The Surviving Trace

  Has the Old Serene replaced me? Is he back in his loveless marriage? The thought fills me with envy so powerful that my hands curl into fists. She can’t have him. I should be living her life with the man I love. The cruelest part of all of this is I’m obsessing over someone who isn’t even alive.

  “Serene?”

  My lashes flutter rapidly as I blink away my dark thoughts and focus on my mom. She’s standing behind the kitchen island; lines appear between her furrowed brows as she stares at me. We’ve made small talk since this morning, but I know she’s merely waiting for me to open up about what happened with Will. Her eyes keep veering to my now-empty ring finger.

  “Sorry,” I say. “What did you say?”

  She sighs. “I was saying that I need to go up in the attic and get the rest of the Christmas decorations down before tomorrow and I need your help.”

  I twist around and stare at the family room that’s decorated to the nines with tinsel, lights, Santas, and angels. There’s no possible way she could fit any more decorations into the house. I know my skepticism is written on my face because she gives me a stern look.

  “Mom, the house looks like pages 3-7 in the Pottery Barn Holiday Catalog.”

  “I need to get the tablecloths and decorations for the dining room. Relatives from out of town will be here tomorrow,” she explains.

  I take a bite of my sandwich. “How many?”

  She shrugs and continues to clean the counters. “Around fifteen.”

  I stifle a groan and keep my mouth shut; I know how much mom loves entertaining. “Sure. I’ll help you.”

  “Fantastic.” She stands and claps her hands. “Let’s get started.”

  “Wait, you mean right now?”

  “Why not? Is there something else you have to do?”

  “Well, no. But—”

  “Come on, sweetie. No excuses. Let’s get it over with.”

  She walks out of the kitchen toward the stairs. Reluctantly, I follow her.

  ATTICS FREAK ME out.

  It’s the ominous feeling that I can’t stand. I’ve been up here twice. Both times were with my brothers when we were kids. They wanted to snoop around and play, and I was frozen in place, staring at the haphazardly stacked boxes. Furniture that looked as though it had seen better days was pressed against the walls, and what appeared to be mouse droppings were scattered around my feet.

  Our mom found out about our visits and told us it was dangerous to be up there. I never questioned her words.

  Going back up here now, after all these years, I can see that not much has changed. Just more junk has been added.

  “Mom…” I look around the small space in disbelief. “I think you’re a hoarder.”

  She stops rummaging through plastic containers long enough to roll her eyes at me. “I know it looks bad.”

  “No, it doesn’t look bad. It is bad.”

  “I’ll admit it isn’t as organized as I would like. But it’s not as though I have dinner parties up here, so I think I’m okay. Think of this as a fun adventure; you love antiques and history. You should be elated to go through all of this.”

  She has a point. But typically when I rift through boxes from flea markets or go to estate sales or auctions, they aren’t held in small attics. “When did you acquire all this stuff?”

  “When your father’s mom died. His sister claimed she didn’t want the stuff. Said she didn’t have the room.” Mom says the last two words with air quotes before she sniffs and turns away. “Yet now I’m stuck with all this junk.”

  “Point me in the direction of the antiques.”

  “They’re over there,” Mom replies, flinging a hand toward the right.

  I’m guessing she’s referring to the old leather trunks stacked by a broken dresser that I’m pretty sure was once in one of my brother’s rooms. Carefully I move in that direction. I pass a broken, gilt floral design mirror, a baby carriage that I’m pretty sure I saw my dad photographed in, and a stack of miscellaneous boxes.

  With both hands, I brush away the dust on the top of the trunk. In the right-hand corner are some letters. Squinting, I peer closer. “What does T.A.P. stand for?”

  My mom doesn’t look up from the box in front of her. “Who knows? Probably someone from your father’s family.”

  Once upon a time, there was a lock on this trunk, but it’s long gone. Probably yanked off from its past owner or just fell apart from wear and tear. Opening the chest brings an onslaught of dust and a moldy scent that has me coughing.

