate, his past is why he was referred to me."
She knew better than to speak of that.
"Astute, altruistic, sadly that is made fun of, used against him. Benevolent, busy, not busybody, curious, keeps himself to himself, knows more of life than I think anyone should. I handled this wrong at first, retrospective, when he needed prospective. Reactive, society attempts to dull it, but its there. I find that attractive. Far better than grunts for answers. Open, keeps closed for some time. Understandable. Tough outer shell, inner mighty shutters, though willing to let those down. For me. That's extraordinary. Letting me see him smile? His heart visible? I am grateful beyond anything else. He is increasingly relevant in my life, a fixture I wish to stay. I won't cage him, however. He's free to fly. I believe I helped him throw away the key. I hope I, not as an influence, but as a companion can take the edge off tougher parts of his life."
Gregory auscultated.
"His line of work? He was head of security, ex-SWAT, worked as a policeman too. Now? Would you approve of a mercenary?"
"Why ask if you think I wouldn't? I can assuage your worries by saying that I do not mind. He does not seem a rogue, thief of hearts as well as money."
Grace chuckled.
"The fact you propose I have a heart is amusing. Surely encased in ice? Shrouded in white lab fabric?"
"Propped up with a tablet."
The two laughed.
"Your heart is among the most charming I have encountered. Much like your Mother's, congenial, patent, a little mad, but that's up for debate as to whether or not Adam likes that."
He mused, beard twitching with chin movement.
"The first man, hmm?"
"God was the first man, referred to as a man. I am glad I was not brought up around religion, however. A hindrance, full of melancholic discord, lies. We are not a family for manipulation."
Gregory wholly subscribed.
"My upbringing was that way, it followed a path I did not wish to meander down. I walked away, creating my own path, as did you. Cecilia wasn't religious in any way shape or form. She yearned for flexibility, to be able to have what she wanted, without fear of judgement."
"Ah, that old chestnut. What a crock of shit. If anyone tells me I cannot do something because of my gender, I shan't be best pleased. Someone needs crack that nut..."
She sipped her drink casually, holding it as one would something they held dear. It warmed her hands, fire from her words lighting up her cheeks. She thought of when she left Prague, her mood coltish, coquettish, a modern day Elizabeth Bennet, her Mr Darcy not a proverbial charmer, but a handsome devil...
Innocence came to the fore.
"Whenever I compliment him, I get kissed. That's distinctly wonderful."
Her Father chortled.
"Dishing out pleasantries like sweets to children on Halloween? My dear, I am appalled."
"Do I say it for them? Daddy, no. I mean every word. I jest, though am no jester."
"Keeping up appearances too."
"Better the devil you know than the devil you don't, Dad..."
Grace blinked, moderate sips of tea swallowing chutzpah.
"I am inclined to say that my affection is strong, strange too. Its strange to let someone handle your heart. I know he wouldn't drop it, I certainly wouldn't his."
She spoke boldly. "If I can make him happy, content with his appearance, I've done alright, I reckon."
"Grace, I heard more than that when Adam spoke to me. You outdid yourself, applying your brand of medicine that's without bullshit, no placebo, sugar pills, notwithstanding of their perceived usefulness. You gave him the tools to assist himself, without condescension, without suspicion. I am sure he gets enough of that, with his current profession, and being augmented. I have zero qualms with that, I want you to know that."
"It wasn't his choice, first, second, likely third either, but its the hand he was dealt. He's coping well, doesn't need Neuropozene either."
"I will say I was concerned with that. Hearing about its effects when it isn't taken regularly, or too much is taken stressed me a bit."
"Yes. The reports were dulled down, to avoid public panic."
She sighed.
"Well, I can say with certainty that Adam is in my life, I have little to worry about other than relapses, though he deals with them efficiently. I'm happy, Dad."
Gregory was delighted, mahogany eyes gleaming, tears on bottom lashes.
"That's all I ever wanted, Gracie..."
Grace felt emotion strike her, standing up to comfort her Dad. She bear hugged him, recalling earlier wording.
"You did a stellar job, if I do say so myself."
"And you do. You're right, as per usual. I taught you to observe your surroundings, especially how to gauge men. Hence why any I did not like I had ties cut soon. You may have thought me mean at first, however, it was for your protection, your safety."
"Not one bit. You were right to shield me. I did have a year or two of liking boys, wanting their attention a little too much. College student stereotype. Amazes me today how much of a dullard I was. A right dolt."
"You were young, hormonal. We all were, at some point. However, you kept your cards close to your chest, never revealing your hand unless a man challenged you to a game of wits, not simply employing words known as 'flirting.'"
Grace wasn't one for baulking when her Father spoke of sex. At some point, he'd had it, thus, creating her. He knew Grace had, and, as long as she was careful, giving her consent, as well as the other party, he held no apprehension.
To keep her here for longer than a few hours, having been an age since he had seen her, Gregory asked something peculiar...
"Would you like to sleep in your old room? I still change the sheets, clean it every week. Feather duster and all."
Grace was touched, recalling wooden beams, cream coloured walls, the black shag carpet she loved between her toes. The window she would sit in front, look at the ancient willow tree in their garden. She wondered if it was still there, its trunk sturdy, thick. Or, had it wilted, in the twenty years she hadn't resided there?
"That would be lovely. Thank you, Father." She squeezed his hand. "Is Diane still here?"
Her Father nodded.
"Yes, but she lessened her grip over who gets to clean. I'd pay her, regardless."
Grace grinned.
