Colorless

It’s taller than I remember. Freshly painted, white, austere. All traces of the past erased. No sagging porch stairs, waiting to splinter tender feet. No colorful childish collages painted on interior walls. Everything stark white and too clean. The old cottage invisible in the bones of this immaculate beach house. No longer a fairyland full of old things… my grandmother’s garish gold and green Afghan that kept me warm on cold, damp nights. No dusty sepia-toned photos of old family members. It’s all gone. Colorless. Some might call it clean and bright.

I call it soulless and empty, as I stand outside. I’ve rented it for the week and now wishing I hadn’t. It’s not the same place of my childhood, where my sister and I dreamt up hauntings and ghoulish stories. This was our summer home when we were left with Gran while mother and daddy went to work in a remote corner of the globe to dig among archeological ruins. We were too young. We didn't mind. Gran kept us safe in the wind-swept coastal paradise where we could plod around on her old nag and discover inspiration in the wilds of her back yard. Gran knew our hearts. She kept us fed on things she grew in the garden, and encouraged us to take part in the work of the land.

I reach into my knapsack and pull out the simple bronze urn holding Greta’s ashes. She’d be heartbroken to see these improvements. Like me, my sister had a love for old things. She was a collector of old dishes, old clocks, old dolls, old everything. She even dressed old fashionedly which mystified our mother. But I loved her old timey aesthetic.

Setting the small urn on the porch steps, I’m almost tempted to turn back to the car. This isn’t what I was counting on when I reserved the old place. Guess I should have researched things before flying out here, but I wanted this to be our time – time for Greta and me to make peace. Our last conversation was the end of us.

I still see her running down the back porch, tanned legs pumping, her white night dress whipping around her like a sheet on a clothesline caught in the wind. Still see the angry red welts trailing up the back of her legs. Fucking Stephen. Why’d he think he could tame her?

I never understood their chemistry. They weren’t happy unless they were burning things down. I begged her to leave him but she was hooked, like a fish.

Staring out to sea, tears prick the corners of my eyes. This is gonna be a long week. Better get to it. I turn my back on the gaping sea and pick up the urn and dig out the shiny new key – to a place that was anything but shiny, eight years ago, on this very date, August 13, 1996.

Gardenia and roses waft over me. How is it possible for an empty house to still smell like Gran, all these years later? I expect her to float around the corner from the kitchen, dressed in one of her flowered house dresses with a tray of chocolate chip cookies. Looking around it’s clear that no one in this pristine space has ever had the audacity to make something as messy as chocolate chip cookies. Maybe something less controversial, lemon bars or some kind of quinoa and oatmeal horse treat, gluten and sugar free.

I’m sure the people who bought and refurbished this lovely cottage aren’t terrible or soulless. I just don't know if I can stay in a place so utterly perfect, from its alabaster window shades and warm, cream-colored sofas. Even tasteful beach photos are devoid of color, sand-scapes oozing a hundred shades of beige. I need smears of dirt and dust, even a moldy grape in the fruit bowl would be welcome.

I climb the smooth white steps and enter the master bedroom. I close my eyes and imagine Gran’s furnishings: the ugly Afghan and green gingham sheets, sun-faded from years of drying on the clothesline; her clunky maple dresser, dust covering old perfume bottles. She had a thing for Jeanne Nate and powdered talcum. Opening my eyes I’m awash in a sea of marine blue and white sailcloth, from the crisp linens to the shag rug at the foot of the enormous bed. Gran’s bed was where Greta and I would sleep, if we weren’t on the sleeping porch. I stare out the window and watch waves crash along the shore, in silence. I automatically go to the window, to let in the sea air. These new windows don’t open. Why come to the beach if you can’t feel the outside, if you can’t smell the salty breeze, if you can’t track in sand and mess up the kitchen?

I stumble downstairs and find the back porch. Sleeping porch no more. Just wicker… lots of white wicker. But the screened in space allows waves and wind to permeate this hermetically sealed cottage. I plunk down in a plush chair, surrounded by nautical kitsch. Not one thing in this house feels personal. I know it’s a rental and maybe the owners don’t actually stay here, but there’s something desperate about it all. Even the screen door doesn’t slam with the punishing wind bracing against it. There’s no room for rusty hinges or weak screening.

My heart hammers in my chest as I see my sister the last time we were together, on this very porch. Yelling and crying as I accused her of staying with a man who hurts her. I couldn’t stand to see my fearless, beautiful sister, the one with so much fight and flare, be dampened by a weak man. He only grew when he made her shrivel. She slapped me across the face, the first and only time we ever fought physically. Even as young girls, we never fought, not bodily. We may have disagreed, but we never raised a hand to each other… until that day.

Something snapped in me. I’m the monster. I pushed her savagely, feeling a rage I didn’t know lived inside my bones. She fell against Gran’s old glass table, smacking her head. Immediately I knew I’d killed her. For all the ranting I’d done about her courting danger by living with Stephen, I was worse than all that. He may have threatened her. He may have left scars and bruises on her body. But my one angry outburst ended her.

Gagging I don’t bother emptying my guts outside in the sand dunes. It splashes across the white wicker furniture and tasteful rugs. Gazpacho… the last thing I’ve eaten. I heave until there’s nothing left. Snot and tears and images I’d hoped to exonerate with this trip. I limp to the kitchen and wash out mouth. I grab Greta’s urn.

There’s nothing here for me. For either of us. I don’t deserve redemption. In the end I made sure Stephen took the blame for her death. Wasn’t hard, as he had a history and she had the markings of an abused spouse.

All I have is an albatross on my shoulders, sinking me. I walk towards the sea, Greta’s urn tucked in my arms.