Hunting the Fairy Tale

Willow Mayfair

So, women actually do this kind of thing in real life!

Crossing my arms, I settle in to watch the spectacle unfolding before me, and it is quite the spectacle indeed.

My mother, the usually quiet, emotionally stunted Rebecca Mayfair, is holding hands with a short, busty woman—Elizabeth Drake.

They are jumping around in circles like a pair of little children. This strange tribal dance consisting of giggling, crying, hugging, and shrieking has been going on for quite a few minutes now.

Where on Earth am I?

Our car hadn’t even stopped completely when Aunt Beth came screaming down the patio steps and all but yanked my mother from the still-stuttering vehicle right into her embrace.

I always thought scenes like this were only found in ‘girly’ movies. I cannot remember having had the urge to do what they’re doing now... ever... and my mother...

Actually, my mother rarely laughs.

Hearing her squeal like a little girl is rather wonderful. Seeing her show any kind of emotion is refreshing. She’d slowly been coming alive since we embarked on our road trip to Briar Cove, the stress lines in her face softening with each kilometre we travelled. Seeing her gradually transform into a different person is fascinating.

I was really nervous when I opened the gate to the Drakes’ property for my mother to park our dilapidated old car in the canopied area to the left of the double garages.

She assured me it would be perfectly fine, that Aunt Beth had told her to drive right in and park there. To be honest, I had my doubts. Despite my mother’s many promises, I didn’t feel certain of our welcome at all.

Then suddenly, this bubbly blond woman came bursting from the house like a little yellow hurricane, and my doubts began to fade.

And here we are, five minutes later, starring in a female coming-of-age movie.

Aunt Beth and my mother’s abundant joy finally pop the bubble of anxiety I’ve been trapped in for months now. Watching these two excited women, my eyes are suddenly burning with silly tears of relief.

I slowly become aware of the alarm that’s been going off at my feet for practically the entire duration of the reunion between my mother and her best friend.

Jealous of the shrieks and squeals threatening to put his abilities to shame, Little-Piddle is doing his best to pierce our eardrums.

Wincing, I pick the dog up and hug him to my chest. Usually, doing so calms his hysterics, but not this time. I adore the fluffy little mongrel, but honestly, his shrill barks can make even the dead cringe in pain.

He’d been trapped in the car with us for over two days; he deserves a big dose of freedom. We all do, but oh, my word, it hurts!

“Shush! Be quiet. They’re doing a splendid job all by themselves,” I hiss into his ear.

My mother and Aunt Beth stop their re-unification ritual and turn all their attention to me. It’s not what I’d meant to achieve at all!

I cannot remember the last time my mother smiled at me quite like this. It warms my heart, and I smile back. Each shared smile seems to shrink the vast distance between us by one millimetre at a time.

I’m glad.

Aunt Beth suddenly lets my mother go to wrap me in a cloud of rose and lilac, ignoring the protests of the squirming dog caught in our embrace.

What on Earth is happening now?!

I am not used to such an open display of affection. I try to soften the stiffness seizing my body because the last thing I want to do is offend my mother’s best friend.

After a few seconds of being certain of complete failure, I suddenly feel my rigid body relax into the hug.

My goodness! This is even stranger... and quite pleasant.

I return Aunt Beth’s hug almost naturally. Apparently, I rather like being hugged.

Who would’ve thought?

“Oh, Willow, you were such an itty-bitty little thing when you were born,” she says, holding me close. “We were terrified that something as small and pretty as you wouldn’t be able to survive in this world, but just look at you! You’ve grown up so beautifully!”

Aunt Beth steps back, her hands lingering on my upper arms while her green eyes lovingly study my face as if she cannot look at me enough.

I’ve been exposed to a sufficient amount of fake affection in my life to recognise sincerity when I see it. It is making my heart flutter in rather startling ways.

I am terrified that a wall might break inside me, releasing years’ worth of unshed tears and drowning the small woman.

“Last time I saw you in person, you were such a cute little girl. Now you’re a young woman and even more gorgeous than in the pictures Becca sent me over the years.” She pulls me into another hug, and now I’m really battling not to bawl my eyes out like a toddler.

I haven’t felt this welcome in too many years.

