Carter

Maybe you know what it means to be trapped between two worlds. I don’t think I am alone in this. You get so caught up in a flood of emotions that your intellect demands you stop and think. As if it’s impossible to think while crying. A part of you tells you to keep your emotions off the field when dealing with matters where you say, "I want to look at this objectively; it must be scientific." Whatever that "part" is (people call it logic), it can cast aside even what we call "conscience" without a second thought. They call it the heart and the brain. They have separated the two. They say those who listen to their heart are emotional, while the brain makes you think and endows you with logic. Yet, it is not even clear whether it is the heart or the brain that signals you when you fall in love. Scientists, of course, answer "the brain." In art and literature, however, the answer somehow shifts to the other. It is almost as if we become whatever we choose to believe.

And as for me, you see, I still haven’t been able to choose what to believe. In fact, until now, I have neither thought nor felt that I was forced to make a choice. When it came to the events in my own life, I didn’t get caught between two worlds, nor did I run away from either of them. Wherever I went, I brought both worlds along with me; I let them hold hands. If you ask me, watching those two worlds together is profoundly fascinating, but people find it terrifying; they say, "I’ll get trapped between two worlds, I have to choose." That is precisely where the whole issue lies, the whole problem is in the subject itself: 'people.'

When I looked up, I locked eyes with my father, whose curious gaze I could clearly make out in the rearview mirror. As he redirected his attention back to the road, the subtle insinuation in his voice became uncomfortable.

“What could you possibly be writing to be that spaced out?”

“Nothing. Just the usual stuff. Just thoughts.”

Right at that moment, another question popped into my head.

What even is change? Is it hard or easy? Maybe it’s not as complicated as people think. Just like what I’m experiencing right now. When you become numb like me, change is the simplest thing that can happen to you. Take me, for instance; right now, I am heading towards a place where I know for a fact I will spend at least a year of my life—a place I will call home, yet know absolutely nothing about. But for some reason, I’m not all that scared. Evaluating change on its own is difficult, because one of the most exciting words is, at the same time, one of the most terrifying. For me, change sparks excitement rather than fear, but I know that when you turn change into an action, it ceases to be as thrilling or attractive as it was when it was just a concept. To change, to make a change…That is when it becomes terrifying; there is weight to it, there is responsibility. There is no other word out there with such an extraordinary, deceptive magic as “change.” It sounds so lovely, you long to experience it, yet you stumble when you actually do. Is there anything in this world as laborious as changing and causing change? They say, “Revolution is hard.” It’s not the revolution that is hard, it’s the change behind it. That is how everyone underestimates change, and that is how change deceives everyone.

“Are you a bit anxious, Carter?”

My father fixed his eyes on me through the rearview mirror once again. Even though the greenery flanking both sides of the road and the beam of light kissing my cheek from the right window caught my attention more than his question, I knew I had to answer. The sun peeked through the leaves of the tall, lush trees, occasionally hiding behind the clouds—merging with whichever cloud it concealed itself behind, only to present its majesty this time as a slender shaft of light.

“There are so many oak trees, aren’t there?”

“This is Tennessee, sweetheart. Welcome.”

Sitting at the wheel, my father smiled eagerly as he scanned the surrounding trees. I’m sure he would have loved to live here if he had the chance. I knew my father, but I knew just as well how terrified of change he was. If he weren’t afraid, he wouldn’t have been doing the same job for twenty years, and he would have moved to this town that I knew he loved much more. My father was a regional manager for a corporate real estate firm. Compared to my mother and me, his communication with people was always flawless; everyone adored him. And his favorite thing in the world was people. He would do whatever it took to please them. Not everyone noticed this, of course, but I did. When I realized that I had consciously tried to please people a few times myself, I questioned who I was quite a bit. After all, it’s a critical matter—there is a massive gulf between wanting to please people and doing it reluctantly. The latter can breed completely unknown or, in the long run, devastating consequences.

“Do you know what I actually want to do?”

“You want to move here.”

“Carter, oh, you... You know me too well.”

But you won’t.

You won’t leave Portland to come here.

My father kept right on smiling eagerly, looking around with even greater fascination. I’ve always admired people who can focus on driving the car while managing not to miss a single thing in their surroundings. When I’m behind the wheel, I usually see nothing but the road ahead of me. My father, on the other hand, looked as though he wasn’t missing a beat, commenting on every single country-style house we passed; according to him, one had a highly functional front yard, another had raised its roofline unnecessarily, while others had no idea how to use their gardens efficiently, which simply didn’t suit the folks of this town, and so on and so forth. At one point, listening to him, I felt myself drowning in the details, but it didn’t last long. Just as I realized I had drifted off, my father reeled me right back into the conversation with another question.

“Do you remember Hilda’s house?”

“I remember it more from pictures, honestly. Because the last time you brought us here, I think I was only six. I don’t remember much. But it was a beautiful house. It was magnificent.”

“If you thought it was magnificent back then, you won’t believe what it looks like now.”

“Oh, really?”

“Hilda is meticulous, Carter, you know that,” my father smiled, “after expanding her garden, she grew even more roses. And she was obsessed with furniture, you know that too. The piece in the entryway looks phenomenal, and the one on the porch is even better.”

My aunt did have an obsession with perfect furniture—my father was right about that. She would drive for miles and spend a fortune just to find a piece that was exactly as comfortable as she wanted, while blending seamlessly with every corner of the house. From what I gathered from my father’s stories, that was precisely what she had done. The woman was usually tight-fisted, but that’s the thing about weaknesses. You have obsessions that you always tolerate and justify, even if they don’t align with your personality; they rule over you for a massive chunk of your life, and you don’t even notice. Even if your soul does notice, it gets silenced. I still haven’t figured out what it is that does the silencing. Is it the soul itself, or the mind? Perhaps both. Wait a minute, aren’t the soul and the mind the same thing anyway? Seriously, what exactly was the soul?

“Carter, we’re almost there. I’ll grab the suitcases from the back, it’ll take you long enough just to pack up your bag.”

Though I wanted to show that I didn’t see much of an issue with taking my time to pack up, I noticed my father’s gaze lingering on the books, notebooks, pens, and highlighters piled up in front of me. He was right; I had made quite a mess. As I gathered my things, I realized we were no longer passing rows of houses. When my father turned onto a small gravel path, I saw that old, yet still dazzlingly bright white house. Just as I was thinking it wouldn’t be possible for the white to look this clean if my aunt hadn’t repainted the house, I saw them. The roses. On both sides of the steps of Aunt Hilda’s white house, growing on branches that were perhaps as tall as I am, were fresh roses with vibrant green leaves and the warmest shade of red—all of them looking as if they could come alive at any moment.

As I shut the car door, it felt as though a completely different woman was standing on the charming steps of the two-story white house. This can’t be my Aunt Hilda.

Descending the steps eagerly, Hilda called out to me with her usual smile—the only thing that felt unchanged.

“Carter! Finally!”