Where the Heart Is

It was raining when I got out of work. A good Autumn rain, not light enough to be called a drizzle but not too heavy either. It dripped down my umbrella and pooled along the gutters in the street, making everything feel simultaneously darker and yet reflective and bright. It made the grass seem greener, the dirt smell richer, and it caused the reds and golds of the falling leaves to turn bright as paint. My coworkers had complained about the cold and the wet and the gray cloudy sky, but I've always liked rainy days. I didn't mind walking home.

Not 'home,' I had to remind myself. My apartment was on the other side of town. I'd only been crashing at my parents' old house these past few weeks because my sister and I are getting it ready to sell. It's been strange, sleeping in my childhood bedroom again, but it's just more convenient this way. I can help Hannah—my sister—with the cleaning and sorting and the occasional renovation, without having to worry about being late for work in the mornings or catching the last bus back to my place every night. We're almost done with it now, so I'll probably be back in my apartment in a week or so, and then my sister lists it on the market. We have no idea how long it'll take to find a buyer, but we're optimistic. It's a nice house in a quiet neighborhood. It'll sell.

Honestly, we've put this off for far too long as it is. Our dad passed away four years ago, our younger brother moved across the country a year later and never looked back, and Mom went quietly in her sleep last summer. Hannah's been living there alone ever since, but the old place is too big for one person, and the costs of upkeep are a financial strain she doesn't need. It's sad to say goodbye to the house we grew up in, but it's the right call.

At least… that's what we thought when we made the decision. Now, however, as I took the shortcut through the back alleyway and spotted our roof beyond the gnarled old trees that lined the pavement, I'm not so sure. It's weird to imagine a future where I won't turn down this driveway anymore; where I might pass by this house sometimes, but never again be welcomed home by it.

Maybe… 

But no, I shouldn't start doubting things now. The choice has been made, and it's for the best. This hesitation, it's just the weather messing with my head. I always feel more sentimental during a good Autumn rain.

The scent of beef and rosemary wafted through the open kitchen door as I hurried up the creaking wood steps and onto the back porch. Hannah must have been cooking. Under the shelter of the jutting roof, I paused to stamp my muddy boots on the welcome mat, and closed my umbrella to give it a good shake. We'd just mopped the other day, and the last thing I wanted was to dirty up the floors. Through the window, I could see Hannah hard at work over the stove. And through the latched screen door, I could hear her singing along to the radio as she cooked—just like our mother used to do.

The demands of my growling stomach were drowned out by a wave of nostalgia. How many times had I stood here on a rainy day after school, listening to Mom harmonize with the radio while I scraped off my boots to preserve her clean floors and eagerly breathed in the scent of her suppers?

I pushed open the screen door and stepped at last into the warm glow of the kitchen. If the call of old memories had been strong on the porch, it was nothing compared to how I felt inside. The scent of the food. The sound of the radio. The sight of the hardwood cabinets, green checkered curtains, and pale yellow linoleum. It was all just so familiar.

I felt like a kid again.

A dull ache tugged at my chest, but I fought it back down as I shrugged off my raincoat. "Smells good."

"Thanks, Jamie." Hannah glanced over her shoulder to offer me a smile. She looked content. Happy, even. It was good to see again, after all this time, and it made my own spirits rise in response. I couldn't help but smile back, though there was a part of me that felt… sad, I suppose. Sad that I didn't feel sadder.

I guess I'm moving on.

"The bread'll be done in about five minutes, I think," Hannah said over by the stove, her pan sizzling loudly over the blue flames as she tended to the fry-bread in the bubbling oil. "You got home just in time. It'll be nice and fresh to go with the stew." She cast a critical look towards the slow-cooker on the counter, her smile momentarily replaced by a puzzled frown. "I feel like it didn't turn out quite the way I remember, even though I followed the recipe to the letter."

"You know Mom never stuck to a recipe." I leaned against the wall for balance and pulled off my boots by the door. "She probably threw in extra potatoes, or less carrots, or subbed in a few different spices than the ones written down. But hey, if it tastes half as good as it smells, I'll be in heaven anyway. What prompted you to make it?"

"The rain," Hannah answered simply. "Beef stew was always her favorite Rainy-Day Dinner, remember?"

Yeah. I remembered. It was the juxtaposition that did it, I think. The fresh, cool scent of rain on the ground outside, mixed with the warm, earthy tones of thyme and rosemary and slow-cooked roots. The sting of the brisk Autumn wind, versus the sip of hot, thick broth. The sound of heavy droplets against the roof and windowpanes, blending seamlessly with the clinking of spoons against earthenware bowls. When our mom cooked, it was never just for the taste of it. She had to make it into an experience—and in the name of 'opposites attract,' she always knew how to pick the perfect meal to offset the weather.

