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  My daughters know that it is my wish to be cremated.

  I would like for the two of them, together, to scatter

  my ashes. Please lay half to rest in Lake Huntley

  and half over plot 34B in the old section of Huntley

  Memorial Gardens. ~Janie

  Our mother, Jane Rutledge Hughes, grew up in Huntley, Georgia, but she never once talked about it. Her personal code of silence was on par with a mafia omertà. We had never visited her hometown, we knew nothing of her childhood, and she had no living relatives.

  But now this, she wanted to be laid to rest there, in the place of which she never spoke. If her hometown meant so much to her that she wanted to be there permanently, then why had we never visited Huntley? Why hadn’t she ever talked about her past? The people, the town, her life there? None of it made sense. This was probably why her urn had still been sitting on the mantel in Georgia’s living room a year after her death.

  We pulled up to Georgia’s house, a bungalow sitting just outside DC’s city limits, safely tucked into the jurisdiction of Chevy Chase. My nephews were playing in the front yard. Will, the ten-year-old, was sitting on Adam, his younger brother, and hitting him repeatedly with a lacrosse stick. Without breaking my stride I confiscated the lacrosse stick from Will as I walked by. I figured Adam should at least have a fighting chance. We younger siblings had to stick together.

  Leo and I let ourselves in the house. “Gigi, we’re here.”

  I found Georgia in the kitchen. A door slammed overhead and she flinched. That would be Logan. I came up behind my sister and hugged her shoulders. “Sorry we’re late. I had to finish that project this weekend.”

  “You’re working too much.”

  “I know.” I raided her liquor cabinet and made myself a stiff drink.

  She waved to Leo as he passed quietly through the kitchen on his way to help William with the grill. “Are you two fighting?”

  “No, we don’t fight.” I wondered if we had come to a place where neither one of us cared enough to get into a decent argument anymore. You really only have a passionate row if you feel completely confident that you can get through it, or if you’re using it as the hand grenade tossed over your shoulder on your way out the door.

  Georgia was hacking at a head of lettuce. She pointed her knife at my glass. “Then why are you drinking so much lately?”

  I took the knife out of her hands, deciding that preparing the salad myself might be safer. “Why are you judging so much lately? Relax.”

  Logan had appeared out of nowhere and let out a snide laugh at my comment. “See Mom? You’re too judgey.” She was already walking out the back door, throwing a “Hey, Aunt Livie” over her shoulder before Georgia could respond.

  Georgia stole my drink from me. “I need this. Logan is being impossible.”

  “She’s a teenager. It’s kind of her job to be impossible.”

  We all sat down to dinner, which was its usual bout of lovely chaos. My nephews were kicking each other under the table relentlessly as Georgia gave a sentimental speech about our mother on this one-year anniversary of her death. The kicking was very distracting. I finally kicked them both back simultaneously. To eight- and ten-year-old boys, getting kicked by your aunt is hilarious apparently. Milk came out of Adam’s nose. It landed on Will’s plate. I was in trouble.

  Logan hardly touched her dinner. Either she was still mad at Georgia or she was protesting the steaks. Sometimes she was a vegetarian.

  I was finally starting to relax, no doubt the effects of my second vodka tonic. My brother-in-law, William, was finishing a story about some baseball game and then just like that, with no warning or hint that it was coming, Leo stood up and demanded everyone’s attention.

  “I have an announcement to make.” Georgia glanced at me to see if I knew what this was about. I shook my head slightly and shrugged. I couldn’t imagine what he would have to announce. But this was just Leo. He liked to control situations and conversations. I very rarely bothered to step in or protest.

  Once everyone at the table had quieted down and the boys had stopped fidgeting, Leo said it. “The scheduler for Trinity Chapel called the house today and there’s been an opening.” He paused for dramatic effect. I felt my stomach drop suddenly knowing what was coming next. “So I booked it. Olivia and I officially have a wedding date. Mark your calendars for the last weekend in September.” He took my hand, smiling down at me. “Surprise!”

