I’m more than halfway through this experiment, using prompts provided by Kate Motaung for the Five Minute Friday community. I went with a story idea rather than 31 separate posts, so if you’ve missed the first chapters of the story, you can start here. It’s a completely unedited free write of at least 5 minutes at day. Comments are encouraged!
Chapter 17
Pause
“Oh. My. Word.” Erin gasped. She stood stunned just inside the front door and gaped at the stunning interior of Hazel’s house. Never in a million years would she have guessed from the outside that her house would hold the treasures it did.
Before they went any further, Scott handed her disposable gloves and booties to put over her shoes. Neither of them believed at this point that this was a crime scene of any sort, but it was better safe than sorry.
Hazel’s sunken living room looked like something out of Sunset magazine. Immediately Erin’s eyes were drawn to the huge windows facing the Bay. Though the trees were overgrown and the view was impeded, she could tell that in its prime, the panorama would not have been exceeded. As was typical of houses in the area, you entered on the top level and then stairs would have taken you to the rest of the living area below.
There were French doors that lead out to a massive deck held up by stilts buried deep into the hillside. Unlike the front and side windows that could be reached from ground level, these enormous windows were not covered in plywood, so light filtered through the large pine and eucalyptus trees surrounding the yard.
But even more than the spectacular view, Erin was struck by the beauty and what must have been incredible value of the pieces of art and collectibles around the room. From paintings on the walls to the antique furniture to what looked like priceless glass vases and rare carved miniatures, Hazel’s place was a showcase of art and beauty.
Erin was no expert, but her years of visiting museums with her parents had given her an eye for art. That, along with a general interest in the business end of art galleries, caused her to know beyond a shadow of a doubt, that she was seeing something extraordinary.
“Oh, Scott,” she breathed. “How in the world . . .” She couldn’t even put into words what she was feeling as she surveyed the scene.
“Certainly is unexpected,” he agreed.
“Do you think they’re authentic?” Erin asked as she stepped into the room and carefully picked up a bronze figure of what looked like an Egyptian cat. “How in the world could Hazel and Bernie have afforded this stuff? There’s definitely something we don’t know.”
Heading in opposite directions, Erin walked toward the kitchen to the right of the living room, still marveling at the exquisite pieces she was seeing for the first time, and Scott started in the bedrooms. Nothing looked amiss in the kitchen. Everything was clean and tidy, no dishes left on the marble countertop. She pulled open the dishwasher and saw several plates and a few cups and utensils awaiting washing.
She turned to the refrigerator and saw what looked like normal fare, milk that had not yet reached it’s expiration date, some eggs, a loaf of bread. Jelly. Pretty normal stuff. She didn’t see anything out of the ordinary until she looked at the wall next to the stove. There, she saw a calendar from the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art. That in itself wasn’t so extraordinary. But the fact that is was from 1998 was.
Erin paused before the calendar. Her heart beating just a little faster. 1998 was the year Bryan and Bernie died. In fact, the calendar was still on April, the month of their death. There were a few things written on it: April 4, Madison’s birthday party, 3:00; April 8, PTA meeting, 7:00; April 11, T-ball practice 6:00. That was the fateful day. April 11th. A Saturday evening. Practice must have gone a little late because it was dark when the accident occurred.
How strange that after 20 years, Hazel had not taken down or even changed the calendar.
“Erin!” Scott called from the back hallway. “You’re gonna want to see this.”
Remembering the shock she had gotten the first time he had said those words, Erin headed down the hallway with a little trepidation. Scott was standing inside a bedroom on the right side of the hall. As Erin stepped in, she inhaled sharply. “It’s like stepping into a time machine,” she breathed. This had undoubtedly been Bryan’s room. And it looked as if nothing at all had been touched since he had died. Except that it was free of dust. Otherwise, the bed was crumpled and stuffed animals, a small yellow lion and big brown teddy bear, lay toppled over on their sides. Little boy tennis shoes were sitting beside the bed and the bottom drawer of the short wooden dresser was open with the sleeve of a T-shirt hanging out the front.
The bright yellow walls were covered in posters of what must have been Bryan’s favorite baseball players. Barry Bonds of the across-the-Bay Giants, Mark McGwire and Jose Canseco—the Bash Brothers—of the hometown A’s, Ken Griffey Jr. of the Mariners. Erin slowly turned in a circle as she took it all in.
“What’s happening here, Scott?” Erin wondered. “It’s surreal. Did you find anything in the other bedrooms?”
Scott shook his head, “Everything seems to have been frozen in 1998. In the master bedroom, all Bernie’s stuff is still out as if he was going to come home and pick it up again. I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“The calendar in the kitchen is turned to April, 1998,” Erin told him. “That’s the month they died.”
“Let’s head downstairs and see what’s going on down there,” Scott suggested, leading the way out of the little boy’s bedroom.
Erin followed with one last wistful look at the heart-wrenching tableau.
The words of this old hymn, written by S. Trevor Francis in the latter part of the 1800s, came to mind first and foremost when I saw the prompt for this week’s Five Minute Friday post. We are finite humans, trying to understand an infinite God, and it’s just not possible.
As the last couple of years have been heavy with heartache, I have struggled with anxiety and feeling out of control. I want things to be “right.” I want everything to work out so that everyone is happy and nobody struggles and flowers and rainbows pop up everywhere.
There are burdens we simply aren’t meant to carry. That’s been my mantra for the past several weeks as we’ve struggled with the choices of one of our children. “Not mine to carry.”
If that father with his child chooses to hand him a notebook to carry from that big ol’ backpack, then that’s the father’s choice, and it is to help make the child stronger. But what he gives his child will never be too hard because he’s got the lion’s share. On his strong shoulders the burden is borne.
Compelled 