Page 60 of A Heart So Haunted
“Talk about her? What is there to say, Em? You weren’t even here for the funeral, so why should I think you’dwant meto bring up Aunt Cadence?” I pressed, an ember catching hold in my chest. “And what if I don’twantto talk about Mom and Dad? I can’tchange the past. I don’t want to reminisce on a childhood that wasn’t great. I don’t want to talk about feelings and emotions and feel-good energies like you do.”
She huffed. “I don’t talk about feel-good energies.”
“I was trying to apologize,” I said. “Not be told everything that’s wrong with me.” A broken, hysterical laugh bubbled out of me. She wanted honesty? I could unload honesty. “I get it. Everything is wrong with me. I don’t do anything right. I don’t talk enough, I don’t show enough emotion, I don’t do enough things, I don’t have any hobbies besides scouring mood boards, Reddit threads, and job leads, and I haveonefriend that isn’t family. I get it, Emma. IknowI’m nothing.”
“That’s not what I’m saying—you’re not nothing.” She knotted her sweatshirt in her fist. “You know that.”
“But isn’t it?” I whispered. I shook my head. “I don’t need an intervention for things I know I do wrong. I get it. Boxes checked, signed, sealed, delivered.” I grabbed her door handle. “Goodnight.”
I shut the door behind me. She didn’t follow me. And I was glad.
I floated through the house like a husk, turning off every light, every lamp, closing every door and window. One by one, the rooms blinked into shadow. For all I knew, Hadrian followed me from room to room, mouth split wide in a smile.
Maybe Emma was right. If a problem followed someone continuously, it was the product not the user, right? That’s what a counselor in middle school had said. “If you can’t keep a relationship because everyone’s “too toxic,” maybe it isn’t the other person. Maybe it’s you.”
Maybe itwasme.
What reason did I have to believe it wasn’t?
The door didn’t disappear again, but Sayer made a comment while I was cleaning that stopped me in my tracks.
“I cleaned out that hallway closet, by the way. At least I didn’t dent it.”
I stilled, dust rag in hand, standing atop a chair in the breakfast nook. The chandelier swung back and forth from where I’d wiped off a bulb. “What?”
He waved his hand from the pantry. “Where I hit my head. I’m glad I didn’t bust it.”
Then he walked out.
I didn’t have the courage to bring it up again.
Sayer left after dinner the following evening, leaving me alone in the kitchen with every cabinet thrown wide open. It had started simply enough: While he stood by the island and talked, I looked through each drawer for a can opener. I never did find it. I did, however, fish out a set of mushroom-shaped birthday candles, a stack of worn BoxTops from when I’d been in elementary school, and a yearbook photo from fifth grade.
“They still make these?” He’d examined the baggie, nose wrinkled.
Something about the BoxTops still being in the drawer, long forgotten, opened a hole from my heart that tracked straight down to my toes. What else had Aunt Denny saved that I’d never seen? And why did going through her things make the back of my neck warm? I felt like I needed to ask for permission, but when I looked up to find someone, anyone, the one person I wanted to talk to wasn’t there.
Each breath grew thick after that. I fought tears until they were nothing but a fat wad of cotton in the back of my throat.
Now, the sun had vanished, Emma was holed away upstairs, and the kitchen looked like it had exploded. And I couldn’t even remember why I was looking for the can opener in the first place.
“So much junk, Denny,” I complained, more to myself. Maybe she could hear me. “Why seventeen kinds of birthday candles?”
With a huff, I turned to the fridge. I wanted dinner, but didn’t want to make anything, so I opted for my go-to jar of pickles in the fridge door. I didn’t bother to close it, instead using the refrigerator light to see what I was doing. My knuckles purpled, then turned white, when I twisted the lid.
“Open,” I snarled. I ground my teeth, planted my feet, and tried again. My hand slipped.
“Stupid sweet-and-spicy,” I grumbled. Whatever sweetener they’d used had probably sealed the lid shut.
I shut the fridge and moved the jar over the sink, grabbed the dishrag, and used it to get a better hold on the lid. My grip-strength was better, but just as I thought the jar would give, my hand slipped again.
I sat the jar down beside the sink. The last thing I wanted to do was ask Emma to open it.
There was one more trick I could try. I turned the hot water on and grabbed a knife out of the cutlery drawer. Four quick taps, all the way around the lid, then I stuck the jar under the water when steam started to rise. Then I used the edge of the knife and tapped around the lid again.
“All right. Play nice.” I grabbed the dishrag—one last time. Gripped hard, planted my feet, and twisted.
I turned with the jar, twisting harder,harder,and pressed my left side into the sink to get better leverage with my arm. Then—with a sweet littlepop, the lid released.
