Signs

Present Day

Another gust of wind whips through the trees, a kaleidoscope of autumn leaves scattering across the path ahead of me. The familiar crunch of the pine needles beneath my feet brings me comfort, along with the knowledge that I am almost there. I pull my lightweight cardigan, the rich color of rubies, tightly around me, fending off the brisk air. Soon I will burst through the trees and the sun will warm my goosebumps away.

I know this path like the back of my hand. When I was younger, this was the place my mother and I went when she needed refuge. Peace and quiet, her hand in mine. We came here often.

Rounding the final corner, I can already see the sun kissing the meadow ahead. Blue asters and yellow goldenrods are sprinkled across the grass like confetti, reaching for the sun as the chill of the season sets in. I increase my pace, anxious to reach my destination. Finally I am there, and I gaze up at the towering weeping willow. I imagine its roots stretching out below me, fortified by my mother’s ashes, and I feel her peace wash over me like a warm hug.

“It’s been a year since everything changed, Mom. Can you believe it? I hope I’ve made you proud.”

One Year Earlier

I bury my head beneath my pillow as the phone rings for the third time this morning. The relentless noise dulls, then fades away completely. I am just drifting off again when the shrill ring sounds again.

“Augh! I’m coming!” I roll out of bed, the fact that I am not a morning person evident on my face, and stomp over to the house phone perched on the side table. I don’t know why I kept this line after my parents died, but it’s been six months and I still haven’t gotten rid of it. Consider it done after today. “Hello?” I bark into the phone.

“Hello, is this Katherine Rockford?”

“Yes, this is Kate.” I’m irritated about the volume of calls so early in the morning. The clock on the table catches my eye, and I realize with surprise that it’s nearly noon.

“Kate, this is Peter Sullivan, your parents’ lawyer. I’ve settled their estate and have some information to go through with you. I’d like to meet this afternoon if you’re able.”

After a quick shower to wash off last night’s shift at the diner, I hop in my Range Rover and drive to Peter’s office. His secretary greets me and offers me water, which I decline, before taking me back to his suite.

“Thanks for coming in on such short notice,” Peter says, and I nod as I sink into a buttery soft leather chair. He taps a stack of pages on his desk, aligning the edges in a straight, crisp line. His gray combover is wispy; a tuft in the back is sticking straight up. He clears his throat and my eyes dart back to meet his. I need to focus. “I have some good news that you’re probably expecting, and some that may unfortunately come as a surprise.”

For the next twenty minutes, Peter reviews my inheritance. I’ve been given the house on Stone Cobbler Road, which I expected. I lived there with my parents my entire life, celebrating my twenty-first birthday just five days before their car accident. Staying there while finishing my business degree saved me money, but the real reason I stayed was that I couldn’t leave my mom alone with him. After graduation I planned to find a job far, far away and take her with me. I would lose my inheritance, but I didn’t care one bit. That’s why I started working at the diner – I wanted my money to be my own. Mom and I would be happy and safe, and my dad could keep his piles of cash for company. I never got to tell her my plan.

Next, Peter explains the financial portion of the inheritance, and my reality shifts. As it turns out, John Rockford was not only an abusive drunk, he was also a liar and a cheat. After paying all of his back-taxes and the money he owed, my multi-million dollar inheritance has dwindled to $20,000. Twenty grand and a mansion on Stone Cobbler Road that echoes with memories of a life filled with disappointment. Even in death, my father had to deliver a final blow.

“There is one more thing,” Peter clears his throat, apparently oblivious to the lump that has formed in mine. “Your mom stopped in a few months before she passed, and she left this box for you. This was only intended for you; if she passed before your father, he was not to see it.”

I thank Peter for his work, and numbly walk to my car, the manila folder full of papers in one hand and the small box in the other. Despite the cool October weather, sweat pools under my bra and trickles down my spine. My mind is racing and my heart is pounding. What did my mother leave for me, and me alone?

I quickly climb into the car, tossing the papers on the passenger seat and flipping the box around to inspect it from all angles. It’s a plain cardboard box, tied shut with twine. A perfect, shallow square. I loosen the twine, letting it fall onto my lap. Blood rushes in my ears and black spots threaten to obscure my vision. Shaking my head and blinking rapidly, I slowly remove the cover. I’m expecting to see a bracelet, or maybe another piece of jewelry that she didn’t want dad to know about. Instead, I see a metal keychain, engraved with the image of a scruffy dog. Coco, my grandparents’ terrier. My mom and I loved dogs and had always wanted one of our own, but my dad would never allow it. What in the world? I run my finger over the image and gently remove it from the box, flipping it over. A gold key dangles in the air. On the back of the keychain, in simple script, it says 477 Acorn Lane.