She was just thoughtful like that.

"I miss her."

The words fell from my mouth before I fully registered I was speaking. I had meant to say something more along the lines of 'Oh yeah, I remember that.' Not that I felt ashamed for having feelings, or had some hang-up about showing my emotions or anything like that. I just felt a bit… surprised, at myself. I don't often say something by accident.

Maybe I haven't fully moved on after all.

Hannah was smiling still, albeit more wistful than before. "I miss her, too."

For a moment, neither of us said anything. We just stood there in Mom's kitchen, and listened to the bread frying in the skillet as the rain grew heavier outside the house, and the radio continued to softly play music.

"...Well, anyway," Hannah spoke up, sniffing as she turned back to the stove. "Hurry and get changed; it's almost ready."

Right. Leaving the kitchen, I made my way through the dining room, out into the living room, and up the stairs. Our old pictures lined the wall, catching my attention as I climbed. Family portraits, school pictures, snapshots of Christmas mornings or summer picnics… a lifetime of memories, condensed into a few dozen moments frozen in time.

They wouldn't be on this wall for much longer.

It was getting harder to fight off the thought that we were making a mistake.

Still, I tried my best. After getting changed, I went back downstairs and headed for the kitchen—only to find Hannah setting out two places at the dining room table.

"We're not eating in the kitchen?"

"I thought it might be nice to eat in here for a change." Hannah placed the last spoon and then ducked back into the kitchen, returning after a moment with the pot of stew. "One last sit-down dinner, before we move out. Could you go grab the bread?"

Was she trying to make me second-guess our decision? I pursed my lips as I retrieved the plate of golden brown fry-bread, reminding myself of all the reasons we were selling.

The house was too big. Even if I moved back for good, there were still three empty rooms. If our brother ever came back—not likely, but a possibility—that wouldn't fill the place, either. There was no point in keeping a house we couldn't fill. That was reason number one. Reason number two; paying for water, sewage, gas, electricity, and internet was already a problem for a house this size. But adding the property taxes, homeowner's insurance, lawn care, and basic property upkeep? It all ate into Hannah's paycheck even more. In this economy, she couldn't afford it all on just one job. Granted, a monthly rent at an apartment wasn't any better, but the money from the sale would more than make up for it as she looked for a smaller house. And finally, reason number three… it was just hard, being here and remembering people who would never be here again. So many times over the past month, I'd looked towards the door, or the stairs, or Mom's old chair, each time expecting to see her there. And then my mind would catch up to me and remind me she was gone. It's been long enough with Dad that I don't get that feeling as much for him anymore, but Mom's ghost seems to be lingering, and I know it's been even worse for Hannah. She was the one living here full time.

No. The house had to be sold. I was letting my sentiment make me impractical, and it was time I got over it. I stepped back into the dining room and set out the bread before taking my usual place at the table, across from Hannah.

Surrounded by empty seats.

"Thank you," she said, as she ladled herself a hearty serving of the hot beef stew.

"Course," I replied, as I picked up a piece of the bread and set it aside on my plate.

Neither of us seemed to have anything more to say.

I was still fighting back my uncertainty, as Hannah passed me the ladle and I got my own stew. I watched the thin drifts of steam lazily swirl off the surface of the thick broth, and noted the sleek glistening of light glancing against the meat and veggies and burnished spoon. The smell was overpoweringly tantalizing this close, but I found myself hesitating anyway. I hadn't had beef stew in a year. Not since the last time Mom made it. It suddenly felt important, impossibly important, that I savor it now.

I took the bite.

The beef was soft, melting like butter in my mouth. The heat of the potato was almost enough to burn my tongue, a welcome distraction from the ache in my chest. The carrots, celery, and onions were all cooked perfectly—and even though only one of them had been scooped into this first bite, I could still taste the flavors of the rest in the juices. The thyme and rosemary blended seamlessly in with the garlic and black pepper, giving the stew a rich aroma without adding too much of a kick. And as I swallowed and felt the soothing hot soup slide easily down my throat, a flood of emotion washed over me, and a lump took its place.

"You said you got it wrong," I found myself muttering. "That wasn't true."

Hannah looked up from her own bowl and then blinked, her eyes growing wide with concern. "Jamie, are you okay?"

…Was I?

"No," I decided. "No, I'm not okay." I lowered my spoon to the table so I could reach up and rub at my eyes, embarrassed to realize they were tearing up. "I miss Mom. I want her back. It's not fair that she's gone, Hannah. She wasn't even sixty yet."