“I can’t believe that you’re actually here.” Her eyes are bright with tears of joy by the time she finally lets me go. She shakes her head with a giggle and spins around, stepping between my mother and me. Flinging an arm around each of our waists, she guides us up the steps to the patio.

I stop at the front door, allowing the adults to enter the house first and take a moment to really look at where I am.

The Drakes’ home is a lovely cottage-style two-storey house with a beautiful, lush front garden, a high wooden fence, and a slate patio. It is not intimidatingly lavish like the mansion I grew up in, but it also doesn’t scream of poverty and despair the way my last home did.

It is beautiful, tasteful, and very, very warm and comforting in every corner and along each smooth line.

This is it, our new beginning.

We’ve lost everything, and with my mother’s best friend’s kind offer of a home, we will gradually find our feet again in the community where my mother grew up.

Home… We haven’t really had one of those in a while.

I follow my mother and Aunt Beth upstairs while she points out rooms, like the professional real estate agent she is. I wait in the hallway while she shows my mother her bedroom, giving the two women a couple of minutes privacy, and then our hostess guides me back downstairs.

Everything in the downstairs bedroom Aunt Beth ushers me into exists in shades of pink and lilac, ranging from dark hues to almost white.

The room seems to sparkle and glow.

Touches of green provide enough contrast to make the colours appear even more vibrant. It is pink, purple, frilly, and flowery.

Even the furniture is whimsical and sweet. There’s a coat tree near the bathroom door, and it is shaped and painted to look like... well, a tree.

Adorable!

Walking into the room feels like stepping into one of those Barbie fairy movies. I know I’m probably not at the right age to be as thrilled by the décor as I am. I am almost 17, after all, not seven, but I simply do not care. I love fairy-like things. Fairies are very far removed from reality, and reality is overrated... and disappointing.

It is frightening and extremely painful.

My bedroom in my grandmother’s house had been as rigid and stark as everything else in my life. This bedroom is almost too overwhelming in brightness, colour, and quirkiness... and I love it.

Aunt Beth virtually dragged me down the stairs and into this large bedroom, declaring it ‘Willow’s room!’

My name is on the door if I had any doubts!

“Becks said that you like fantasy and frills. I hope I didn’t go overboard too much. I was trying to go overboard the socially acceptable amount, but I’m not all that socially acceptable, so...” She shrugs, and I cannot stop the surprised giggle from bursting from my throat.

She had me laughing from the moment we left my mother in her room, because she kept saying the strangest things. I’m not quite sure when she’s joking and when she’s being serious. The woman is quite scandalous, really.

I love it.

I mean, she did startling things like showing me her bedroom, telling me that it’s the cave she drags her husband into when he’s being too civilised. According to her, she loves demonstrating to him how not to behave in public.

Then she showed me her son’s nursery, calling it the little chaos monster’s den.

She had me blushing and laughing in ways I haven’t done in... ever.

“I had so much fun decorating this room for you. It’s refreshingly different from what I’m used to. I’ve been living with boooys, you know?” she grins, rolling her eyes dramatically, but I get the impression that she rather loves living with those boys.

“Do you like it? You can change anything you want.”

I’m smiling too hard to get a word out.

I would’ve been thrilled even if I’d hated the room. Just the thought of someone doing all of this specifically for me, just because they think I might like it, makes me feel strange, warm feelings.

I desperately want to thank her. Not only did she open her home to us, but she’d also created a world just for me. I would literally have been happy with a linen closet, a pillow, and a blanket.

Just to feel safe again…

She seems to read my silence and stupid smile accurately because her smile is turning from hopeful to happy.

I finally manage to nod my head, blinking rapidly. I’m not going to bawl my eyes out now, even though I seriously doubt that she would scold me for being emotional.

She doesn’t seem to be the type, being rather emotional herself.

Besides, if I cry, I shan’t be able to see the gorgeous mural spanning the entire wall opposite the queen-sized canopied bed.

A girl, a unicorn, rolling fields, flowers.

Everything I love.

The girl and the unicorn are painted in remarkably realistic detail. Did Aunt Beth hire a professional artist to do this? Is it a stick-on? If so, getting it on the wall that perfectly must’ve been a huge challenge. Whatever it is, it is breathtaking.

Sixteen-year-old girls probably don’t usually go gaga for unicorns and princesses, but these were done beautifully and are rather unique. There is something slightly disturbing about the painting, though, but I cannot quite put my finger on it.

