Page 39 of A Heart So Haunted
I stole a glance over my shoulder. An inkling started in my fingers—a tingle, as if they wanted to touch the wall, to run down the section that had been missing yesterday.
“Should I go turn the AC on? Close a few of the windows?” My eyes flitted over Sayer’s shoulder where he stood in the doorway. “I’m a little warm, I think.” I fanned my shirt open to be rid of the imaginary sweat.
“I’ll be … fine?” He said it like a question.
“Good, that’s good.” I rubbed the side of my neck, then pivoted to the steps. “I’ll get you a water and Advil, just in case.”
And so it went—Sayer and Emma and I chipping away at my task lists. Emma would work remotely early in the morning, log off at two, and start helping with odds and ends. Sometimes she would get coffee or lunch from town or run to the hardware store for something I’d forgotten to pick up myself.
Every night, I checked the hallway. The wall didn’t change, and neither Sayer or Emma mentioned it.
One late afternoon, in a desperate attempt to feel like I hadn’t imagined the whole ordeal, I snuck into the sunroom while Sayer and Emma set up our takeout in the dining area.
The air still pressed on my lungs when I stepped in. The wicker furniture sat in the same place it had for the last decade or two. Nothing had changed—not even the bench I’d dreamed about.
I took a seat, strangling the bench lip, trying to steady my breathing. My heart skittered as I lifted my attention from the floor to a potted fern across the room, then to my right—to the door I’d seen thatthingin.
But nothing was there.
That night, at exactly 12:15AM, the cries started again like clockwork.
They lasted for days.
Momma, no.
Momma, please don’t let him.
Momma, take me with you. Please don’t leave.
I tossed every night. The pleas, so similar to mine when I asked Aunt Cadence to let me stay, ripped layers from my lungs like a peeling onion, until one night I stumbled out of the bedroom, grabbed my keys, and locked myself in my car. I slept in the reclined passenger seat until sunrise kissed the trees, and got rewarded with a stiff neck.
To compound my rigidity, text messages filtered through sporadically from my mother. It only exacerbated the fact that I left that little boy on the other side of that door, alone. How many times had I cried like he had, wishing my own mother to come back in the middle of the night?
MOM:You need to send me pictures of things before you take them to donation.
MOM:Some of those items are mine.
MOM:I will drive down there and get them myself if you don’t mail them.
MOM:Speaking of mailing. Why haven’t the ashes shown up yet?
A poorly veiled threat.
I’d just finished removing the painter’s tape from the kitchen baseboards one Thursday when my phone vibrated on the island. I didn’t need to check to know it was Mom. I balled the tape up with more force than necessary, stood, ripped the retractable trash can out of its hiding place, and chucked the tape ball inside.
I could block her. Act like I broke my phone and didn’t remember her number. But if I did, what would I do if she actually drove down?At least when I’d invited her to the funeral, I hadn’t expected her to actually show up. At a funeral, with witnesses, there was nothing she could ask me for.
I should have known that would change as soon as I was alone.
Ping.
I stared, blank, out the breakfast nook window. I could go outside. Take a break. Plant those seedlings before they died.
Or, I could break down the wall. See if the door was there. Prove I wasn’t crazy.
Ping.
Slowly, I turned to where my phone lay face up on the island.