  I could feel the blood drain out of my face. I felt like I was falling, rushing toward something, and I needed to make a drastic move quickly before I hit. My sister and her husband were happily congratulating Leo and me.

  Through the clamor I heard Leo explaining everything, but the words were taking a while to make their way to my brain.

  “The timing couldn’t be better.” He was explaining that the end of September was perfect, logistically, for a wedding. He should be finishing one of his cases by then, it was always a slow time for me at work, and the firm’s off-site in Kauai wasn’t until the beginning of November. I had not been to any of his firm’s off-site conferences yet because they were strictly “spouses only” and so far I had not qualified. I knew Leo felt it was bad form for me to miss another one. The timing for the end of September worked nicely into his schedule.

  My nephews were taking the distraction this offered to feed their vegetables to the dog. Logan was staring at me with the strangest look on her face, a hybrid of amusement and empathy.

  My vision went slightly fuzzy and gray around the edges and without thinking I jumped up, nearly knocking my chair over. “I have a surprise too. I’ve decided to leave in the morning and drive down to Georgia to see where Mom wanted us to spread her ashes.”

  Leo dropped my hand. “You’re what?”

  I started making plans as the ideas popped in my head. “It’s the one-year anniversary of her death. I have a million vacation days saved up at work and this is a good time for a break. It would be so easy to just drive down there. We could all use closure, right? Right?” I was babbling, my voice trying to keep up with the excuses my brain was feeding it. Leo looked concerned but kept quiet. I knew he hated it when I blurted out every single thought racing through my mind, but I wasn’t in control enough to stop it.

  That was not the reaction Leo had expected from me, clearly. He turned me by my shoulders until I was facing him and spoke quietly. “We shouldn’t keep putting this off. This was the chapel you wanted to use; it was your parents’ chapel and it’s available, finally. Let’s stop waiting and move forward.”

  Leo looked so sincere. I did love him and I did want him to be happy. “I know. And you were right to reserve it. I just . . . before we plan too much . . . if I could just . . .” I hoped he would understand my need to do this first. “I think I need to go do this, to put her to rest.” I looked at Georgia, hoping she would back me up.

  Georgia said, “You can’t spread the ashes without me.”

  “Then come with—”

  “You know I can’t just leave.” Her arms moved around the table pointing from one kid to the next. “Why can’t we just fly down one weekend?”

  “No, you’re missing the whole point.” The trapped feeling that had materialized when Leo dropped the wedding-date bomb was still holding firm and the urge to flee was palpable. I sounded a little more frantic than I meant to. “I want to go down there and find out who Mom was and where she came from. It’s been a year since she died. How long are we going to wait to do this? I won’t actually spread the ashes without you, not until you can come down, but don’t you want to know why she picked those two places from her past?” I could feel myself clinging to the idea of my mother, as if she were the rip cord for my chute, and if I didn’t pull it right that second I wouldn’t survive the impact. “Maybe we could investigate Mom’s childhood. Finally learn something about her family and where she came from. Aren’t you dying to see where she grew up?”

  “You don’t under
stand, Livie. I don’t want you to have to do that by yourself and I don’t have time to go on a vision quest with you right now.”

  Logan stood up. “I do.”

  TWO

  A mere twenty-four hours after jumping up at dinner and surprising myself by announcing this little road trip, Logan and I were taking the exit to Tillman, Georgia.

  Tillman was the largest town in Huntley County, Georgia. Technically it was the only town in Huntley County, Georgia. Our mother had told us she grew up in Huntley. That was really all we knew. I had every intention of finding out more. Huntley County was tucked up in the northern corner of Georgia and it was a nearly eleven-hour drive from DC.