  The trunk holds musty faded clothes, old books, and a stack of photos with a black ribbon holding them together. I can’t stop my heart from racing as I untie the ribbon. My photo of Étienne is forever gone, but getting the chance to see pictures from the past is always exciting to me. I sit on the dusty floor, cross my legs, and flip through the photos. The first few are of dad and his sister; that makes me smile. Then there are a lot of people I’ve never seen before. I come to the very end, feeling let down.

  I reach back into the trunk and pull out a dusty bible. It’s a leather bound, King James Version Bible with the spine ready to fall apart. I open the first page and see the inscription, “This Holy Bible is presented to.” In thin cursive letters is the name Clara Beckett Parow. Beneath that, is the date: September 8, 1912.

  I quickly skim through the pages, not expecting to find anything, and a picture drops into my lap. Highlighted in on the thin page where I found the picture is the verse Exodus 34:7. “Keeping mercy for thousands, forgiving iniquity and transgression and sin, and that will by no means clear the guilty; visiting the iniquity of the fathers upon the children, and upon the children’s children, unto the third and to the fourth generation.”

  Written on the side, near the verse, are the initials E.G.H and the year 1913. The writing is underlined three times. Whoever underlined those initials pressed down on the pen so hard they broke through the page.

  I read and reread the scripture. Each time, goose bumps break out across my skin.

  With shaking hands, I pick up the picture and carefully stare at it.

  There’s nothing special about it. It’s a black-and-white photo of a couple holding hands. Their backs are to the camera, but the woman twists around and smiles at the camera. With her free hand, she holds back her hair from whipping across her face. She’s petite with dark hair and a big smile. My eyes, though, are drawn to the man. Something about the set of his shoulders that gives me a massive sense of déjà vu. I’ve seen this man before, and I think I know who it is.

  Eagerly, I walk over to mom. She’s elbow-deep in a sea of tangled-up garland. I have to nudge her to get her attention and shove the picture in front of her.

  “Who’s this?”

  Mom squints at the photo. “Hmm…”

  My hands are shaking so hard, it’s impossible to keep them still. Mom remains silent, and it takes all my willpower not to reach out and shake the answer out of her.

  “You know, I think that’s your great-great-grandfather.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Theodore Parow. If I remember correctly everyone used to call him Teddy.”

  “Are there any more photos of him?”

  “Not that I’m aware of. Your dad told me that he met Teddy once and he was very private. Didn’t like his photo taken too much. But I’m sure there’re a few more somewhere.”

  I’ve heard of people being camera shy, but having only one photo taken? Damn near impossible even for his time. I flip the photo over and see the same initials that are engraved on the trunk. Beneath it is the date September 8, 1912.

  When I was younger, my mom told me that if I felt a gut instinct, I couldn’t go wrong. If something feels off, it’s because it is. If something feels right, it’s because it is. And right now, my gut is telling me that this picture is a link back to Étienne. It sounds like a reach, even for myself, but I can’t ignore the hunch.

  “How come I’m just now seeing this?” I ask.
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  “Because it’s been here for years.” Mom snatches the picture from my hands. I reach out for it, but she doesn’t notice. “You know, he has a fascinating story.”

  “How so?”

  With the picture in her hands, she sits on a milk crate. I grab one and sit next to her. “He came from nothing. His father passed away at a young age, and it was just him and his mother. Back then, jobs women could take were limited. She was a seamstress, so he had to bring in money. He did odd jobs here and there, but he never stopped working.”

  “What was his mom’s name?”

  “You know, I’m not sure. I don’t think your dad is even certain what her name is. There’s a lot of mystery around him. For all his hard work, he was a very cold man.”

  “I would think so, if he only met his grandson once.”

  Mom shrugs. “That’s how it was in your father’s family. They weren’t exactly the most affectionate family.”

  “That didn’t bother Dad?”

