Page 83 of Everything We Give

“Let’s hope your dad hasn’t changed the locks.”

I straighten and look around. “He hasn’t changed a thing.” The porch furniture is still in the exact spot it was when I left for college. Sarah’s pots bookend the front steps, partially filled with hard dirt left over from the plants she once cherished. Even the heap of a truck my dad refused to give up and continued to drive was in its usual spot.

Sliding the key into the lock, I turn it and the tumblers release. The door creaks open. I nudge it farther. Aimee comes up next to me, her side pressing into mine. Her warmth soaks into me. I rest my hand on her lower back as we stand in the doorway and stare down the narrow foyer that opens up to a wider hallway running the length of the house. It ends at the kitchen in the rear. Dust particles dance in ribbons of sunlight. The rest of the house drowns in sepia, like an old, faded photo. I cross the threshold and Aimee follows. Floorboards give way, creaking through the house’s quiet solitude. On our left is the front parlor, the bookshelves empty. At some point, my dad must have packed away my mom’s books. The dining room on our right is also void of her belongings. The embroidery machine that had been left untouched throughout her prison term is no longer there.

The house is warm from being sealed up, the air stale. Aimee lifts her chin and her nose twitches. She makes a noise in the back of her throat and looks at me. Our gazes meet and hold. Worry clouds her brilliant blues.

I grimace. “Yeah, I smell it, too.”

The putrid, foul odor of a decomposing body is unavoidable. My heart pounds and my mouth suddenly goes dry. There might be another reason the mail has piled and the newspapers have collected. Given the smell, the way it clings to the walls and seeps through the house, whoever died has been deceased for a while.

Wouldn’t someone have come looking for him? Surely Josh Lansbury would have been by at some point during the last month to check in with my dad.

I should have come.

I should have visited years ago.

Guilt is a vicious beast in the land of retrospect and hindsight. I scrub my face with both hands and pinch away the unexpected burn in the corners of my eyes. I blink rapidly.

Aimee adjusts the load of mail in her arms and reaches for my hand. I clasp hers in a tight grip.

“Do you think Lacy knew?” she asks.

“I don’t know what that woman thinks.” Let alone what I think of her at the moment. How thoroughly morbid and disrespectful to get me back to the house this way. Why not tell me over the phone? Why not warn me, soften the blow?

I can’t believe this is how it ends with my dad, my calling the morgue to pick up his remains. All the time I thought we had, when one of us would see past our thick heads and apologize, to forgive and forget, lost.

I draw my gaze up the staircase. “Wait here. I’ll have a look around.”

“I’ll put these on the dining table.”

I watch her go into the room and set the mail on the table. The pile slides to the side and Aimee grabs it before envelopes spill to the floor.

Moving down the hallway, I follow the stench into the kitchen. Countertops are clear of dishes and food. A thin layer of dust drapes the furniture and surface tops like a bride’s veil. I turn to the closed laundry room door where the odor is the strongest and pull up my shirt collar over my nose and mouth. Bile thickens in my throat and my gag reflex wakes up with a nice stretch. I grip the doorknob, reluctant to find what’s on the other side, but understanding I don’t have a choice. It doesn’t matter what age or the dynamics of the relationship, no kid should have to come across a parent’s dead body.

“This is fucked.”

Heart pulse thumping in my throat and sweat drenching my armpits, I shove open the door where it stops halfway, blocked by whoever is on the floor. Forcing myself to look behind the door, my gaze drops to the floor.

“Oh shit.” I jump back, my shirt pulling off my face, and bend over, gasping, hands on my knees. “Oh shit, oh shit. Oh thank fuck.”

Aimee comes running into the room. “Are you OK?” She rests her hand on my back. “Ian, talk to me,” she urges when I don’t respond right away.

Straightening, I turn to her, cupping my palms over my mouth and nose. A sick laugh escapes, muffled in my hands. I lower my arms. “Dead possum.”

She tries to peer around me. I grasp her shoulders, backing her away from the laundry room. “It’s not pretty.”

Aimee presses a hand to her chest. “For a moment ...”

“Me, too.” I briefly close my eyes, urging my insanely beating heart to chill out.

She hugs me, resting her cheek on my chest. My eyes burn. I turn my face up to the ceiling and squeeze my eyes, staunching the flow of tears I don’t want to deal with, because right now, I need to deal with the mess in the other room.

Aimee releases me. “Let me help you clean up.”

I shake my head. “I’ll take care of it.” Opening the lower cabinets, I search for garbage bags.

“I’ll go sort the mail, then.”

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