  When Logan volunteered to come with me, I wasn’t so sure I wanted a drama-filled fourteen-year-old girl riding shotgun for my sabbatical. But having her along for the ride felt right, she was a good traveling partner. Mostly she just texted on her phone and stayed plugged in to her earbuds. It was like having a younger, quieter, tech-savvy, and non-hypercritical version of my sister with me.

  I had hastily printed out what I could find about Lake Huntley since that was one of the “burial” locations, but I hadn’t done more than browse the headlines: where to rent canoes, where to have lunch on the water, and where to buy a fishing license. There was an inordinate amount of information about obtaining a fishing license. If they were that weird about fishing I wondered how they would feel about the scattering of human remains in the lake.

  I also printed out a map showing the outline of Lake Huntley. It wasn’t a smooth, round body of water. It had a long, jagged main body that seemed to snake through the mountain range. And from there, countless ragged fingers forked off on all sides and at strange angles. It was an odd little lake.

  We passed a highway sign that read: TILLMAN—6 MILES. Thank God. I had to get out of this car. It was almost eight o’clock and I was starving, my knee was killing me, and I had a headache from trying to follow these dark country roads.

  The road widened as we got closer to town. At the first big intersection there was a Walmart Supercenter on one side of the road and a Super Target on the other. The road leading toward town was lined with strip malls of fast-food joints, dollar stores, nail/tan salons, and Mexican restaurants. It was Anywhereville, America.

  Logan pulled the information and directions to the inn where we were staying out of the seat pocket. “This says the town of Tillman is ‘a lovely and charming town on the banks of Lake Huntley.’ This does not look lovely and charming.”

  “Well, we’re not quite there yet.” I tried to sound optimistic but I wasn’t staying long if this was all Tillman had to offer.

  We came to another intersection and turned left following the signs to the historic district. The street changed slowly from commercial to residential. As we approached the center of the historic district the streets began to be arranged in a grid.

  The streets farthest from the center of town were filled with newer midcentury ranch-style houses. They had long green lawns and straight driveways that led into carports. Then there were the bungalows from the twenties and thirties fronted with buckled sidewalks and picket fences dripping with jasmine vines. Driving down the street took us back in time until we arrived at enormous Victorian homes with wrought-iron fences and gravel paths that led to detached garages. These were clearly built before cars were a consideration. And then finally, nearest the town square, there were a few remaining stately antebellum homes with intricate columns, porches, and railings. This was more like it.

  I was pointing out things to Logan as I crept down the street. The elaborate fences, the enormous porte cocheres with deep first steps nearly three feet off the ground built in a way that allowed a lady to get out of her carriage without having to step in the mud. The triple-hung windows, which would create cross ventilation throughout the houses in the time before air conditioning.

  Logan was completely ignoring me. Our last turn brought us into the town square. It was lively for a Sunday night. There were several restaurants with tables spilling out onto the sidewalks and diners sitting at Parisian-style tables under red umbrellas. There was a small trio playing jazz in the square with a little cluster of people milling around them.

  The town square had a lush green lawn with meandering gravel paths snaking through it. In the center of the square, surrounded by blooming crape myrtles and azaleas, was some sort of nondescript war monument honoring a soldier riding a bucking horse atop an enormous stone plinth. I rolled the windows down as we made our way through town, breathing in the damp summer air. I was waiting for Logan to complain about the humidity, and the potential for cataclysmic hair frizzing, but she surprised me by rolling her window down too and letting her arm dangle in the night air.

  “There’s the inn.” Logan pointed to one of the larger buildings facing the main square. The James Oglethorpe Inn was a redbrick, three-story building on the western edge of the square. It featured a two-story, white-columned porch on the front façade with hanging baskets overflowing with geraniums.

  I pulled up and a man, well actually a teenager, in an oversized valet jacket ran out to meet me as I opened the door.

  “Good evening, ma’am. Are you checking in?”

  “Yes, we are. May I leave the car here while I register?” The boy didn’t answer me, as he was very busy checking out Logan. With his mouth hanging open ever so slightly. Logan was returning the favor.

