Blood Is Thicker than Water - Draft

Chapter 3 - A Stroll Down Voodoo Lane: Part 3

The next day begins as the last: Mom banging on the door and yelling out 'we're going to be late!'

Today is the day of the plantation tours. We were going to go on another bus tour, but Dad convinced Mom the car would be faster if we wanted to see both Oak Alley Plantation and the Laura Plantation.

Mom settles on the concept. But, out of the blue, she insists that we have a brunch picnic along the way. This is very unlike her.

Impassioned by her impromptu planning, I tell her about the grocery store I saw on my walk the day before. So, the three of us stroll over to the New Orleans Grocery to pick up some brunch food.

We pack our green SUV with brunch foods and journey out of the city.

Things are finally starting to look brighter on this vacation. I am not on any city tour bus with dozens of others—just with my family. How they promised it would be from the beginning. 

I relish the quiet setting as we navigate our way out of the city. It reminds me of our family outings when I was a child, when we drove north of Manhattan, away from the city lights into the peaceful serenity of the countryside. A slight pang of nostalgia swirls in my chest. I miss those days, but I wasn't a kid anymore. We had stopped those weekend trips when I started high school. And now, most weekends I spent with my friends—one of the main reasons why they had insisted I come with them to New Orleans. 

Oak Alley is an hour's drive from the city center, not too far, but not a short trip either. The suburbs slowly file away, leaving wide open fields with shrubbery and scattered farms with marshes along the highway.

We ride along like that for twenty minutes until Mom sees a clearing in the distance that would work well for our picnic.

"Howard, stop here! Oh, look! It's perfect." She directs Dad onto a side road—the car bumps under the uneven trail.

"Lynne, are you sure this is a road?" My dad's face gets more and more doubtful.

"Yes, of course, it is..."

Thankful we have a four-wheel drive, I grip the interior door handle as my teeth clench.

We take a sharp swerve around a copse of oak trees, which reveals the perfect-as my mother claimed- clearing for a picnic.

"Look, isn't this beautiful!" She sighs in delight.

It is indeed a beautiful spot for a meal. The oaks and shrubbery block the noise from the highway, and though some parts of the grass are long and wild, there are patches short enough to lay our blanket on. A few wildflowers speckle the tall yellow and green grasses to complete the dreaminess of the area.

Mom scopes the field for a flat place to lay the blue and white checkered blanket we borrowed from the inn. And once she discovers a plot of short green grass, we display our fresh fruits, cheeses, breakfast breads, and cereals. There is quite a lot of food for three people, but Dad suggests we save the leftovers for a late lunch. But I don't think I even need a late lunch after eating the large bowl of cereal, an apple with a few generous wedges of brie, and two slices of fresh whole bread.

"Can I go walk around a little? To help digest all this wonderful food you brought?" I top my compliment off with a smile, hoping it didn't sound too cheesy. 

I am on my feet, not waiting for their reply. But they are stretched out on the blanket, their faces relaxed with the warm sun rising slowly on them. My parents look like they didn't have a care in the world. Oh, what the holidays can do.

"Just stay in eyesight."  

I am already a yard away when my dad says the words. I take in a deep, refreshing breath. The air is cleaner away from the noisy city. Scents of dry grasses, bracken, and earth fill my lungs. This seems like a vacation from the vacation. 

A breeze blows through the wavy strands of my hair, relieving the humidity that clung in the heavy summer atmosphere.

I follow the dirt road we turned on. Up ahead, I can tell it comes to a close by some cypress trees. Marshlands must be nearby.

When my mom had her map out in the car, I saw that the river wasn't far; if we drove a few more miles out, we'd hit the bayou.

It is incredibly peaceful. Not entirely silent; birds chirp and fly by, insects rub their wings to create a buzz vibrating in my ears. But it's natural.

I gaze across the field. My parents on their blanket are small, far, miniaturized versions of themselves.

As I look ahead at the rest of the field, I spot something odd and out of place. Jutting from the ground, the object is just off the path and nearly hidden by overgrown plant life, but it has a weird look. There's a red-orange color to it. A spray of summer flowers is in abundance, framing the strange shape.

I feel the sudden urge to explore. What harm could happen? My parents were still in view.

I venture out toward the object, and as I draw closer, I realize that the red-orange is rust. Turf had grown right over it, covering most of it. It takes some effort to clear off the shallow roots encasing the object to see what it is. Once most of the natural overgrowth is cleared, I can make out a rusted square with a circular loop welded to the closest end: a handle.

It is a door.

Initially, there must have been wood on the frame, but it had deteriorated with time, just leaving the chipped metal.

I bend down and grasp the handle with both of my hands and yank it upward with a jolt. It doesn't budge.

I try it again. This time the door makes a long squeaking noise along its hinges, and I lift it about an inch from the ground, but it isn't enough to open it. I need a leaver or some tool to support it.

One more try. One, two, thr-

"Hailey!"

My dad's voice brazes faintly into my ears. It is strained and loud but not very deep. Then, I realize I am crouching in the tall grass, hidden by a few palmettos and out of view.

I stand up immediately and wave to show him I am still close and keep the worries at bay.

"Dad! I'm over here!" I cup my hands over my mouth so he can hear me.

"We're going to leave now!" He yells back.

"Okay, just one minute!" I need to try the door one more time.

"Come on, Hailey. Now!"

This time it is my mom, worried about time as usual. We've been at the clearing for more than an hour. I let go of the door, and it slams with a muted thud, and wipe my hands, flaked with rust, on my jeans. I'll have to come back tonight.