Mildred Charlotte Wilson's Arc

Chapter 8 of 12

Mildred reached the house after dark. The porch was the one from the photo. The iron rail still twisted the same way. The crooked mailbox said 14. She parked and sat with her hands on the wheel. No lights burned inside. No car sat in the drive. The windows were black squares. She walked to the porch. Her feet were slow. She knocked. The sound died in the house. She knocked again and waited. Nothing moved. She tried the door. Locked. She cupped her hands to the glass and looked in. She saw shapes of furniture under sheets. Dust. A room no one had touched in a long time. Her chest went tight. Her mother had written that she waited here. But the house looked empty for years. Mildred did not know if the woman was gone for a week or gone forever. She had driven two hours for a locked door. She pulled the shamrock from her pocket. The blue stone in its center glowed against her palm. The green leaves shimmered as she turned it. For one second the light shifted, as if it looked past the door and saw something inside. She had learned to trust that pull. It had led her here. She would not drive away now. Not after thirty-five years. Mildred walked around the back. A window near the door was cracked open an inch. She worked her fingers under the frame and pushed. The old wood gave. She lifted the window and climbed through. Inside, the air was cold and stale. Dust coated the floor. Her steps left dark prints. She held the shamrock up like a lamp. Its light spread over sheeted chairs and a dead fireplace. She moved through the front room, then a hall. On the wall she found photographs. A young woman stood on this same porch, holding a baby. The woman's face matched the shaky hand in the letter. Mildred's throat closed. She touched the frame. She reached the kitchen. On the table sat a coffee cup, dry and stained. Beside it lay an open notebook. The dust on the table was thin, thinner than the rest of the house. Someone had sat here. Not years ago. Weeks, maybe days. Mildred bent over the notebook. The last page held fresh ink. A single line: "Gone to the county home. Come find me. I am running out of time." A date sat below it. Three weeks old. The shamrock pulsed hard in her hand. Its stone flared bright, then dimmed. Mildred stood in the empty kitchen and understood. Her mother was alive. Her mother had left this house sick, and left word where to follow. The door had been locked, but the answer waited inside all along. She tore the page free and folded it into her pocket. She climbed back out the window and ran to the car. She had a new place to reach, and a woman who was running out of time.