  I plopped the keys in his open hand. “Come on, Logan. Let’s grab some dinner before they stop serving.” I meant before they stop serving alcohol, but I didn’t elaborate. I could really use a vodka tonic, or three.

  I woke up the next morning with a raging headache and a desperate need for coffee. Maybe an intravenous drip that I could wheel around with me on an IV stand. And aspirin. I needed coffee and aspirin, stat. If there were one thing I had become an expert at recently it was the quick eradication of a hangover. I was reminded again of my sister’s comment that I was drinking too much lately and decided that she would probably view this latest skill as a bad sign. I knew I was overdrinking because I was stressed and confused and maybe a little bit depressed. I just didn’t need her to know it too.

  I knocked on the bathroom door again. “Logan? You are literally killing me. I have to get coffee. Now. Please stop with the hair. You don’t even know anyone around here.” I leaned my head against the hard, cold wooden door as I spoke to her. That felt good.

  Logan threw the door open and I nearly fell over. “You shouldn’t have had all that vodka last night, Livie. It’s not my fault you feel sick today.”

  Logan was all scrubbed and straightened and polished and smelled like some kind of tropical fruit blend. “You’re right, Lo. I’m sorry.” She smiled a little and I tucked her hair behind her ear. “You look very pretty. It was worth the wait.”

  I think she was planning on continuing the after school special. I could see she had all sorts of things spooled up in her head, but mercifully she stopped herself.

  Logan grabbed her purse. “Let’s go get you some coffee.”

  We walked down the street to an indie coffee shop tucked into a row of brick buildings facing the town square. As we stepped inside we were immediately swimming in the lifesaving aroma of deep, rich coffee. The ancient heart-of-pine floors were newly scrubbed, making the morning sun explode off the shiny surface. I put my sunglasses back on.

  The shop had the skeletal layout of the pharmacy it had once been with the long counter still running the length of the sidewall. The mirrored surface behind the counter was pockmarked with age and the silvery glass took on the quality of mercury.

  The far end of the rectangular coffee shop had floor-to-ceiling shelves stacked with an odd assortment of candy and fishing gear, art supplies and artisanal teas. The highest shelves were accessed by a wooden library ladder, which rolled back and forth on casters. It had long ago carved its own track on the floor. I did not immediately spot any aspirin.

  A few mis
matched tables with accompanying mismatched chairs dotted the open space at the front of the shop near the door where several people were eating breakfast. There was a long, low-slung blue velvet couch by the storefront window overlooking the sidewalk. The coffee table facing it was smothered with piles of magazines and well-used boxes of board games.

  The long wall opposite the counter was covered from floor to ceiling with original artwork. Black-and-white nature photographs, abstract oil paintings, funky found-art folk collages, and more than a few watercolors of different species of dogs. Under each piece of art was a small tag bearing the artist’s name and a price pinned to the wall with a thumbtack.

  We sat down at one of the tables and I looked around for a waiter so I could order my coffee. I put my hand over the screen of Logan’s phone to get her attention. “What do you want to eat?”

  Logan rolled her eyes at me for rudely interrupting her trolling of status updates and then scanned the menu written on a chalkboard at the front of the shop. “Um, you know I’m not eating meat, right?”

  “Yes, you make that abundantly clear every time I bite into a hamburger.” Logan had an alarming recall of appetite-curbing facts related to the methods of commercial cattle farming. It was all really gross and I didn’t want to hear it at the moment, especially when the delicious smell of frying bacon was coming from somewhere in the back.

  Logan said, “I’ll just have a biscuit and hash browns.” She went back to her phone.

  I rubbed my head. “You are the worst vegetarian ever.”

  “You sound like my mom, Livie.”

  I read over the menu. “Try the tofu thing.” She opened her mouth to protest. I stopped her. “If you don’t like it you don’t have to eat it.”