  “I’m sure it did when he was younger, but maybe not as much now. That’s why he was so hands-on with you and your brothers. He didn’t want you to have the same childhood he did.”

  She hands me back the photo and stands, ready to get back to work, but I’m still stuck on the picture and Dad’s family. I jump up. “What else can you tell me?”

  Mom turns around and looks at me. “Not much. Like I said, your father’s family was bizarre. The only thing they were solely devoted to is Ravenwood. Any stories your father and I have heard have been passed down through generations of family members, and I’m sure some of the information became twisted. I know you got your love of history from your father, but a few years ago, I became curious about my ancestry. I joined this site and got caught up in seeing how far back I could trace my family.”

  I lean in. To me, the story of the Parow family is a parable highlighting all the things that are wrong with our family. “How far back did you go?”

  “In some cases, I could date my family all way to the 1600s. But a lot of them had roadblocks.”

  “I wonder why.”

  Mom shrugs. “I think in some instances, it depends on the family upbringing. If you struggled, your only imprint in the past—with the exception of a family Bible—would be in censuses. Whereas a family with money would more than likely have photos, deeds, wills. It’s easier to find them. Naturally, my family doesn’t have the money the Parow side does, so it’s harder to research my family members.”

  “Does Dad have a family tree of the Parow family?” I ask anxiously.

  “Why are you suddenly so interested in your dad’s side of the family?” Mom asks with a short laugh.

  There’s no question about it—I cannot tell my mom anything about what’s happened to me. She’s a realist, plain and simple. She’s the kind of person who wants the facts laid out in front of her, and if something is presented to her that isn’t completely clear, she won’t believe it. When I told my parents my desire to start the business, she was the one opposed to the idea. My dad was more optimistic.

  “I’m curious. That’s all.” I glance at the photo. “Don’t you think it’s interesting how this person is our key to the past?”

  Mom muses over my question for a millisecond. “I suppose so. But this stuff”—Mom gestures to the items around us—“this is your thing. You love the past.”

  Oh, she has no idea.

  AFTER DINNER, I finally catch my dad alone in his office.

  He’s looking at something on his computer, his glasses low on his nose as he intently stares at the screen. I smile.

  Growing up, I would watch documentaries or pour over old photos with my dad. My brothers would roll their eyes, and my mom would shake her head. More than anything, I want to tell Dad about my experiences at Belgrave. He would love it and ask me dozens of questions. But I can’t handle the thought of him staring at me as though I’ve lost my damn mind, the way everyone else does.

  Softly, I knock on his door.

  When he sees me, a smile spreads across his face. “Serene. This is a pleasant surprise.”

  “Are you busy?”

  He pushes back from his desk and gestures to the seats angled to face his desk. “No. Come in, come in.”

  “What are you reading?”

  “A newspaper that your uncle Barry found on an archives site. Very informative.”

  “Year?” I ask as I sit down across from him.

  “1913. It’s the year your great-great-grandfather opened Ravenwood.”

  My heart speeds up. I’ve been thinking of the proper segue into a conversation surrounding Parow history, and he just handed it to me on a silver platter. I lace my fingers together. “What did he do before he bought the farm?”

  Dad leans back in his chair. “Various jobs,” he replies, pride coating his words. “Your grandmother always told us how he came from nothing and had to work hard to every penny.”

  Damn. The same answer I got from Mom. “Mom and I found some interesting things in the attic.”

  “I have no doubt that you did. I’ve been meaning to go up there and sort through the trunks.”

  “You need to. But I came across this photo.” I pull the black-and-white photo from my back pocket and hand it to him.

  He puts his glasses back on and scans the photo, taking in every detail. After a few seconds, he hands it back to me. “That’s your great-great-grandpa and his wife, Clara.”

  “You know her name?”

  “Absolutely. Throughout the years, I’ve worked on the Parow family tree.”

  “That’s what mom was telling me about. She mentioned some site to research her family.”

