Hold On--Chapter 4

I step off the train, bag in hand. Setting foot on the tattered dirt road floods back memories.

On my fifth birthday, my parents had spared enough money to buy me a small cloth doll. It’s the same doll that sits in my bag at this very moment; twelve years later. Then there was my mother’s necklace and my father’s navy blue tie; the things they had worn the night they met. It was at a small dance held every spring. I always begged my mother to tell me the story time and time again. A lump formed in my throat when I realized I’d never hear it from her again. I dismiss the thought before it brings on tears. The first day I went to the trading post with my father. Another girl was there who looked about my age, which was seven at the time. Her name is Pamela, and we became really close. Pamela. Did she still remember me? I hadn’t seen her in six years. My thoughts were interrupted.

“Are you coming?” Marcus called. I turn to find the train has left and they stand about ten feet ahead of me.

“Yeah,” I call back, scampering to catch up with them. Rosalind slips her hand in mine. “Ready to go home?” I whisper. She nods, hazel eyes gleaming.

None of us say anything, but the silence is hardly anything to dread. We’re all busy taking in the village. The place we had grown up in, but had not seen for so long. We pass the trading post, the butcher—where my father’s good friend, Ash, was in charge—a small clothing store with hand-sewn garments made by an old lady named Hattie, and the meadow. My parents and I used to have picnics there all the time. Then we reached a cluster of houses. Our neighborhood. First was Dillon’s house, which is across from mine. Then Marcus’s and Olivia’s house, which is three doors down from mine. Then my house.

I eagerly turn the doorknob and thrust the door open. Everything was where I left it. I go straight to my room. My fingers run over the different scraps of fabric sewn together by my mother to make my quilt. I take the doll out of my bag and place her in her rightful place, propped up on my pillow. Then I go down the hall to my parents’ room. I can’t bring myself to step inside though. Seeing the sheets in a disheveled pile on the floor takes me back to that terrible night.

Instead, I go back to the front and find Rosalind eyeing her new home. How out of place she might feel; in some person’s home without a shred of her old life.

“Want to get some of your things?” I ask her. She nods readily. We step out into the brisk early spring air and she leads me to her house. Dillon’s house is to the right of hers, but it doesn’t surprise me that they didn’t know each other, seeing as he’s six years older. Rosalind turns the front doorknob and disappears inside just as Dillon steps out of his house.

“Hey Skye,” he says waving with his free hand. In his other hand he holds some arrows. His bow is tucked under his arm, knives rest in his belt, and an old burlap sack is slung over his shoulder. “I was just going to get you actually.” At the sight of my puzzled face, he continues, “You know, see if you wanted to come hunting.”

“Sure,” I agree, knowing I need food. “Why don’t you ask Marcus if he wants to come. You two can meet me back at my house.”

“Oh, okay,” he says slightly disheartened. We both go our separate ways; me into Rosalind’s house, and him to Marcus’s and Olivia’s. I wait near the front until she appears clutching something close to her. I don’t think to ask her what it is. All I do is walk by her side back to our house.