"She's been here longer than I've been alive..."
"This reunion is rapidly becoming 'pick on Father Day' isn't it?"
"Wouldn't quite say that. I'd call it hesitant phrasing, with touches of honesty."
"I'd call it as it is, fucking brazen, my dear."
The woman's jaw dropped, eyes dish saucers.
"Daddy! Hearing you swear is one of life's joys, one of my favourite things in life. Doesn't beat the chocolate cake Mum made on my eighth birthday though."
She shook her head at her much younger self, mouth smeared with chocolate cream, fingers more decorated than the cake itself...
"I felt so sick that day."
"I did warn you not to have that second piece." Gregory tapped his nose. "Dad's intuition, belly aches, with your Mother and I, by your bedside, a bucket behind our backs, just in case."
"The old willow tree?"
Brown, shaggy locks moved back and forth.
"Had it have it cut down eight years ago. It began rotting, its core was all but gone. It would have fallen by itself, and, as I felt sorry for it, I had it felled."
Grace's inclination soured.
"What fucking daughter, an only one at that doesn't visit her Father? Urgh." She made a face."Forgive me? I don't have a right to ask that, do I?"
"Life, darling. You lived your own, are living it. Couldn't possibly expect you to stay here all your life. If you had, you wouldn't have had the experiences that have shaped the woman I see before me. That woman is brave. You left here smart but inexperienced. You made your way, worked hard, earned rightful praise, gained life skills, a job that helps others in need of aid, moulded yourself an excellent future. I could go on."
"I should come back here more often. No matter my quandary, you manage to cheer me right on up."
"Can help others, abysmal at offering yourself peace? Family trait."
Grace smirked.
"Can I make it up to you? Do we at least still have the pantry? Shortbread?"
Gregory nodded enthusiastically.
"It is near tea time. Diane will be in the kitchen. She'll be shocked how much you've grown."
His daughter flattened her mouth.
"Is that irony? I stopped growing at eighteen..."
She stood, grabbing both mugs.
"I may just eat all the biscuits I make after that..."
She potted into the hallway, feeling a little sneaky, making her way to the kitchen as quietly as possible.
Diane's facial expression changed upon seeing the younger woman, transforming into grandmotherly, protective. She gasped, offering arms.
"Gracie! Look at you!"
Grace couldn't feel irritated.
"I haven't grown! Yay?"
She hugged the housekeeper.
"Too long, I know. I threw myself into work, adult life. Never forgot about you or Dad however. I want to thank you, for looking after him."
Grace gestured towards the living room.
"After Mum died, he was a mess, distraught, I upped, left instead of doing more. You kept him sane."
Diane's grey eyes crinkled, her forehead joining in.
"Dearie, he's never been sane. One of the reasons I stuck with him, his employ. I had a few clients, they were boring as sin. Gregory? Never a dull moment, God be my witness."
Grace could have smacked herself...
"You heard all that, in the other room? That was wrong of me to speak like that. Its up to people what they choose to believe or not."
"Not going to judge you, dear. Free to speak what you feel. Always liked that about you," the elder squeezed the younger's shoulder, "don't change."
Grace smiled.
"Guessing from what I just said? I certainly haven't."
The two ladies shared laughter.
"Now, I promised to made Dad some shortbread. Just need to find the right cookery book. Help me out? They'll be a bottle of brandy in it for you..."
Grace's singsong tone had Diane cracking a grin, because she couldn't really sing...
"What the Lord doesn't know won't hurt Him..."
Grace pushed out her stomach, the few carrots on her plate looking lonely. It wasn't that she didn't eat her vegetables, it was that she was full. Diane made enough to feed a small militia...
"Uff. I haven't been this full in some time. I'll wash up, later." She huffed. "Give me half an hour..."
Everyone chuckled at her after that ditty.
Near midnight found Grace in front of the fireplace, tracing veins in marble with her eyes.
"Dad."
Gregory looked up from a photo album.
"Mind if I take a photo of us, send it to Adam? I guess I'm feeling sentimental."
Gregory placed the book down, waving a hand.
"Okay, and don't say it. Age has zilch to do with sentimentalism."
His daughter chortled.
"You just did..."
She took out her phone, turning it to front face camera mode. The two smiled, a click signalling task complete. Flipping it over to see the picture, she fell reflective.
"I look like you when I smile."
Her Father acceded.
"Like I when you smile, like your Mother otherwise."
She was unable to resist.
"Least I don't have those teeth..."
With the picture sent to Adam, and a goodnight hug from Diane and Gregory, Grace went to bed, clutching thick duvet, grey, with white shooting stars scattered, different phases of the moon on the underside. The smell of fabric softener was comforting, her bed her sacred place, the house she was raised in her, forever home? If she stayed here, she would no longer be able to see Adam, work in Oak Wood. Staying here felt snug, she was safe from the world, its perils, pitfalls.
With Adam? She felt safer however, creatures beating their wings against her rib cage.
How could she leave her Father again? He wasn't alone, but she may as well have left him so.
He'd understand. He travelled a long way to be with Mum. Doesn't mean I can't visit once in a while. Not once in a blue moon, Grace. Be fair, reasonable. Split your time...
That voice had her pleasantly occupied, its authority, ordering her about, around the mulberry bush.
That mulberry bush be damned. Grace would go back to Detroit, knowing her future lay there. This was her past, her current situation cradling, like the arms of her family, but it was her past, all the same.
She felt overcome with revelation, knowing where she wanted to be.
Where, with whom she belonged.