Perhaps it is the fact that, in contrast with the rest of the décor, the unicorn is not whimsical or playfully cartoony. It exudes power and is even a little intimidating with its flaring nostrils, wild eyes, and bulging muscles.

The girl facing it should be terrified, but she’s gazing lovingly up at the rearing animal, even though its hooves could obliterate her should it decide to bring them down on her. She clearly trusts the unicorn not to hurt her.

It is rather hard to look away from all that power.

Exclaiming in surprise, I step closer to the wall to study the girl in the painting properly. Due to the flowy medieval gown and the extra-long, multi-coloured hair, I didn’t realise it at first...

“Is that me?!”

“Yes!” Aunt Beth gives a very girly, delighted giggle. She is obviously enjoying herself immensely, which drives away any doubts I may have.

I’m touched by her attention to detail and her kindness, but I’m also a little uncomfortable with this level of personalisation. I don’t even know these people, and yet they seem to know me well enough to make paintings of me.

It’s a bit strange. Isn’t it?

“My son painted the mural,” Aunt Beth says excitedly. “Isn’t it gorgeous?”

Hearing those words, my body whips around involuntarily, bouncing the tawny French braid off my shoulder to dangle between my shoulder blades. If life came with sound effects to set the mood, the sound of grinding gears and screeching brakes would’ve been ear-splitting right now.

Back up a step!

“Your son?” I ask, certain that I must’ve heard her wrong. “Isn’t he only two years old?”

Aunt Beth laughs in surprise. “Frankie? Yes, he is 17 months old now. I’m talking about my eldest son. Hunter. He’s finishing high school this year.”

The expression on my face might be giving me away because her smile suddenly falters and dies, her eyes clouding with concern.

“Didn’t you know about him?” She seems puzzled and slightly unsettled by the discovery.

The cloud of peace and tranquillity I’d started to float on has just burst, spilling me onto the dark green carpet, back to Earth with a crash.

This is news to me.

I don’t remember my mother mentioning a Hunter or any boys around my age living in this house. Then again, things had been so hectic lately that I don’t remember half of what she’d told me.

During our road trip, she’d been babbling on and on about Bee, the girl she’d grown up with and loved like a sister, and how their friendship transcended the miles and the years they’d had to live apart from each other.

I cannot remember any other occasion when my mother talked so much.

I didn’t mind listening to her endless supply of funny stories about her escapades with Aunt Beth. I’d enjoyed her uncharacteristic enthusiasm and joy.

She was finally talking.

Most of the stories were quite entertaining as well. It seems that my mother and her… Bee… were quite a pair back in the day. B&B is the official term she used to refer to the two of them as if they were a brand name.

During that 2-day information session, my mother could at least have mentioned that Aunt Beth has a son at least a year older than me!

That would’ve been splendid!

Perhaps she’d been afraid I would refuse to come if she told me.

I probably would have.

“My mother must’ve mentioned him...” I say, trying to sound upbeat and confident, though my mother absolutely did not. “I just forgot...” I assure Aunt Beth, though I know I did not just forget. This is not the kind of information I would forget.

“He is really talented,” I tell her sincerely. To my ears, my voice sounds as dry as my mouth suddenly feels.

“Isn’t he?” Aunt Beth’s smile has become decidedly less vibrant; she seems very troubled now. I should’ve hidden my shock a lot better. Honestly, the woman has been nothing but kind, and here I am on the verge of a blooming meltdown, causing her distress.

How pathetically self-centred of me.

I use all my inner strength and years of training to hide my true feelings and give her a brilliant smile worthy of any toothpaste advertisement.

“Extremely,” I confirm, happy that I’m at least not lying about this.

“I wish he would paint happy things like this more often,” Aunt Beth whispers, sounding wistful. Shaking her head as if to rid herself of bad memories, she turns away from the mural and indicates a door behind us. “You share that bathroom with him. His room is on the other side of it.”

I’m sharing a bathroom with a boy named Hunter?!

Keep it together, Willow…

I nervously swallow against the lump forming in my throat. I’m not used to boys at all! In fact, I’ve started to suspect that I might be allergic to them.

Thanks to what happened the last time I’d had the pleasure of dealing with men, I’m now undeniably allergic and more than a little terrified of them.

