Page 22 of The Strawberry Field
A blur of movement, quick and dark, just at the edge of my vision. I bolt upright, heart hammering, water sloshing. Grabbing a towel, I scramble out of the tub, dripping, breath shallow, skin cold. I stand on the toilet lid, scanning the corners of the bathroom, willing it to be my imagination.
But it’s not.
There’s movement near the base of the wooden shelf where I keep the towels. I take a cautious step down, praying I’m far enough away that it won’t bolt.
I grab my phone, turn on the flashlight, and shine it at the bottom of the shelf.
There it is. Coiled. Still. And, for now, silent.
My worst fear. A snake.
I leap across the room, fling the door shut behind me, and jam the towel underneath the crack at the bottom to keep it from escaping. My hands are shaking. My skin prickles with panic.
How did it get in?
Could there be more?
A family?
I try to breathe. Try not to hyperventilate.
But I know one thing with certainty: I can’t handle this alone.
Still wrapped in a towel, I change clothes quickly and sit on the edge of the bed, phone in hand, searching.
Snake removal. Local wildlife control. Anything.
I find a service in Roanoke. Leave a message. Then another in Lynchburg. Same result. No answer. No help.
Frustrated, I toss my phone beside me on the bed and lie back, trying to hold still, trying not to think of what’s behind that door.
But of course, I do.
And that’s when Jake’s name floats up.
I hesitate.
A hundred reasons why not to call him race through my mind.
But desperation has a way of dulling pride.
I search his name in the local listings. Nothing. I remember the name of the farm he bought, and I know the road. I know the house. I know the strawberry field.
I’ve known it my whole life.
I throw on sandals, grab my phone and keys, and head out the door.
The drive is short. Familiar. The road lined with memories. New houses dot the area now, but the old landmarks are still there. Still standing.
The turnoff to Jake’s comes sooner than I expect. I brake hard, tires squealing a little on the gravel. I wince, hoping no one saw that.
The strawberry field comes into view first, lush, green, vibrant with impending fruit. A pang hits me. I remember walking these rows with my mother, her hands full of strawberries meant for pies and jam.
The house appears next. It’s beautiful. Cared for. Alive.
Unlike mine.
A yellow Lab barks and trots toward the Jeep, tail wagging. I sit still for a moment, then step out. The gravel crunches beneath my feet.
