I’ve been here a thousand times. That’s how it feels, like a kind of home.
My heart is knocking in my chest.
Then the door swings open, slowly. And first there is darkness.
Then there you are, Adam, waiting.
Your form fills the doorway and when you step into the light, that crooked, dark smile, the gleam of victory in your eyes. We stand a moment, what feels like a great distance between us, though it’s only feet.
The call of a barred owl, ghostly, asking, Who looks for you? Who looks for you? Then the answer of another bird, this time a low moan.
You think I’m here to forgive you.
That I’ve come to let you reveal your darkness to me.
But that is not why I have come.
In one swift movement, I draw, aim, and fire. The sound vibrates through the night, wings flap from the trees. Your eyes widen in surprise, mouth dropping open. You fall heavily to the wood.
As I move closer, your hand reaches up to stanch the flow of blood, a terrible blossom on the white of your shirt, just like the night Jay died. I stand over you and watch the light drain from your eyes as you reach for me. Then I look more closely.
It’s not you at all. It’s my father.
I wake up screaming as my car jerks off the road, careening into the ditch and coming to a hard, jarring stop. My airbag deploys, filling all my senses and pushing me back against the seat. I must have fallen asleep at the wheel, just lucky I veered to the right, no other cars on this dark road. My God. What is wrong with me?
Breathless, disoriented, I stumble from the car into the cold darkness. Your face, my father’s face swim. All my fury, all my fear, all my frustration, it claws up my chest and releases in a wail into the black, absorbed by the uncaring trees and the distant sky. I lean against the hot hood and scream and scream into the silence of the night until I’m spent.
My head aches from the impact of the airbag, the whiplash of the stop.
Now what? Now what?
Okay, breathe. Orient.
I walk a few feet and around the bend. I see that fence, the one in my dream. Chain link with a sign of warning, faded and hanging by a single link. I approach.
Reclaimed Land. Private Property. Do Not Enter.
I know about this, a movement to repair lands that have been damaged by corporations, contaminated, and abandoned. Some private citizens have sought to buy those areas and restore them, heal them and make them livable again.
This metal fence with the hanging sign was in your directions. Maybe that’s why my addled mind wove it into my dreams. I should go back to the car, get my phone and my gun. But I don’t.
Already, the world I belonged to is slipping away from me. There’s something about the air, the trees, the quiet that’s calling me, its pull irresistible.
I’m in a trance. Maybe I hit my head. Maybe I’m still dreaming.
The gate will not be locked. Pull it open and follow the path. It’s not far now. Leave your car and come on foot.
Robin is waiting on the path. She doesn’t have to ask me to follow her. She knows I will. She races away, finally set free. She’s always so confined in the town house, aching to get back to the place she came from. She disappears from view, swallowed by the dark and the trees.
I like the idea of this, the reclamation of damaged lands. I know my father would have, too, the idea that you can take a piece of the planet that has been destroyed and heal it. Make it habitable again. Even the most devastated regions, like Chernobyl, heal with time—animals return, vegetation reforests the abandoned structures, wildflowers growing up through floorboards. After the enormous fire that destroyed almost 30 percent of Yellowstone, it is healthier than ever. The planet repairs itself, heals itself. I like the idea that we, the perpetrators, can help it, clear away debris, use abandoned structures to create sanctuaries for animals, birds, native plants. Build homes that cooperate with the planet, don’t scar it.
The house is waiting around the next bend.
It is not the place in my dreams, but similar, and again I have the feeling that I have been here before. It’s low and modern, with big windows and a tall, double front door. I step onto the stone walkway, and then up the shallow steps to the porch. The wood is reclaimed, distressed, and etched with character. The doors, too, look as though they are pieces of another structure, maybe a barn. My hand on the knob, the door swings open and I step inside.
A great room with an open plan. From the foyer, the kitchen, the living room, the dining table and chairs are all visible. The back wall is a row of glass doors. It’s dark outside, but I imagine they open onto a deck surrounded by trees.