  He nods and smiles. “It’s called Ancestry.com. I suggested it to her. They’ve upgraded their site and added tons of content to the point you can find anyone.”

  All of a sudden, an idea takes root in my mind. I sit up straight in my chair. “Anyone?”

  “Anyone,” he repeats.

  I CUT MY conversation with Dad short and hurry upstairs to my laptop. I’ve already signed up for Ancestry. The homepage is beckoning me, but before I research the Lacroix family, I do something I should’ve done when I first arrived back in my own time. I’m going to Google Étienne.

  The blinker taunts me to type something into the search bar. Funny how I left dad’s office with renewed hope, and now I’m too afraid to type in Étienne’s name. The truth is, I’m terrified of what I’ll find. Terrified I’ll see he went on to remarry and had a handful of kids. Or worse, that something terrible happened to him.

  I carefully type his name without the acute accent, hoping that maybe his name will automatically appear in the search bar. Before I even type out his last name, a handful of Étiennes pop-up. None of them have the last name of Lacroix though.

  My stomach sinks when I press enter. It takes 0.67 seconds for 49,300 results to pop-up. That should’ve given me an inordinate amount of optimism, but I know that within all those search results, only a handful will be aimed toward my Étienne.

  Instead of clicking on the links, I go to the pictures. What I need right now is proof, an image to reassure my heart I didn’t make him up. In my mind, his appearance is fading, and that’s a terrifying thought.

  But none of the pictures are of him. Sure, a few of these men could’ve been relatives, but deep in my heart, I knew they aren’t. The smiles are off, and the features are all wrong.

  I go back to the links. They’re mostly generic: how to pronounce the name Étienne, the meaning behind Lacroix. A few LinkedIn pages for an Étienne Lacroix from France. Nothing stands out.

  I continue to click on link after link. After a good hour of searching and finding nothing, I finally go back to the search bar and type in “Belgrave Plantation.” I press enter, but at the last second, I change my mind and add “Charleston, South Carolina” to increase my odds.

  When the page loads and I see pictures of the Lacroixs’ home, I suck in a sharp breath. There it is, inches away fro
m me.

  With my elbows on my thighs, I lean closer to the laptop screen and scroll down. There’s a painting of Belgrave during its glory days. That’s the only one I can find of the Belgrave I remember and lived in. The rest of the images are in black-and-white and reveal the decayed remains of a home that tried to withstand the harsh hands of mother nature and failed.

  It’s surreal to see what’s left of the estate and know what it looked like in its prime. My heart aches for what it used to be. I rub the pad of my thumb against the forth window to the right on the second floor. That had been my room. I saw sunrises and sunsets in that room.

  Why can’t time leave everything as it is?

  After a good thirty minutes of scrolling through the pictures available, I click on the Wikipedia link. To the left is a black-and-white thumbnail image after the back portion of the house had collapsed.

  Immediately, it gives me the backstory:

  “Belgrave Plantation was built in 1850 and was owned by Everett Livingston, a sugar planter, who hired a well-known architect from New York, Peter Johnson, to design the mansion. It took nearly six years to complete building and was considered the largest plantation in the South.

  In 1879, Everett’s only child, Charlotte, married Adrien Lacroix, from the prosperous Lacroix family who operated Lacroix Shipping Company. Upon marriage, Everett gifted Belgrave to his daughter and son-in-law. Years later, Adrien sold his share of the sugar plantation, leaving him with only two hundred acres of the original one thousand, so he could focus his attention on the shipping company.

  Tragically, on March 8, 1901, Everett, along with his wife and son, Julian, died in a train accident. The company was split between his two older sons, Étienne and Livingston.

  More tragedy struck the family when on June 15, 1912, a fire started in the east wing of the mansion. It quickly spread throughout the house. By the time the fire was put out, the east wing had completely collapsed. Ten servants died from the blaze, along with Étienne and his sister, Nathalie.”

  “Holy shit,” I whisper and sit back against my pillows.