Eamon pulled into the drive, barely getting the truck parked before he opened the door, then he was slamming it behind him.
He walked toward the house as the front door opened and a woman’s face appeared, her hand twisted into the edge of the apron tied around her waist. His voice was drowned out by the sound of the cicadas in the trees, but I could tell the two of them were arguing.
I hesitated before I reached for the handle and pushed the truck door open. My feet found the ground as I watched them on the porch. The woman’s eyes jumped from Eamon to me.
I knew who she was as soon as I saw her. I’d seen her countless times in photographs. Esther Farrow, my great-great-grandmother, stood there looking at me with an expression that said she knew exactly who I was, too.
Their voices quieted as I crossed the yard, and Esther’s expression didn’t change from the deep concern that wrinkled her brow. She fell quiet as I got closer, and they both stared at me before she finally gave Eamon a nod.
“Thank you.” His voice was heavy.
Esther Farrow stared at me, eyes trailing from the top of my head down to my feet. When her eyes lifted to meet mine again, it was guarded. Distant.
“Annie!” Eamon took hold of the front door, pulling it wider. A few seconds later, a quick patter of footsteps sounded inside the house. It was followed by the bob of a head behind the window.
A small girl that looked to be at least a few years old came outside, hiding behind Esther’s long skirt. Her wild, waving blond hair was pulled into two unraveled braids and the dress she wore came down to her knees, where tall woolen socks were pulled up over her calves. By the time my gaze made it to her face, she was staring at me. No, not at me. Into me.
She stood so still she looked like a doll, her pink lips the same shade as the apple of her cheeks. I pinned my eyes to the porch steps, unable to bring myself to look at her for another second. I couldn’t bring myself to ask who she was. I was certain I didn’t want to know.
Eamon reached for her and she untangled herself from Esther’s skirt so that he could pick her up. She tucked herself against him and her eyes found me over his shoulder, but Eamon shifted her in his arms, blocking her view. He carried her to the truck without another word.
“Hello, June.” Esther still stood in the doorway, hands clasped at her waist. “We’ve got ourselves quite a problem, don’t we?”
She watched me come up the steps, her sharp eyes not missing anything. They were an icy blue that was made even brighter by her fair, silver-streaked hair, giving her an almost ethereal look. Like she was cast in moonlight despite the glow of the late afternoon sun.
“Is she here?” My voice wavered.
“Who?”
“My mother,” I said.
The word mother was unfamiliar on my tongue, and it sounded strange spoken in my voice. Foreign, even.
She took a step forward, meeting me halfway on the porch. “When you showed up here five years ago, that was the first question you asked me.”
Five years ago. Those three words landed one at a time, making my heart race.
“Where is she?” I whispered.
“It’s 1951, June.” She looked me in the eye, a well of compassion brimming in her voice. “Susanna is dead.”
Eleven
Thirty years. I was more than thirty years too late.
I don’t remember falling asleep. I barely remember walking through Esther’s door. The first rooster’s cry came before the sun crested the mountains, and the sound was so much like home that for a split second, I forgot where I was.
No, when I was.
The bedroom at the northeast corner of the farmhouse was one I’d slept in many nights when Gran was working late on the farm or she had to stay over to keep an eye on morning deliveries. Yet, in the lifetime of this house, this was still the first time I’d woken beneath this roof. The room smelled the same, and in many ways it looked the same, too. It felt as if I was the only thing that was different now, and that was a change that couldn’t be undone. Susanna is dead.
I’d known it for a long time. There was never a thing in me that felt like she was out there somewhere, waiting for me to find her. But ever since I’d seen that photograph, a part of me had wanted it to be true. The abandoned child tucked away and still living inside of me had seen the words trust me, and I’d let myself believe, in some small way, that I could find her. And when I did, I would finally understand why she’d left.
I sat up on the edge of the bed, knees drawn into my chest. My fingers nervously fidgeted with the hem of my jeans as I listened to the sounds of the house. Footsteps had been trailing up and down the hallway for at least an hour, but I hadn’t made a sound. If I opened that door, it wouldn’t be the house I knew. It wouldn’t be the farm I knew. This place was an unknown land, and something told me I wasn’t safe in it.
The breeze tugged at the curtains that framed the open window. Outside, the tractor that sat rusted and hidden by overgrown brambles at the corner of the barn in 2023 was clearly operational. The farm was laid out differently than the one I’d grown up working. From the second floor, I could see that there wasn’t a clear-cut pattern to the plots, and the fields were mostly wild, an old tactic that relied on native species growing between the plants to help with drainage and pests. In 2023 we had modern practices that controlled those things, and even from the road, you could see the orderly layout of the farm.
There were two makeshift greenhouses that no longer existed in my time, replaced by fancy structures with irrigation and aeration systems. These were more like glorified potting sheds where I suspected Esther grew roses. That was one of the things the farm had been known for during this time—year-round roses that you could otherwise get only in New York.
But the thing my eyes kept looking for was the door.
Every time I’d seen it, it had appeared unexpectedly, out of nowhere. And there had been days, weeks, sometimes months in between. But I didn’t have that kind of time. I needed to get out of here. Now.
A familiar scent crept into the air, and I closed my eyes when the burn of tears ignited behind them. Biscuits baking in the oven—a smell I intrinsically associated with home. I let my feet fall to the floor and stood, making my way to the door. It opened with a creak, and I came down the narrow wooden stairs to see Esther in the kitchen. Her hair was pinned at the nape of her neck and a fresh, unwrinkled dress beneath her clean apron.
She didn’t look up at me as I timidly stepped out of the hallway. “Did you manage to sleep at all?”
I nodded, the chill in the drafty house making me shiver.
“Good. There’s coffee if you’d like some.”
My eyes went past her, to the percolator on the stove. There was steam pouring from the spout. “Thanks.”
Her gaze followed me as I crossed the kitchen. She was straining something through a cheesecloth in the sink. “Cups are up on the shelf.”
I searched around me until I saw the one she was talking about. A small, crude plank of wood beside the icebox held four mismatched mugs. As long as I could remember, there had always been a cabinet on that wall.
I reached up, taking the cup nearest to me and holding it to my chest. “Thank you for letting me stay.”
“Eamon didn’t give me much of a choice, did he?” Esther smirked. “But you’re a Farrow, June. This place is as much yours as it is mine, even if you’ve ended up on the wrong end of time.”