Building Sanctuary

Marti pulled into the overgrown circle driveway and sat, staring at her own last name on the big, L-shaped, hip-roofed barn. She had never wanted the name she was given when she first came to this place at age five. She had been Martina Lopez before the farm. Sometimes Abuela called her “Marti”, but the way she said it, with a rolled “r” and long vowels was musical. The flat, midwestern pronunciation of her new family just wasn’t the same. “Your name is Mar-dee Miller now,” they told her. She hated it, but she didn’t have much choice. For as long as she could remember, Abuela and Catarina had taken care of her. But then Abuela had a stroke and the lady said that Catarina, at age nine, wasn’t old enough to take care of them. Not that she hadn’t tried. Cat had always been a little mother – looking after everyone else. Even now, her older sister had taken time out of her busy, suburban mom life to call and make sure Marti was okay.

Yesterday, the lawyer had given her keys to the house – including a weathered, old skeleton key that she knew would open the front door that led into the parlor. She wasn’t ready for that just yet. Leaning her head against the cool steering wheel of her rental, she let out a long sigh. She wasn’t sure if she was ready for any of this.

It had been 13 years since she last been to the farm. Back then, she had been a terrified but determined 17-year-old in the company of a Sheriff’s deputy who had taken her to get her clothes, books, a couple of photos, her work uniform, and a few personal items. Despite the fact that all her worldly possessions fit into two grocery bags, the woman who had once been her mother had objected to her taking the books and Tampax because she had paid for them. Never mind that the books had been a Christmas gift. Mother had accused her of “stealing” and trying to “sneak out like a thief in the night.” That it was the middle of the day, and she was there with a police escort, didn’t discourage her mother’s twisted logic.

In the end, Marti had dumped the bags out on the kitchen table, taken her McDonald’s uniform, the treasured picture of she and Cat with Abuela, and the clothes on her back. She left everything else and never went back – until today.

She had finished high school by the grace of Bob and Joyce Johnson – the parents of her best friend, Jess. They had let her stay with them until after graduation. Living here, at the farm, had taught Marti how to keep her head down and stay out of trouble. Her senior year consisted mostly of work and school. While her classmates went to games and dances, she worked, read, and studied. She didn’t attend prom. Instead, she had volunteered for extra shifts at McDonald’s on the weekends, which meant working a lot of kids’ birthday parties. Everyone else at work complained about them, but she loved seeing the joyful children full of sugar and happiness.

With a wistful smile, Marti glanced at the storm door off the kitchen, remembering the feel of the smooth glass pressed against her small face. It had been her seventh birthday, and her mother had promised that she could have a party. She’d never had a birthday party before, but she’d been to a few. She helped Cat make the cake – chocolate, her favorite. Together they had blown up balloons, decorated the dining room with crepe paper streamers, and set the table with mama’s best linen cloth and pink paper plates. Marti’s wild hair had been tamed into two long pigtails, and secured with her good ribbons. She put on her best church dress – it itched, but she wanted to look nice for the party. Everything was ready for guests to arrive, but as she was carefully working the buckles on her white, patent-leather shoes, she could hear mama and Cat arguing. Cat was using her soft, soothing voice, while mother’s voice sounded agitated, confused, and increasingly angry.

“I don’t want people here today, Catherine!”

“But everything is ready. You don’t have to do anything. We will clean up afterwards, I’ll even vacuum…”

“I don’t feel well today. It’s not a good day.”

“You can stay in your room. Have a nice rest…”

“There needs to be a chaperone. You aren’t old enough…”

“Ted and Marie are coming! They can supervise. It’s only a few girls from school. They won’t be any bother. I promise.”

“How would it look for your brother and that woman to host a party in my home? No, Catherine. Not today.”

“But Marti has been looking forward to it for weeks. Invitations went out, guests will be here any minute.”

*CRACK* Marti heard the slap echo off the wood floors of their mother’s parlor. Gone was the anxiety in mother’s voice, replaced with the familiar, cold cruelty.

“That’s enough sass, young lady. I said no. Tell them to go away. When everyone is gone, you can have a piece of cake. Don’t say I didn’t do anything for Marti’s birthday.”

Moments later, her brave, beautiful sister had walked into the kitchen with her jaw clenched, fire in her eyes, and a red handprint burning on her cheek. The instant she saw Marti, the expression on her face went from rage to a radiant, loving smile.

“Hey, mariposa! I’m so sorry, butterfly, mother is sick today. But we’ll have our own party! Cake! Balloons! Presents!”

