Page 63 of A Heart So Haunted
A long pause.
“Hadrian?”
I draped the towel back over the sink and opened the pantry door. Nothing but shelves full of nonperishables, stacks of reusable storage containers, and an unnecessarily large bag of flour on the floor.
Hadrian was gone.
Chapter Thirteen
The house seemed to settle for a few days.
It made me anxious, now that I knew he was there. Existing. Listening.
“Keep or throw away?” Sayer held up a box labeled ATTIC. A welcome breeze sent the tree branches rustling overhead. I stopped, hand on my trunk liner, lips parted.
Immediately, Haddy—Hadrian’s—curled body materialized in my mind. It was difficult to walk up those steps, to clean out that room little by little, and not think of him—the way his voice echoed off the attic ceiling, the muted floors and dusty coat hangers. I shook my head, willing them all away.
“What’s in it?” I croaked. I wiped my brow with the back of my hand.
Behind us, Emma stood on the porch, separating bags of clothes that were good enough to give to the women’s shelter and then others that were too moth eaten or holey to reuse. We’d decided to take a break from working on the actual house today—mostly because sorting through items was easier than peeling more wallpaper. With my tentative September deadline inching closer, I didn’t want to end up panic-dumping anything to the landfill when things could be reused.And it gave me time while Sayer and Emma sorted through boxes to go through paperwork—not only to submit death certificates to the bank, Social Security office, and insurance company, but to look for journals. Notes. Envelopes. Anything personal that might have been left, besides the official power of attorney and the will. But I came up empty.
My promise with Hadrian loomed the more I searched and the less I found. I could only flip through so many folders, desk drawers, and cabinets before doubt crept in. Fear of what I might find—or what I wouldn’t.
Sayer jiggled the box. “Don’t know. Old toys, I think?” Squinting, he rubbed his chin on his shoulder to wipe away a drop of sweat.
I stood on my toes to get a look inside. An old threadbare toy harp sat at the top. The strings were frayed to the point of snapping, and if I focused, I could just make out tiny teeth marks on the plastic bottom. Donald The Chihuahua, most likely.
“If they’re all like that harp, they should probably be thrown out,” I said.
“I’ll put them in the garbage pile,” he concluded. Just as he turned, I couldn’t help it. I reached out and grabbed the harp. I needed to touch it. One last time.
It was the palest of lavenders, with worn edges and light creases in the frame. The memories sat on the edge of my mind, as if to say,Wait, come back, just one more time.
I’d sat for days on the back porch, singing to the birds with the dream of being in an opera one day. The dream hadn’t lasted long, because I remember the harp had disappeared not long after that, and my newfound fixation had been dolls. I think I’d decided fashion design was a more enticing route at that point.
I suppose part ofthatdream had come to fruition. Except dressing people wasn’t my forte—now I knew I didn’t have the emotional capacity to deal with people all day. Dressing a home, so to speak, was a lot more fun. Houses always seemed to speak to me when I pickedout palettes and inspiration ideas. Unlike people, who spokeatme most of the time.
I plucked a string on the harp. It made a sad, loose twang.
Sayer shivered.
“Do you ever look at old toys and get sick thinking about how time moved so fast?” I said, voice thick. Not just where the time pranced off to, but how life could pivot just as quickly. It needled you in the side some days; others, it grabbed you by the throat and spat in your face.
Each inhale burned in that moment. Especially lately—it squeezed my throat so tight I could hardly see straight.
I’d been so lost in the little things—paint colors and paperwork and item orders—that I’d not stopped to breathe. Four weeks had already passed since the funeral.
How would I feel in the next four? Six weeks? Eight?
“That’s why I made my mom go through everything after I left school. I couldn’t look at it.” Sayer sighed. He examined the rest of the box’s innards. “It’s too depressing for me. Kudos to you for at least getting rid of some stuff.”
I gave a watery smile. “Really?”
He scoffed, nodding, then rummaged through the box. “Absolutely. Me, going through old toys? A recipe for a midlife crisis. I’ll pass.”
I gave the harp one final sorrowfulplunkbefore setting it back on top.
“This looked cool, though. I found it under a pile of clothes. I tried to open it but almost lost a fingernail.” He held out a wooden carved box, no larger than his palm. A rusted metal latch sealed it shut. Something rattled inside when I shook it. I tried to use my thumbnail to pry it open, but as Sayer said, the latch held true.