Starting my full-time exposure to the males of the species with a small sample like Frankie would’ve suited me very well. My mother couldn’t talk about Frankie enough! She even has a gazillion photographs of him on her phone, and I’ve seen them a hundred times.

Desperate to regain the calm I’d felt only seconds ago, my eyes find the lovely mural again.

It’s going to be alright.

What are names but labels so people don’t have to call each other ‘Hey You’ all the time?

My name is Willow, for crying out loud!

Everybody always thinks I’m a full-blown flower child until they meet me. I didn’t name myself. If I had, my name would’ve been... Ophelia, Isolde, or... Rapunzel...

No, I rather like Willow.

I want to be her instead... if I can figure out who she is.

Hunter might have a predatory name, but he was able to create such a lovely, poignant mural. He didn’t name himself either.

I glance at Aunt Beth, trying my smile out again.

It’s quite a leap from a name like Hunter to Frankie... but then again, 16 years is a big gap.

It’s going to be alright.

Aunt Beth is Hunter’s mother, after all, and thus far, my mother’s claims that she is the sweetest, most sincere person on Earth haven’t been disproven. There is a huge chance that Hunter inherited his mother’s gentleness.

I look at the mural’s sweeping hills, delicate flowers, and sensitive colours.

A big chance indeed.

The girl’s hair and the unicorn’s mane were painted with incredible skill. I can almost feel the silky strands just by gazing at them. Amazing.

The boy is a genius.

It is very possible that Hunter is sensitive, quiet, and refined, the kind of boy that often becomes the target of dumb, macho, brutish bullies in the few teen movies I’ve watched.

Perhaps we’ll be able to become good friends.

Perhaps sharing a bathroom with him will be fine after all. It’s not as if we’ll be sharing a bedroom. Surely Aunt Beth wouldn’t let me share a bathroom and live alone on the ground floor with Hunter if he weren’t trustworthy and decent.

All good. Crisis averted. I think...

Aunt Beth is scrutinising me; her enthusiasm has been replaced by concern. My brilliant smile hasn’t fooled her, then.

I put in a lot of effort to relax my features and take some slow, calming breaths. Turning to face her fully, I bend over slightly and hug her awkwardly.

I’m going to need to practice hugging.

“Aunt Beth, thank you so much for everything,” I say sincerely. “I don’t think we could ever thank you properly or repay you for your kindness.”

“Kindness is not kindness if it requires payment, honey,” she mutters, wrapping her arms around me to hold me close for a few long seconds. “I’m so happy to have Becks in my life again, and I’ve always longed to get to know you again. You’re my family, Willow,” she says, patting my cheek, her eyes glistening with unshed tears when she releases me. “I’ve missed you both so much.”

Memories are stirring in my mind like shadows behind dirty glass.

Memories from more than 11 years ago, when this vibrant woman had been a firm part of my life—a second mother. My heart reacts to these memories even though my brain cannot quite form them anymore.

At a loss for words, I hug her again… and this time, the hug is spontaneous and heartfelt.

Little-Piddle is beside himself with joy a short while later when I fasten the leash to his collar, and his exuberance makes the task virtually impossible to complete.

We removed all our bags and belongings from the car and settled in nicely. My mother was going to have a bath, but then decided to help us empty the car first. Thankfully - or sadly - we had pitifully little to remove from the vehicle.

Rather depressing.

My grandmother’s heavy trunk is the only thing still left to bring into the house. She kept all her sentimental and important items in there, and we added to them before we left her house. I was highly relieved when Aunt Beth suggested leaving that one to the men when they come home. Despite the car being a hatchback, it had been sheer hell loading it in, even though we’d flattened the back seat. I did not relish the ordeal of getting it out again and up the stairs.

Lesson number one: Having men in your life could possibly be useful.

To be fair, it’s not a new lesson. My grandmother’s butler was more than just useful. He’d already proven that lesson multiple times through the years.

When I expressed my need to take the dog for a quick walk, Aunt Beth gave me directions to a park near their house. It took all the courage I could muster to decline my mother’s offer to take Piddles for his walk or at least to accompany me, and to leave the two friends to their reminiscing, snacks, and wine.