My GPS tells me there’s a matching address 35 minutes from here. It’s not even a question; I am driving full speed ahead, racing for answers. I make it there in 27 minutes flat.

Pulling up outside of the little cottage, I’m disappointed that there is nothing remotely familiar about this place. My mom always told me to look for signs that I am on the right track in life, and at this point I don’t even know if I’m on the right track in this moment. I have no clue what I’m doing here. Is this even the 477 Acorn Lane listed on my mother’s key? My key?

I glance around and, not seeing any signs of life, approach the front door. After knocking twice, I try the key myself. My hand is shaking as I attempt to put the key into the lock. It takes me three tries, but finally, I get it. It is a perfect fit.

The inside of the house offers me no more clues than the outside did. I enter a small living room, sparsely furnished with a shabby blue couch and a well-loved wooden coffee table. The carpet is a mottled brown, worn, but clean. From there I wander into the kitchen and dining room, where there is a card table and chairs set neatly beneath the chandelier. Down the hall are two small bedrooms, completely devoid of furniture, and an empty bathroom. There is a short hallway on the other side of the house, at the end of which is a third bedroom. A twin bed is pushed against one corner, a white comforter pulled snugly around the edges. There is a toothbrush and toothpaste in the connecting bathroom, but nothing else. No clothes in the closet. No pictures on the walls. Nothing.

I roam back into the kitchen and continue my search, revealing empty cupboard after empty cupboard. The drawers are vacant as well. That is, until I reach a skinny drawer tucked in the far corner beside the stove. As I pull the knob, I feel the weight of something shifting inside. Sure enough, there in the drawer is a slim, black notebook. There is a stretchy elastic closure holding the book shut, but no other markings on the outside. I gently pick it up, an effervescent buzzing starting in my fingertips and working its way all the way to my toes. Right now, in this moment, I feel my mother, and I am both thrilled and terrified to read what is inside.

---

Two hours later, to say I am overwhelmed would be an understatement. My mom kept this journal for me, a lifetime of secrets that I never knew. She bought this house a few months before she died, using money she carefully snuck away and hid from my father. Well, the man I thought was my father. Of all the jaw-dropping revelations, this one took the cake.

It turns out the man that I called “dad” - the verbally and physically abusive low-life in $2,000 Armani suits - was not my father at all. My biological father, my mom wrote, was her high school sweetheart and the love of her life, Anderson Tiffner. They broke up in college, when the dazzling John Rockford lured her away, and she never looked back. That is, besides the final one night stand she and Anderson had one month after she became Mrs. Rockford. Enter baby Kate.

Despite traveling for work, my dad assumed the baby was his. Even though my mom knew the truth, she couldn’t possibly tell him. It would ruin the picture-perfect life she was living at the time. But the reality was, Anderson meant the world to her. Leaving him was the biggest regret of her life, especially after I was born and my father started drinking more and becoming increasingly controlling, which escalated into abuse. “Anderson Tiffner is nothing like John Rockford,” she emphasized. He is kind and good, and she thinks I am just like him. I have his eyes.

Present Day

I spread out my blanket and lay on my stomach, just like I did when it was the two of us escaping beneath the weeping willow all those years ago. Even though she isn’t here, I like to believe that my mom can hear me, and so I do what I always do now. I talk.

I tell her how I went to meet Anderson Tiffner. How she was right: he is kind and good, and I hope every day that I am like him. I tell her how I go to his house every Sunday for brunch, and how he made me feel like family the moment I met him. I tell her how he always loved her, too.

I sold the house on Stone Cobbler Road. I used some of the profits to fix up the house on Acorn Lane, the way I imagined she would have done. I put in white cabinets and marble countertops, and she was right, they really brightened up the entire room. I tore out the old carpets and refinished the natural hardwood floors. I sat on the polished floor and cried, because I knew she would love it, but I also knew that she had wanted to do this together.

The rest of the profits from the house went into my new business. I started a pet rescue, geared toward older dogs who have found themselves in need of a home in their golden years. The very first pet that I took in was surrendered by a woman entering hospice care. She wanted to make sure she had a loving home for her baby, a 12-year-old pug named Coco.

I took it as a beautiful sign that, finally, I was on the right track.