Sanctuary

I’ve come home. I’ve come back.
    But the door remained shut and locked. When she pressed her face against the glass of the tall windows flanking it, she could see nothing but darkness within.
    And was afraid.
    She ran now, around the side of the house, over the terrace, where flowers streamed out of pots and lilies danced in chorus lines of bright color. The music of the wind chimes became harsh and discordant, the fluttering of fronds was a hiss of warning. She struggled with the next door, weeping as she beat her fists against it.
    Please, please, don’t shut me out. I want to come home.
    She sobbed as she stumbled down the garden path. She would go to the back, in through the screened porch. It was never locked—Mama said a kitchen should always be open to company.
    But she couldn’t find it. The trees sprang up, thick and close, the branches and draping moss barred her way.
    She was lost, tripping over roots in her confusion, fighting to see through the dark as the canopy of trees closed out the moon. The wind rose up and howled and slapped at her in flat-handed, punishing blows. Spears of saw palms struck out like swords. She turned, but where the path had been was now the river, cutting her off from Sanctuary. The high grass along its slippery banks waved madly.
    It was then she saw herself, standing alone and weeping on the other bank.
    It was then she knew she was dead.
     
     
    JO fought her way out of the dream, all but felt the sharp edges of it scraping her skin as she dragged herself to the surface of the tunnel of sleep. Her lungs burned, and her face was wet with sweat and tears. With a trembling hand, she fumbled for the bedside lamp, knocking both a book and an overfilled ashtray to the floor in her hurry to break out of the dark.
    When the light shot on, she drew her knees up close to her chest, wrapped her arms around them, and rocked herself calm.
    It was just a dream, she told herself. Just a bad dream.
    She was home, in her own bed, in her apartment and miles from the island where Sanctuary stood. A grown woman of twenty-seven had no business being spooked by a silly dream.
    But she was still shaking when she reached for a cigarette. It took her three tries to manage to light a match.
    Three-fifteen, she noted by the clock on the nightstand. That was becoming typical. There was nothing worse than the three A.M. jitters. She swung her legs over the side of the bed and bent down to pick up the overturned ashtray. She told herself she’d clean up the mess in the morning. She sat there, her oversized T-shirt bunched over her thighs, and ordered herself to get a grip.
    She didn’t know why her dreams were taking her back to the island of Lost Desire and the home she’d escaped from at eighteen. But Jo figured any first-year psych student could translate the rest of the symbolism. The house was locked because she doubted anyone would welcome her if she did return home. Just lately, she’d given some thought to it but had wondered if she’d lost the way back.
    And she was nearing the age her mother had been when she had left the island. Disappeared, abandoning her husband and three children without a second glance.
    Had Annabelle ever dreamed of coming home, Jo wondered, and dreamed the door was locked to her?
    She didn’t want to think about that, didn’t want to remember the woman who had broken her heart twenty years before. Jo reminded herself that she should be long over such things by now. She’d lived without her mother, and without Sanctuary and her family. She had even thrived—at least professionally.
    Tapping her cigarette absently, Jo glanced around the bedroom. She kept it simple, practical. Though she’d traveled widely, there were few mementos. Except the photographs. She’d matted and framed the black-and-white prints, choosing the ones among her work that she found the most restful to decorate the walls of the room where she slept.
    There, an empty park bench, the black wrought iron all fluid curves. And there, a single willow, its lacy leaves dipping low over a small, glassy pool. A moonlit garden was a study in shadow and texture and contrasting shapes. The lonely beach with the sun just breaking the horizon tempted the viewer to step inside the photo and feel the sand rough underfoot.
    She’d hung that seascape only the week before, after returning from an assignment on the Outer Banks of North Carolina. Perhaps that was one reason she’d begun to think about