The Intersection

She replays the moment over and over. She recognized her father’s truck when she glanced past her best friend and out of the school bus window. She recognized her father. She didn’t recognize the women who turned and leaned toward him. Cat’s head whipped around quickly, to double check, confirm she was mistaken but the vantage had changed and the truck was out of view.

She slumps against the seat and her best friend nudged her gently: "Cat, I just asked you what you want to do when you come over Friday night."

She refocuses and forces a smile: "Let’s just watch a movie." She pauses: "Can you meet me at the old barn after you are done with piano practice. I just saw something weird." She frowns and immediately regrets saying this out loud. It feels as if mentioning the possibility of what she just saw manifests reality. They are on their way back from a field trip.

The truck. Her father. A woman.

Her parents had been the first to purchase a home in the new Farm View Meadows subdivision. Even now few homes are finished. Most lots still marked with different colors of flagging and more waiting to be cleared. She often wondered at the Name Farm View Meadows. They had toured other homes in other subdivisions and so often they were named after the thing that was replaced: Orchard Gardens, Wildflower Village, and Pecan Grove. There were no orchards, gardens, wildflowers, villages, pecans and definitely no pecan groves. All that was left were the names.

Farm View Meadows seemed to suggest that there once had been a farm, a view and a meadow. With few neighbors, and to avoid her younger brothers she explored the woods that bordered the cleared lots looking for evidence of the name sake among the trees. In early spring white blossoms revealed the presence of twisted old apple trees, and this was followed by the discovery of a raspberry thicket, a chimney, and an old rundown barn.

The structure still stands solid, in spite of the appearance that it is propped up by the forest that crowded and obscured its presence. The hard packed earth of the interior is dark, damp and several degrees cooler than the outside air. The air still carried a hint of salty sweat, warm bodies, and manure. It is a comforting earthy smell. A ladder still leans against the opening of a trap door to the hayloft. Dappled sunshine enters through the large door on one end of the gable. The frayed remnants of a rope dangling from an old pulley system that hoisted bales of hay into storage, swing in the slight breeze. Any remnants of hay, have long since turned to dust. Swallows have taken up residence in the rafters.

Shortly after she discovered the barn. Eleanor moved in next door and they explored the space together.

From the vantage point of the hay loft she feels like she is in the branches of the tress. Her arms wrapped around her knees, she runs through the images again.

The Truck. Her father. A woman.

"Cat, why do you have a sleeping bag up here? And books and food?" Eleanor’s face sticking through the opening in the floor.

"You can hardly call those pudding cups food", Cat grumbles. "I brought one for you too."

Eleanor hoists herself into the loft. "What is going on?"

"I’m not going home." Cat states sullenly.

She knows that her mother took her brothers to a soccer game and that that will be followed by a trip to the grocery store. Her father won’t be home till dinner. It will be a few more hours before anyone notices her absence, but since playing in the woods behind her house is what she does almost every day, it will be a while before her absence from the house is abnormal.

"I want them to worry about me", she admits and she is shocked to realize that this is true. The entire time she had been collecting supplies around the house, all she thought about was the truck, her dad and the woman. She had not thought about why she was jamming her backpack full of her favorite books, snacks, and a pillow. She was just angry. "This won’t work", she whispers, mostly to herself.

Eleanor sits down next to her and wraps an arm around Cat’s shoulder. "What movie do you want to watch when you come over Friday night?"

Cat shakes her head as tears squeeze out of the corners of her eyes. "I saw my dad’s truck on the drive back from our field trip today. It was him. He wasn’t alone. He was with a woman who wasn’t my mom."

Eleanor squeezes her tighter. They both sit silence.

The breeze is picking up. The branches of the trees are rustling against the sides of the old barn. The sun is creeping down the sky and the girl’s shadows are stretching along the worn wide planks of the hay loft floor. They sit. They sit for a long time.

Cat finally looks at her best friends. "How about we watch Tangled when I come over. I know it’s kind of a kid movie... but I used to really like it."

"Sounds like a good plan."

They stand and stretch. Cat scoops up her sleeping bag and drops it out of the hay loft door. She gather up her books, and snack wrappers, and bag. “Help me carry all this down the ladder."

The downstairs is dark. The woods have more shadow than light. Cat gathers adjusts her backpack and gathers her sleeping bag. Both girls pause for a long moment.

"What are you going to do?"

"I don’t know”, Cat admits. “I’ll see you at the bus stop tomorrow."

Her family is already seated at the dinner table. She can see them through the dining room window as she walks toward the house. Quietly she enters through the back door though the laundry. Her brothers are laughing loudly. She tucks the sleeping bag next to the washer, sets down her bag, and washes her hands. She takes her place at the table.

Her mother smiles at her: "How was your field trip?"

"A good excuse to miss English and we stopped to get ice cream after lunch. Ordering took forever." She takes a deep breath and looks squarely at her dad. "What did you do for lunch? I saw your truck. I saw you."

"I saw you and a woman", she silently adds in her head. The truck. Her father. A woman. The loop that has been repeating in her mind pauses and shifts. There is space for what comes next. She hold his gaze. He knows. She knows. She knows that this is not a secret he will ask her to keep.

Thank you for reading! If you enjoyed this story, please consider dropping it a heart, sharing, or reading my first vocal story: Pocket Treasures

If you'd like to keep up with my art, urban homestead or family adventures, check out my Instagram: @busyhandshomestead.