1985
Grand Marais, Michigan
The car lurches, and the green of the leaves gleams against the morning sun. My vision is bleary from lack of sleep, but anticipation sharpens my other senses.
We are driving out to a cabin rented for the summer, a modest paradise nested deep in the woods of the rural upper Michigan. My mother drives, for better or for worse, while my dad and my twin Megan incite quite the quandary over the music that meanders it's way through the subpar car speakers.
"Madonna or Michael J, Mer?" She asks me, staring with great intensity at the cassette tapes in her hand. Ambivalent, I reply with a simple "Jewel," to a collective sigh. I really don't know why I bother offering my opinions.
I go back to staring out the window, and the car continues to move, up and down, but always forward. We are approaching a town, now. It's quite small, I notice as we slow down to the requisite fifteen mph. The houses are small and dated, paneled in colors in varying degrees of brightness. Small shops line the main road, and I look forward to exploring the village dazedly, with a vague and calm sense of excitement.
"Meredith," my mom asks me, "would you mind telling me where to go from here?"
I briefly consult the map, hesitantly pulling my gaze from the sleepy sight of the town outside the car. It seems old and young at once, and I imagine quickly that all the atoms that make up the car and the stimulation inside of it, I imagine that it all just disappear. Where would that leave me, I wonder. I imagine a day without obligation or limitation; the idea is fleeting but pleasant.
Going back to the map, I survey the area and direct my mother accordingly. Soon we take a sharp left, moving on to a gravel road with tall trees flanking it, towering over us like a promise.
"Aren't you guys excited?" Megan asks us, exalting exuberance with each syllable. Her expression of excitement is almost comical, because it's like looking into a mirror, but not seeing yourself. I feel the same joyful anticipation, but much more subdued. Megan and I are technically identical, but yet so very different. We share the same bright green eyes and copper hair, but mine is natural and usually braided, in stark contrast to her perm and blonde highlights. And different we were in other aspects as well, her being a gregarious extrovert, and myself the opposite. But for seventeen years we have kept each other company and weathered the same storms. From our baby brother's death at a heart-rending two to Megan's first boyfriend and my lack thereof, we have seen each other throughout it all.
"Very excited," I reply softly to Megan's earlier query, the low rumble of my voice barely a murmur. But she hears it, and rewards me a grudging smile of gratitude.
And just as this transactional interaction transpired, we arrived.
The cabin was quaint, small, and painted a robin-egg blue, the color fading and chipped. Somehow this added to the charisma, and perhaps it was the white porch, or the stones lining the path up to the front steps, or maybe the gentle collapse of waves that I could hear, the sound twisting around the house, alluding to the promise of cold, clean water just beyond the corner.
Just then, a large grey cat stepped up to my ankles, purring so quietly that I was sure nobody but I would hear. The cat had no collar, but she (misguided it may be, I always assume cats girls, until I know otherwise) was enthusiastic about me enough, and as I stooped down to pet her, she playfully nipped my hand, then rammed her head into me. I laughed, enthralled, and quite rare public displays of enjoyment are with myself. I continue rubbing her up and down, to her apparent delight.
But soon, everyone else had unpacked the bags from the car and had made their way inside, a second thought not left on my behalf. Reluctantly I give the cat a last rub on the head, before following my family inside.
The inside is, if possible, even more charming than the out. Everything in varying shades of coral and blue, with an abundance of white sanded oak furniture. The floor planks are thin and worn, and ornate antique lamps adorn each room. I silently bypass Megan, Mom, and Dad, who are congregating in the kitchen, opting for the slim and steep stairwell in the far corner of the house. The wood creaks under my weight.
I keep walking until I reach the top, and I look up to find a tiny and tidy room, barely room enough for a dresser, a twin bed, and a window. I rush to the window, opening it and inhaling deeply, imagining the air filling and inflating my lungs, until I can float up, like a balloon, past the feelings that every day threaten to engulf me. So I just keep breathing. I feel the floor beneath my feet and heart in my chest, beating it's own unique rhythm, setting the beat to a melody that only I can hear.