Page 75 of Awry
I walk away.
Even though I’m out of his direct line of sight beyond the barn and orchard, I can feel him watching me, tracking me all the way to the house.
I cross drippingwet into the mudroom and almost continue through into the kitchen before some part of my brain clicks on for a moment.I duck into the laundry instead, stripping out of my wet clothing and wringing it all out as best I can in the laundry sink.Then I pull the clothesline out from the wall and string all my wet things up so they hang over the washer and dryer.I note that the power coursing through the pink diamond when the estate accepted me burned a hole through the center of my only remaining favorite sweater.If I ignore it, it will go away, right?
I blink at the wet clothing for a bit, absently wondering why I can remember that the laundry room has an interior clothesline, but not … not the diner or … other … people.
Am I supposed to remember Rath?
If so, why hasn’t he said anything?
No.I don’t know Rath.I can’t know him, because no memories of him have filtered back to me, as they’ve done for Ingrid and Mack.
There are towels for the dogs in the cupboard, though I can’t remember the last time my aunt had a pet.I use one.It’s frayed at the edges and a little crusty.I should put them all through the wash.
As for the dogs, I wouldn’t know, would I?I haven’t been to the estate since the summer of my seventeenth year.Maybe that’s what Mack was doing in the cemetery?Digging a grave for a recently lost pet, not looking for something.
A little bit drier, I cross naked into the kitchen.I make sure I have my phone.No tech programmed by Coda is going to have any issue with getting wet, but I still ignore the text messages swamping the lock screen.
Muta is still in his dormant form, ringing my forearm in gold and topaz.I’m surprised he didn’t leave me to go hunting the moment we arrived on the estate.But then, he does hate the rain.
The kitchen has been more recently renovated than the rest of the house, the stainless steel appliances looking practically pristine.And seriously expensive.The cupboards are also newly stained, in contrast to the house’s overall rundown appearance.
And that’s a little odd, isn’t it?
Especially because I got the impression, blurry brain or not, that the beach house looked more lived in …
As I head to the kitchen’s farm-style sink, I note a large box sitting on the back counter.I wouldn’t have seen it while coming through in the other direction.I pour myself a glass of water, then flick on the overhead light to eye the box.
It’s an ice cream maker.With a built-in compressor.A note is taped to it.
I’m sorry for everything you are about to discover
and that I wasn’t the one to tell you.
The armoire will open when you’re ready.
It’s my aunt’s handwriting, but I’m really too numb to process much else.I take the note with me, though, not wanting anyone else to see and try to interpret it while I’m sleeping.
Aknowing.
That’s what this note, and the purchase of the ice cream maker, represents.
Just not aknowingof my own.
I write notes too, as I did for Doc in the motel.I send letters and emails, make connections between people, and fix situations without ever discerning the fine details.Because the details aren’t for me to understand.They just flow through me.
So this note of my aunt’s … it has to be aknowing, right?
Her knowing.
Because I have to believe.I have to hang onto the belief that if she had any inkling that it was all about to pass to me, that she was about to shift into theAfter, that my aunt would have warned me, warned her lovers.
Wouldn’t she?
Time enough to buy an ice cream maker.To have it delivered.To write the note.All that would have been more than enough time to reach out to me …
I realize that I’ve moved through the house and up the stairs without thought.My mind is whirling, but the rest of me is on the verge of collapse.I need to dry my hair, to put on some sort of clothing.
