Page 6 of Pictures in Blue
When the doctor explained that I had a panic attack, she laughed. “See? I told you. You were overreacting.”
The doctor suggested counseling to talk about my anxiety and figure out what caused it, but mom laughed in her face and took me home. She never talked about it or asked me anything relating to it, so I never brought it up to her again. I learned to cope in silence and always hid in my closet when I felt an attack coming on.
There was one thing my mother was right about though. I didn’t need a therapist to tell me where my anxiety came from. The source was sitting right next to me in that doctor’s office. Perfectly wrapped in her pepto bismol colored pants suit, bleach blond wig in place on her head, not a strand out of place. She held herself on the highest pedestal, and her daughter had to be on an even higher one, balancing to meet her expectations.
She didn’t care that my balance was shit.
I shake my head, making the image of my mother disappear from my mind. Nothing good ever comes out of thinking of her. Ever.
Hiking trails. Right. I’ll ask around at the inn to see what trails are close by. That was one thing Charlotte didn’t consider when she booked this trip. Then again, she doesn’t strike me as the outdoorsy type. I don’t think I can picture her hiking and getting her shoes scuffed up, covered in mud. But that’s how you know it’s been a good hike, when barely any surface of the shoe is showing beneath the dirt and mud.
I pass a faded blue and white sign with the words,Welcome to Blue Grove Inn. Est. in 1895.The inn is tucked off the edge of a remote country road with pine trees on one side and a decent sized barn on the other. I can spot the mountains behind the inn, three peaks prominent in the distance.
The red paint covering the exterior is faded, the white shutters slightly worn. The wood beneath peeks through the chipped paint showing the passage of time since it last resembled the pristine picture Charlotte showed me on the website. Rustling from the horses in the barn and the squeak of the porch swing fills the air. Birds singing in the background, a slight breeze, swaying the flowers in front of the inn.
Too perfect. Too good to be true.
My heart surges as I step up the creaky stairs to the front door. The main door hangs open behind a screened one, letting in the mountain air. When I step inside, I am greeted by soft chatter coming from what looks to be the dining area. People are crowded at tables, some with coffee in front of them, others with plates half covered with food.
A younger boy with sandy hair runs from one of the tables to my side. “Hi!” He says, startling me with the amount of enthusiasm he puts behind his greeting.
“Um, uh, h-hi,” I stutter.
“Where are your bags?” he asks. “I gotta take your bags,” he pauses. “Oh…uh, ma’am,” he adds, like he remembers it’s something he’s supposed to say.
I smile at him. He can’t be more than ten years old, and I really hate being called ma’am, even if I am a year away from 30, but I’ll let it slide.
“They’re in my trunk,” I point my thumb in the direction of my car. “I thought I’d get checked in first.”
“Sure!” He exclaims and promptly makes his way behind the check-in desk. A wall of keys with numbers etched on the side covers the surface. He starts pressing the keys in front of him, kneeling on the chair so he can see the screen better.
“Name, please?” He asks with a professional tone that’s at least ten miles above James’. I wonder how angry he was this morning when I didn’t show up. Charlotte sent him a short email from my computer letting him know I wouldn’t be in, and not to expect me for at least three weeks.
James,
I am using my vacation days that I have and won’t be in the office for three weeks. I won’t be reachable by phone or email, but Charlotte will pick up any slack.
Avery
That was it.No one can say Charlotte doesn’t get straight to the point.
“Avery Reid,” I answer.
I look down at the boy who is now sticking his tongue out between his teeth in concentration and slowly types in my name with his index fingers, saying each letter out loud as he goes.
“A…V…E…R…Y.” He hits enter, the screen lighting up with my check-in confirmation and his eyes brighten. “Granny, I did it!”
Wait, who's he calling granny? I know I probably look ancient to him, most people about 25 and up do to little kids. But I know I don’t look old enough to be called granny.
Before I can respond, an older lady with long silver hair, one side pinned back, appears next to him. Her gaze goes from him to the computer. “Oh, great job, kiddo!” She offers him a high five before he jumps from the chair and heads outside in the direction of my car. Assuming he’s off to get my luggage, I turn to the woman.
“Cute kid,” I chuckle. “Very grown-up.”
She lets out a sigh.
“If he could, he’d make himself older in a heartbeat. I always remind him to just enjoy being eight, you know? But what can I say? He really loves helping around here when he can.”
Suitcases thump against the door frame as the sandy-haired boy struggles to get all my luggage inside. Setting it all down just inside the door, he collapses right next to it.
