THE COTTAGE
Written and illustrated
by Elaine Troisi
Caroline tried to brush something from her face. She opened one eye, and the bright sun streaming through her bedroom window felt like a shard of glass. Rolling over, she buried herself deeper beneath the covers, unwilling to face the day. Or any day, for that matter.
Nine months had passed since the car accident that had killed her husband and daughter and somehow spared her. Still, she could not escape the fog of grief and depression. Most days were spent in bed. Friends and family came with casseroles, flowers, and soft voices, but she shooed them away. She deserved the isolation.
She had lost control of the car on a rain-slick curve, crashing through the guardrail and tumbling down a steep embankment. How many times the car flipped, she never knew. The memory remained fractured and distant, buried beneath the two-month coma that followed. The funerals had come and gone without her even knowing.
Her face and arm had been badly burned. During physical therapy, pain shot through her body until she trembled from exhaustion, but even that never felt a sufficient punishment.
Caroline longed for her husband and daughter, yet tears never came. Instead, she wandered the silent house screaming their names into empty rooms.
During the months she was hospitalized, her father, trying to spare her further pain, had removed nearly every photograph and reminder of her former life. Now she searched the house like a stranger, opening drawers and closets, desperate to recover the images that had once told her who she was.
She felt like an astronaut whose tether had been severed, doomed now to float endlessly through time and space. No connection to the past or the future. “Who am I?” she screamed.
“You are my wonderful daughter,” her father said, startling her. He rested a hand on her shoulder. Her breath caught.
“Dad, I didn't hear you come in,” she finally said.
“I heard you, baby girl.” He sat her down on Amanda’s bed. “ You need to get away from the past and leave the pain behind.” He looked into her watery blue eyes and placed his hand on her scarred face.
“But no matter where I go, all of this,” she pointed to her surroundings, “all of this comes with me. There’s no escape from my grief, Daddy.” She put her arms around him.
“You mean your guilt, Caroline,” he said. The worry in his voice pulsated. “Time will heal that, too. If you let it,” he added.
“But where will I go? What will I do?” She rested her head on his shoulder.
They sat in silence for awhile.
Simultaneously they said, “The cottage!”
Father and daughter had always been in sync. Their love and understanding for one another was deep.
“I need to give it some thought,” Caroline said. “When was the last time you were there? I remember as a child you took us up every Christmas. The pond was always frozen over. Perfect for ice skating. All of us, including your nieces and nephews.” She paused, remembering a happy time. “Remember the big bonfires we made? Mom brought thermoses of hot chocolate and marshmallows to toast.”
“I certainly remember how much wood I had to chop!” he said, grimacing. “It's been years since I've been up. The place is probably in need of repair.
“I know,” Caroline's voice grew husky. “Soon after that, Mom became ill. I was pregnant with Amanda, and …”
“I know, one life was traded for another.” He paused, remembering. “How I miss your mother, and now Amanda and Jonathan, too.” He took his handkerchief and blew hard. “I didn't think I could survive without your mother. After 50 years of a blessed marriage, I thought I'd die, for sure. But here I am, still kicking, three years later.” He smiled weakly.
“Aw, Dad, I wish I had your strength.
“You do,” he paused “it's just tucked away. Here.” He pointed to her head. “Waiting.”
“Daddy, how did you become so wise?”
“Lots of life, love, and loss—and the occasional shot of bourbon, neat.” He smiled. “But even war and the loss of your mother cannot compare to your situation, baby girl,” he said hugging her again. “Don't worry, strength will come.”
“At the cottage?”
“Yes,” he replied, “at the cottage.”
After lunch, leftover casserole from Aunt Millie, and quiet more relaxed conversation, Caroline rose abruptly. With tinge of excitement, she said,” Yes!”
“Yes?”
“Yes, let's go to the cottage!”
“Sweetheart, I'm investigating a big case for the D.A. This one might go all the way to the Supreme Court.” He watched the excitement fade from her expression. “Oh,Caroline, I'm so sorry.”Ned looked at her intently. “Don't you dare!”
“Dare what?”
“You know what—use this as an excuse not to go up to the cottage.”
“But …”
“No buts!” He watched her shoulders relax a little, so he jumped. “ We can get a house keeper and a handyman. I've been wanting to clean out the bunkhouse anyway. I can even arrange to have groceries delivered . I'll come over tomorrow and help you load up the car.”
“Well, “she began. Ned expected her to reverse her decision. “I'd rather do the housework and shopping myself. Maybe even attack the bunkhouse.”
“Less money out of my pocket!” He smiled broadly. “Shall I come tomorrow?"
“Not tomorrow, Daddy. Give me a week to get things in order. Okay?”
“A very prudent decision. I'm so happy! Just don't go changing your mind!”
As she carried the first box downstairs, something shifted inside her — not healing exactly, but movement.
Outside, rain tapped softly against the windows.
A week later, her dad arrived to assist her in loading the SUV. Suitcases, groceries, jackets, blankets, lanterns, and two boxes of assorted first aid items, and kitchenware were stowed.
Tearful goodbyes and promises of visits followed. With a nervous smile, Ned was gone.
Caroline slid behind the wheel and gripped it tightly.
For a moment, she simply stared through the windshield.
The GPS map glowed blue in the darkness of the dashboard.
Six hours.
Her breath shortened.
Rain on the pavement.
Twisting metal.
Amanda’s scream for mommy.
Caroline jerked her hands from the steering wheel as though it had burned her.
“No,” she whispered.
Her chest tightened violently. The road unfurled in her mind — the sharp curve, the guardrail, the plunge into darkness.
She saw herself veering off the highway again.
But she hadn't struck the deer.
She lowered her forehead against the wheel and closed her eyes.
Then, after a long moment, she reached for the ignition once more, and the engine turned over.
Six hours away in Nova Scotia, at the bunkhouse, a single light burned against the gloom.