Leaving the car behind she took several steps into the road as cooling air hugged her face and filled her lungs. The smell of hot sand, toasted and dry, grazed her senses as if to invade her being, welcoming and familiar. Her gaze fell on the stillness of Main Street. Pausing at the never-ending wonder of it all she slowly closed her eyes and drew the air. Some of the moments that made up her time in Alonetown filled her vision as if projected and woven through a fabric screen. Fragments of memories, of family, made her wish she had done things differently. Made her want a second chance with the knowledge she possessed now.
Opening her eyes and through misted vale she moved her focus along the familiar street. Since her last visit, now approaching two years, the store fronts had remained unchanged and immaculate. Despite the time gone, her size grown beyond a day, it felt only that measure of time since she had last stood here staring at the same buildings, the same feelings of wonderment.
Each imposing structure, outlined by its shadow, was made from large stone, wood and glass, each pristine and undisturbed by time or being. The architecture individual yet belonging to those buildings that surrounded it.
As a singular salacious child, she had played in the buildings. Wondered at the reason for them. Curious as to why no one else lived there. Sometimes, when building crews would visit, she would cover her ears as the mechanical diggers and trucks made something where previously nothing had stood. She would stand and watch, ducking occasionally, from the window of one of the many empty buildings. The quiet behind her at war with the noise in front of her. The town itself seemed to hold its breath while the fumes and noise brought about the mutation of another road. A laboured breath exhaled when a new building was born. When the noise subsided and the trucks left, what remained slotted its shape into the surrounding graphic. Only now a skipped moment that looked back upon never seemed to be what it was. Change and difference, a difficult time for anyone.
On another hot day her father had taken an eight-year-old Grace to the diner, made milkshakes and asked her if she was happy living in the town. Grace had spun on the red leather pin stool, grabbing at the chrome bar that ran the length of the counter asking why there were no other children to play with. When her father sat on the seat next to her, milkshakes in hand, he explained the town was designed and built as part of his architectural legacy. A test bed for planning and engineering. New practice versus old. A declaration and need to create something from nothing. Each building was a version of something standing in a town or city a distance from its original. The size here reduced but its soul as large. A stunted near twin parted at birth. When the design was right the scale was changed, built somewhere to someone but nowhere to them.
Grace struggled with the concept, asking why on more than one occasion, before accepting that she could go where she pleased. She could play in any home, in any building. Have free reign over the park slide and swings in an area which was always devoid of children’s laughter and tears.
They drank their milkshakes while her father had talked about the buildings. Each as though they were sister or brother to Grace. Each born with a purpose. Each born to be part of something bigger than its own individual life. A need by each to be cared for and to protect another. Not singular, not alone, its walls protecting other walls, other places, other things. Giving shelter and warmth to those who became fragments of its own time in being.
Her father had never talked as though addressing a child. Time and presence were limited. His love and respect for Grace was never in doubt. Only a stunted awareness of her life meant that he always spoke as if she were an equal. Knowledge came from him in differing measures. Grace, each building, each design, were welcoming of his voice.
While not in the town they lived in an apartment deep inside San Francisco overlooking Union Square. The contrast of endless busy streets held little interest while an on-off relationship with the local school meant learning what society required difficult. As the time increased away from Alonetown so also a longing ache grew inside her. During lessons she would struggle to concentrate, her mind wandering to her other self and how simpler it all was. Grace had never understood the need for tribalism. Had always been and felt individual with no longing to be included in groups. She did not celebrate being different, just an acceptance of truth. She also had no interest in the conflict that arose from the need of some people to hold power over others and to justify that label by following a broken history. She would sometimes stare, during breaktime, at the other children talking and laughing in groups that invited no one, groups that would distance themselves in class and other times.
The walk between the apartment and school contained a collection of people dressed differently, walking past each other as though theirs were the only existence. Each step taken among the thousand others against the same ground, breathing the same air, feeling the same warm sun hitting their faces. How much more alone she felt when surrounded by people, voices unheard passing her by, undisturbed by her presence. Eye contact seemed forbidden. Occasionally a smile would make its way from one lonely person only to be rebuked by another, unsure as to what their reaction should be against an intention unknown. Maybe the expectation of interaction and the lack of it, despite the many people, made her feel more alone among the bustle than when no one was within reach.
Grace’s mother rarely ventured out from the apartment and, on the rare occasion she did, her arm would be entwined with another. A life swarming ten-minute walk past unrecognised and uninterested faces would bring them to the building where her father worked. Everywhere they visited was instantly recognisable. Deliveries were made on a regular schedule and the doorman knew only too well to keep to that schedule. Knew only too well that the punishment was not his to shoulder.
Even at a young age Grace knew her mother was delicate. Knew never to talk unless face to face. Each day when she returned from school her mother would hug her and watch her talk about the things she had learnt, the excitement controlling her features with a look of wonderment and fallacious understanding. Her mother struggled adjusting to life without a major sense. Her biggest fear, the demons from her own childhood, had manifested itself mentally more than physically. Loneliness or alone. Grace learned to know her mother’s moods from reading her eyes. Reading when fear had taken control, scratched deeply and left its mark. Dreams and expectations lost to unrivalled bitterness and regret.
Her mother often became more agitated while in the throngs of life in the city and struggled with outside interactions. The daily decisions would become larger than life for her and the constant inward disappointment would stop her forming a solution while it impeded her ability to enjoy the moments offered. During a rain filled day her mother could be found sitting alone in a darkened corner, her hands rough and bleeding, her eyes vacant. She would curl her chapped lips into an open mouth smile when she noticed she was not by herself, that her daughter had returned.
Learning at such an age how fragile, not only our bodies, but also our minds, gave little comfort to a young girl already insecure of her own reflection. Magazines, television and the constant barrage of advertisers showed the world the image of beauty. Anything else was the opposite. Anything else was imperfect. Anything else. Anything else.
Life, as Grace knew it, was one of task and failure, no matter the outcome. Sleep, when it came, was the only true escape. Warm. Safe. Without judgement. Without affect. A new start, a reset of rising sun and damp air bringing with it repetition. In the city, amongst so many lives, so many minutes and seconds, where the only face of happiness lay behind closed doors, Grace felt empty, hollow, invisible. A surreptitious awakening, one moment at a time.
The patience of her father was matched only by his lack of understanding. Grace would overhear them talking, a dullness to her mother’s voice, saying that she felt time was catching up and her memories were all but made. Her father had made a point, several times, saying it was unhealthy to dwell on such things, that she needed to find a goal to achieve. Even after finding professional help, he realised that her only want was to be away from modern life. To thrive and be happy she would need her own space, her own seclusion for her thoughts to run free. Eventually they moved to Alonetown permanently and toward the end even he succumbed to its silence and solitude.
Grace forced herself out of the memory and back to the present. Stepping slowly, she walked across the road, her hands sheathed, pushing her darkened jacket forward like a buffer, her back towards the fluttering light outside the two-storey house. She walked past familiar store fronts, occasionally pushing past the unlocked doors and into the warm interior. She would glide her hand over the soft fabric of new clothing or examining the variety of footwear, now all in one size.