Journey of Awakening

Prologue

     Girls my age should be at the beach with hot boys and trying to sneak in past curfew. Trying alcohol and kissing boys under the stars. Me? No… I am in the car traveling to the middle of nowhere. Well Pittsburg, New Hampshire to be exact. I am 16 and I am going to pack up a house I have never seen. My dad’s grandmother's house was being put up for sale, and of course he had to volunteer to pack and clean out. My dad was pretty close with her, though I had never met her. I would often hear him talk on the phone with her almost everyday; when I got home from school. Her death just six months ago hit him pretty hard. I watched as the trees merged into a never ending canvas of green. Born and raised in New York City I really hadn’t seen so much green. I turned toward my dad, he was hyper focused on the road. He had become less talkative and more distant since the drive began. 

“Dad, are you ok,” I ask. He only shrugged his shoulders. A tell all sign that he didn’t want to be talked too. I may be mad at my dad for not letting me stay home and be with my friends. But he was still my dad, and he needed someone to be there for him. My mom died when I was six, and it had been me and him against the world. After another hour of driving we finally got to the house. 

The sun had just begun to set. I looked out the window toward the dark house. It was a simple two story home. A farmer’s porch wrapped around the house. The color once white was now a dingy and dirty grey. The windows are dark and dusty. I knew that the house was built in 1900, and that my great great great grandparents had bought it in June of 1912. My great great grandmother Becca was born just a year later in 1913. My dad was a history buff, and had tried to find records of his mother’s side. But there was nothing really before June 1912 when she bought the house with her husband. I was told that my great great great grandmother was secretive. She never really said anything about her past or her childhood to anyone. Not even her daughter. 

I got out of the car and felt the warm summer breeze. The smell of lavender hung in the air. Which was weird, dad said that grandma Ella’s favorite scent was vanilla. I turned and saw a small meadow, but no lavender. I shrugged it off and followed my dad into the house. The air was thick with dust,no one wanted to come and pack the house up. Grandmama was too emotional, she was so close with her mother. The grief had hit her the hardest. Our family was close, someone dying was rather big in the family. Grandmama Ella had become a recluse in her later years. She refused to leave her home, but my dad said that she had been like that before. It seemed that the living room was turned into a makeshift library. Books stacked almost the ceiling. The couch dates back to the forties. The wallpaper, grey and peeling. A thick layer of dust covered everything.

“I’ll start with the living room. Sara can you start up in the attic,” dad asked. I nodded and made my way upstairs. My grandma Ella had died in the master bedroom. He probably couldn’t handle the stress of packing up her room just yet. I pulled the lever and the stairs came down with a thud. I coughed as dust rained down on me. I climbed the stairs and found myself in the attic. A draft made me shiver even in this heat. I looked around and felt suddenly creeped out. It must have been a bedroom at one point. A rusted metal bed frame stood alone in the corner. The mattress nothing but seams. It seems no one had been sleeping here for years. There was a small desk opposite of the bed. It looked old and worn. The window above it showed the small meadow. I wondered if whoever slept here looked out and dreamed. 

There were old letters and old stitchwork all over the desk. I looked around and found an old crate. I picked it up and began filling it. As I put the letters in the crate, I noticed that they were all addressed to the same person or whatever; the White Star Liner. I had heard that name before, but couldn’t remember where. When I was finished I began to go through the drawers. There were more letters, yet they were addressed to someone called Sir Henry Morris. The last one dated back to 1951, and the address London, England. Weird, neither dad or grandma mentioned that we had relatives in England. In the last drawer was a journal. The leather was worn and faded, but I could make out a lily engraved into the leather. I opened it and saw the name Lillian Mary Morris. This was my great great great grandmother’s journal. Weird, my dad said that Lillian wasn’t really a writer.

“Are you almost finished Sara, I want to get to the hotel,” Dad said. I looked up and I could have sworn that I saw a woman standing in the meadow. When I blinked she was gone. 

“Yeah, I'm coming,” I said, stashing the journal in my bag and picking up the crate. 

Later that night, I laid awake thinking about the journal and the woman I thought I saw. My dad was snoring in the bed next to me. I rolled over trying to sleep, but it was no use. I looked at the alarm clock and saw that it was 11:55pm. I sighed getting up. I snuck into the sitting room and turned on a lamp. I rummaged through my bag till I found the old journal. I opened the journal and in neat cursive handwriting said: 

                                                                                    I never wanted that marriage. All I ever wanted was love.