A lot has changed about Peach Valley, but much has also stayed the same. The old town area still looks like it did when I was a kid, complete with the old drug store and bookstore. I walk past it, peering into the big window out front, wondering if it still smells of mold and old books. I also wonder how it has survived the invention of ebook readers and the proliferation of giant, impersonal bookstores.
I make my way down the sidewalk with big sunglasses covering my face, hoping that no one recognizes me. I haven’t been back here in many years; not since I moved my mother to the assisted living center when she got early onset dementia so many years ago. Even then, I rarely came home after leaving for college.
But now I have no choice.
I glance up and finally see the whole reason I’m here. Although I’m an unwilling participant in this thing, one can’t ignore legal documents.
“Evans, Clarke and Peenee,” the woman behind the desk says into the phone in a thick Southern accent. First, I want to bust out laughing at the last name “Peenee”, but then I imagine what the man behind that name went through growing up with that kind of name. She waves at me to sit down as she finishes up the call.
I find a seat in the small, old waiting area. It looks like time stood still ‘round about 1975 in this place, the cheap wood paneling still adorning the walls. Being an attorney’s office, I’d expected a little nicer place, but this is Peach Valley after all. Being in Charleston for so many years has spoiled me on historic buildings and beautiful features.
“Can I help you, hon?” the woman asks.
I stand back up. “I’m here to see Ethan Clarke. He’ll be expecting me.”
Ethan went to high school with me and took over the family legal business when his father retired. I haven’t seen him since graduation day, so I was surprised to get the call from him a few days ago that he needed to see me ASAP about an urgent legal matter. I offered to pay for his trip up to Charleston, but he declined saying that he needed me to come “home”.
My mother’s estate - what little it was - was settled months ago, so I have no idea what he wants with me. Maybe she had an old bank account or insurance policy I don’t know about, but Ethan wouldn’t tell me anything over the phone. Small town folk can be odd that way.
“Mr. Clarke will see you now,” the woman says, and I instantly smile at the thought of calling Ethan “mister” anything. I follow her through the ugly brown door and down a small hallway that leads to Ethan’s office. He’s smiling before I even make it past the entryway.
“Well, I’ll be! Indy Stone in the flesh,” he says, walking around his desk and hugging me tightly. I stiffen for a moment and then return the hug.
“Sanders, actually,” I say, correcting him.
“Didn’t you get divorced?” he asks, pointing to a fake leather covered chair with big metal rivets attaching it to the thick wood frame. I take a seat and place my purse in my lap, almost like a shield from the question.
“Yes, but I kept my married name,” I say. I don’t know why I kept it. One would think getting rid of the husband would mean getting rid of the last name. But as a fairly popular therapist in Charleston, I didn’t want to lose my branding.
“Hm. I always thought Indy Stone sounded like a superhero. If you decide to change it back, let me know. I can handle the paperwork,” he says with a wink. I notice he’s a grown man now with pearly white teeth and thinning hair - a far cry from the star of the football team he once was. There’s a gold band on his left hand, and pictures of a blond woman and three adorable kids on his desk. Ethan is a grown up. It’s weird.
“Ethan, why am I here? I had to change my whole schedule around for my counseling clients, so I hope there’s a really good reason for all the mystery.”
“Indy, your brother passed away a few weeks ago.”
I feel the air leave my lungs, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to let it show on my face. I let go of my brother years ago when it became apparent that he would never change; he’d always be the self-centered person he had been since the day I was born… and probably before.
Danny was five years older than me, and his drug problems tore our family apart all those years ago. My parents divorced, my mother battled ulcers for years and he never seemed to take any responsibility for it. The moment I hit adulthood and could make the decision, I cut him from my life. Slowly, the whole family did.
First it was Amy, but she had basically cut me out too. That sisterly bond just wasn’t there. When she moved across the country and got married, that pretty much sealed our fate.
And then my father cut him out, but that was easy since he wasn’t blood related anyway. Although he’d adopted my brother so many years before, the drug addiction and rage issues my brother had destroyed the possibility of a reconciliation.
And then there was my mother. She took the longest, but she finally realized that she couldn’t save him. Her life had been put on hold for so many years, through his multiple rehab attempts and stints in jail. She finally gave up. And then shortly afterward, her memory started to fade. Sometimes I think that might have been a godsend for her because who wants to remember the son that let them down?
There were a few times I tried to mend fences, tried to accept him for who he was, tried to be his sister. Every single time, he showed me his true colors. He’d constantly been in trouble with the law, and when he needed money he came calling. Finally, I decided to save myself and I cut all ties. Honestly, it had been a very relaxing decade or so since his last contact with me, and that made me feel very guilty to even think.
This basically made me an only child.
When I fell for my brother’s sob story the last time, he took me for thousands of dollars, and I decided to let that part of my life go. I excised my brother from my heart and put the idea of him in a tiny mental box that I never opened.
Until today.
“Okay… And what does that have to do with me? I’m sure you know we had no relationship, Ethan. If this is about some bill he owes…”
“It’s not about bills, Indy,” he says, taking a deep breath before continuing. “It’s about his daughter.”
I stare at him like he’s speaking another language. And now I hear a roaring sound inside my head that I assume to be blood pumping way too hard around my body.
“Daughter? What daughter?”
Ethan sucks both of his lips in then smiles at me sympathetically. “Your brother had a ten-year old daughter, Indy. Her name is Harper.”
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