—Rumi
I came back home to make a difference—to right some wrongs and make reparation for the sins of my family. But with the exception of Moss Hart and Coda, I've met mostly hostile stares and now have been harassed by an intruder.
Maybe my expectations were too high and I didn't realize change takes time, especially when it comes to reversing one's reputation. And maybe I'm feeling sorry for myself because I was prepared for indifference and even hostility, but not threats involving my physical safety—at least, I feel I'm threatened.
And so, I succumb—in the back of my mind, doubts creep in. Maybe I'm exaggerating a single incident—a shadowy figure on the stairs doesn't amount to a personal attack on me.
What if some former worker somehow managed to get a key and wanted to squat on the premises? The situation could be much more benign than my imagination is making it.
I'm sitting by the fire musing about these things while a cold rain is pelting against the windows and the house is creaking.
It's a big house, cavernous at night when potions are unlit, filled with nooks and crannies where the light never hits. Who knows what lurks in the shadows?
I stop myself. This is crazy-making and accomplishing nothing but making me paranoid.
As far as I know, I'm in no immediate danger and Coda will be here all day tomorrow installing a state-of the-art security system. I'm not fragile, it's just the isolation that's heightened the drama and making me feel even more vulnerable.
It occurs to me as I'm sitting there that I no longer feel pain from my ankle that's propped up on the settee in front of me.
I reach down and gently touch it and although it's tender in spots, it doesn't seem swollen or painful as before. I get up and test it by standing and then walk a few steps. It feels a bit stiff and tender in spots but I think I'll be able to walk on it at least for short distances.
I could buy a cane or walking stick from the pharmacy, but I immediately dismiss the notion—that would be playing to the audience and the locals might think I'm over-dramatizing my injury, looking for sympathy.
I have no intention of doing anything that would cause more gossip or more people to resent me.
I sit back down on the couch and smile contentedly. Tomorrow, I'll drive into town and enjoy a coffee at Vanity Fair, the little bohemian cafe and maybe get to meet a few townspeople.
Coda can work undisturbed on the house and I might even drop by the library and visit with Moss Hart. Maybe I should treat him to dinner as a way of returning his generosity.
Perhaps, it won't be so bad living in the town if I have a friend or two who can support and encourage me.
The rain is streaming down the windows now and the thunder roars, but the walls of the house are sturdy and strong. I have hot chocolate beside me and the fire is warm.
And there's a tiny ember of hope burning inside me.
The poet was right. Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul—and sings the tunes without the words—and never stops at all.
Yeah, I'm back in control. Life is good.