One by one, the girls from her second-grade class had come to the door, arms full of beautifully wrapped gifts. Marti had pressed her face against the glass so she could see their pretty party dresses, as well as their shocked expressions as they were each politely turned away. The look on the mothers’ faces revealed confusion, anger, and pity. When everyone was gone, Cat lit seven candles on the cake, and sang “Happy Birthday” to her. As she blew out the candles, Marti wished extra hard.

Their “brother” Ted was mother’s son from her second marriage. Or maybe her third? Marti lost track. By the time Cat and Marti came to the farm, Ted was already in his thirties and married to Marie. He would occasionally show up with a truckload of firewood, or he and Marie might join them for dinner, but that was infrequent. Now retired, Ted didn’t have any interest in the farm. He had received a third of mother’s surprisingly substantial savings, and had only wanted the vintage wooden boat that was housed in the lower barn. He was driving down later in the week to pick it up.

This thought prompted Marti into action. She wondered if the boat was even accessible. Glancing at the barn door, she noted that it was overgrown with tall weeds and brambles. She again studied the keys, finding the one that fit the garage door. The lock turned stiffly, but Marti bumped the door with her hip, and it bounced open. The garage smelled of dust with an undertone of cat pee. She’d forgotten that mother had cared for the feral barn cats – offering them kibble and warmth in the garage during winter months. She’d shown more affection and care for those cats than she ever had for her own children.

Marti contemplated this. What had once been a painful wound, was now merely a statement of fact. Her mother had been broken. Decades of abuse and neglect had failed to teach her how to have healthy, loving relationships. A revolving succession of husbands hadn’t improved the situation, nor had the various drugs that had been prescribed for mother’s “sensitive nature” that Marti now understood to have been bipolar disorder. As a child, Mother’s moods had been confusing and traumatic. As an adult, Marti felt a pang of sympathy for the unhappy woman.

Marti found what she was looking for in the garage – a flat, metal tool used for cutting brush. She grabbed it and headed towards the barn. On her way, she passed the flower garden that she and mother had created together the summer that she was 12. She started whacking at the weeds as she recalled the memory.

They had spent weeks hauling rocks from a collapsed, fieldstone silo on the back of the property. It was her job to stack the rocks to create a border for the riot of flowers that her mother planted. Mother showed her how to plan the space to showcase the blooms, draw the eye, and always have something pretty to look at, no matter the season. They created a bed between the house and the barns that covered a space of about fifty by ten feet. A second floral rockery was at the front of the house – framing the front steps and the wrap-around porch where mother liked to sit in her swing.

Breaking from her trip down memory lane, Marti realized that she’d made real progress clearing the actual lane. Later she would gather what she had cut and haul it out to the burn barrel on the back of her property. Thoughtfully, she considered. Building the flower beds was one of the happiest times she had spent here. Mother had seemed like a different person as she gently showed her how to plant, water, and fertilize. Marti knew that gardening had been mother’s sanctuary, but she hadn’t ever thought about how much mother’s eye for space and color had likely influenced her own. Marti had spent the past six years working as an event planner – consulting, planning, decorating, arranging. She had hundreds of delighted clients and guests who could attest to how good she was.

A few more wallops from the scythe, and Marti was able to muscle the barn door open. She squinted up into the huge space, watching the dust floating in the filtered light, and grinned. It was gorgeous. Dirty, overgrown, and full of poop that was probably older than she was, but gorgeous, nonetheless.

Marti’s pace quickened as she started exploring the property with her professional eye. No longer a scared teenager, she was a successful businesswoman, a planner, and a property owner with money in the bank. She whooped as she dropped down from the hay loft.

There were 18 shaded acres filled with mature trees, overgrown flower beds, and rusty farm equipment. There were two huge barns, woodshed, corn crib, and five-bedroom house. Sure, the house had shag carpet and dated wallpaper, but it also had exposed, hand-hewn beams, hardwood floors, two staircases, a formal dining room, and wood floors throughout. The country kitchen was 70s chic, but it was enormous, as was the main-floor master with ensuite bath. The upstairs bathroom was small, but its antique claw-foot tub would be the centerpiece of a second master.

The corn crib would become a “gazebo” where couples could have photos taken under the twinkling fairy lights. More lights where the barns joined with a concrete slab in the middle - their dance floor. Both barns would get electric and plumbing upgrades. Accessible bathrooms for guests, a farmhouse sink for prep and cleanup.

Her brain was busy running numbers, but she could already envision the space that she would create here. A beautiful venue for weddings, reunions, showers, birthdays, and fancy tea parties. She could build an owner’s cabin at the end of the lane, and rent the house to event guests.

Inspired, Marti recalled what she had wished for on that birthday so long ago – for a happy home full of love and lots of parties all the time. What had then seemed an impossible dream, now seemed like a certainty. There was work to be done, but she was going to build her own sanctuary and make her wish come true.