"Oh, Jamie," Hannah winced, dropping her spoon into her stew carelessly as she stood to her feet. She hurried around the table, and knelt by my chair to wrap her arms around me. "I know. I miss her too. I'm sorry, I shouldn't have made this, not today. I didn't think about how it would make you feel."

"No, don't – don't apologize." On instinct, I hugged her back, taking in a deep breath as I tried to regain my composure. "I'm glad you made it. I didn't realize…"

I wasn't sure how to end the sentence. 'I didn't realize I still missed her?' That wasn't true. 'I didn't realize how upsetting beef stew could be?' Wrong. 'I didn't realize how much I needed this place?'

Oh.

"Hannah…" I pulled out of the hug, sniffing and wiping at my eyes again as I looked around the dining room. At the rose-patterned old wallpaper I'd thought was so tacky in my teens, and the round green rug under the table, and the hanging light fixture our dad had always jokingly called the 'Grand Chandelier.' It was all too much; too important. We couldn't lose this place. "I don't want to sell the house anymore."

To say my sister was surprised would be an understatement. She stared at me for a moment, her mouth dropping open. "What?"

"I didn't know it until now," I admitted. "But I'm not ready to say goodbye. I know we made all these plans, and we've worked so hard this past month to get it ready to put on the market, but… is it too late to change course?"

"...Maybe?" Hannah bit her lip as she moved back around the table and dropped into her chair. "I mean, we haven't made any deals or anything, so it's not like there's a legal obligation to sell, but… I don't want to keep living here by myself."

"What if I moved in permanently? I know it's still too big, but that would help with all the bills, and you wouldn't be alone."

Hannah seemed to consider this for a moment, looking thoughtfully down into her bowl as she slowly stirred her spoon into the stew. "...I don't know," she said. "It's such a big place, and it feels wrong, somehow, to leave all those bedrooms empty."

She had a point. I frowned as I took another bite of my own stew, mulling the matter over as I chewed and swallowed. "...Hey, do you remember what Mom used to say, about how she'd always wanted to run a good old fashioned Boarding House?"

Hannah's mouth dropped open again. "You're not actually suggesting we do that?"

"Why not? If you and I take one room each, we've got three more we could rent out to people. It's a great location; a quiet residential neighborhood, but close enough to downtown to put people within walking distance of all the shops and restaurants. We could support it with our jobs at first, and then quit our jobs and run the place full-time if it's a success. The money we pull in can pay for the utilities. I think it could work!"

"But we have no idea how to run a Boarding House!" Hannah protested. "Do we need some kind of permit? How would we advertise it? Would the HOA even let us try?"

"I don't know, but we can look into it," I said. "We could at least think about it, right? Let's not sell. Not yet. The lease at my apartment ends in February. That gives us a couple of months to see if we could run a Boarding House, and if we can—and if you decide to do it—then I'll move back in upstairs, and we can make a go of it."

"What if it fails?"

"...Then we sell." I swallowed down another lump in my throat. "I can't promise it'll be a success, and I know it'll be hard work. But… I'm not ready to say goodbye. Are you?"

Hannah gave me a long, unreadable look… but then she let out a sigh. "No," she said quietly. "No, I'm not."

"Then… we can try?"

Hannah offered a small smile; the same wistful smile she'd given me earlier. "Sure, Jamie," she said. "We can try."

The joy and hope that rose up within me felt strangely new, after having felt just a little empty for so long. I smiled back. I couldn't help it. I turned back to my supper, scooping up a big bite of beef and potatoes and savoring the rich, earthy flavors against my tongue. And as the aftertaste of the fresh herbs settled in my mouth, I had another idea.

"I know what we should name it."

"What?"

"We'll name it after Mom," I said, and then waved an airy hand over my bowl. "And her favorite spice."

Hannah's face lit up in a smile. "Jamie, that's perfect!"

"It's her house," I said. "And it should stay that way, as long as we have anything to say about it. We'll leave up all the pictures, cook all her old recipes, and make sure everyone feels welcome and at home. Just like she always did."

"I love it," Hannah said, her eyes growing glassy, but the smile never leaving her face. "And Mom would have loved it, too."

And as the rain continued to fall against the windowpanes, and my sister and I settled to plot out our new course over our food, I couldn't help but feel like Mom was right there with us. Like she was happy to see, from beyond the pale, that the home she had built for us all our lives was going to last—if not forever, then at least for a time.

Rosemary's House.

How could it ever be anything else?