My mother is exhausted after two days of driving; there is no way I’m dropping this chore on her. Besides, my grandmother taught me that if one doesn’t face one’s fears head-on as soon as one can, they build a stronghold around you and keep you locked inside.

I’ve been locked up for far too long... 11 years to be precise.

After two days, trapped in a car, I need fresh air, and Little-Piddle needs to... well, piddle, probably, among other things. He is restless, and my body feels stiff and rebellious. A nice walk should help us get over our draining journey, and I was assured, multiple times, that Briar Cove and the surrounding towns are peaceful and virtually crime-free. According to Aunt Beth, this neighbourhood, Pine Hollow, is the best of them all.

My mother looked nervous when she finally gave in to my insistence that I was alright to take the walk alone, and to Aunt Beth’s persuasion to: ”Let the girl run free, and feel the wind streaming through her hair, Becks!"

She’d paused after saying that, blinking at my tightly braided hair, and then she’d shrugged. ”Well... uhm... in the loose wispy parts... Don’t be so pedantic, Rebecca Mayfair!” she’d exclaimed, clicking her tongue, making my mother, who hadn’t said a word, laugh. “Her dress will flutter a bit... it will be grand!"

Turning to close the front door behind us, I stop because my eyes are drawn to the enormous painting dominating the wall directly opposite the door. To my left, a staircase leads to the upper floor, and across from it, to my right, an arch opens into the large living area and the hallway to the rest of the ground floor.

The wall opposite the front door, marking the end of the foyer, is slightly recessed, and the painting hangs above a half-moon table with a convenient pottery bowl for key chains.

The artwork starkly contrasts with the clinically white walls on all sides of the foyer. It has a thick frame made of dark, coarse wood. Inside it, a delicately beautiful female face plays hide-and-seek amidst a war of passionate brushstrokes in dark shades ranging from blue to green to red to gold. There is such an avalanche of emotion caught within the frame that I feel breathless just looking at it.

It’s a stunning painting, but it makes me decidedly unnerved, yet I find it difficult to look away. This painting is vastly different in style from the other art I’ve seen decorating the house.

The oval rug on the white stone floor picks up the dark colours of the painting as if reflecting them. I rather like the effect.

Little-Piddle strains on the leash, impatient to get going, forcing me to snap out of my trance, close the door and start our first walk in our new hometown.

The street is lined with pretty houses that seem almost fictional in their perfection. They’re remarkably similar in design to what I’ve seen on postcards of places like the Alps.

Beautiful.

Though cooler in climate, it feels much warmer and more welcoming than the area I grew up in. It is also a far cry from the dark neighbourhood from which my mother and I have recently escaped.

I see no sinister alleys, smelly dumpsters, suspicious puddles... lurkers. There is only sunlight, manicured lawns, and pristine paving. Even the Drakes’ intricately carved, wooden fence is decorative, rather than meant for security.

The air is fresh with the smell of pine trees and the ocean, and alive with the sound of children playing.

Life is definitely looking up.

I turn the corner, basically dragged there by Piddles, whose excitement is gradually mounting. He must be catching a whiff of all the dogs that use the vast park stretching out in front of us. I see tall trees, well-kept flower beds, extensive lawn stretches, and clean benches.

I’ve discovered Heaven’s location!

“How lovely!”

Crossing the street, we enter the park, and Little-Piddle begins his message exchange routine as soon as we reach the first tree. He sniffs the base of the trunk, leaves a few drops of his own, and drags his human to the next tree or shrub. Rinse and repeat.

I often escaped from my grandmother’s strict rules by taking her dog for a walk. I’m used to his procedure, and I’m not feeling impatient for him to do his thing and get on with it. I simply let him guide me to where he wants to go.

Slightly off-centre is a large pond with water cascading at intervals from hidden pipes. The pond flows off into a narrow stream at its furthest bank, crossing underneath a small pedestrian bridge. From where I am, I cannot determine where the stream goes from there; the trees and vegetation are too thick on that side of the pond.

Near me, duck families are enjoying the serenity of the calm water. I can even see a couple of swans, white ones and black ones.

Beautiful!

I cannot stop smiling as my eyes take in every detail of the postcard-lovely scene. I’ve found the tranquillity cloud again. It is floating me even higher than before, clearing my mind, lifting my spirits...

And then a solid wall crashes into me, knocking the breath from my lungs.