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My grandmother’s lawyer had mentioned that a family had bought the place. Two dentists with three young kids. I could only hope they would replace those old ugly footprints with new happy ones as soon as possible.
“Mrs. Blackstone?”
The moniker still threw me off. I turned to watch a man, around late sixties, exit a silver Honda Pilot and approach with a manila envelope in his hand. He wore a green Philadelphia Eagles knitted hat, an almost completely white beard, and a tweed blazer.
“Tom Linklater.” He extended a hand and I shook it. “I’m sorry about your loss.”
“I’m not in mourning, Mr. Linklater. I haven’t spoken to my grandparents in decades.”
“I have no pleasure in the death of anyone, declares the Lord God: so turn and live.”
My grandparents had never repented. I’d never really lived. So there you have it.
Linklater nodded, lips pressed together in discomfort.
“Which is why I’m confused about this stipulation to the will,” I continued. “As I’ve told you already, I don’t want anything from them and anything they did leave me should be donated to a local women’s shelter.”
Linklater exhaled. “I’ve made arrangements for the proceeds of the sale of this house and the car dealership to go to two separate shelters. Needless to say, they are extremely grateful for your generosity. Unfortunately, I can’t close escrow until you remove your grandmother’s belongings from the attic.” He shrugged. “She was adamant about that. I’m merely carrying out her wishes.”
I almost couldn’t believe the depth of my grandmother’s depravity. I say almost because she was pretty terrible––even worse than my grandfather in some ways. To be forced to come back here and clean out the personal belongings of a woman who used to take pleasure in physically abusing a five-year-old was some sick shit. Especially since whatever stuff she did leave was destined for the trash anyway. Then again, it seemed in character.
“So here I am,” I stated, my throat dry, mouth parched. My tongue felt thick and useless.
Linklater smiled awkwardly, searched my blank expression, as the two of us engaged in a staring contest. I was getting the notion that Linklater knew more about my family history than he was letting on.
“Here you are,” he echoed, then opened the envelope and produced a key.
* * *
The house was warm. Somebody had left the heat on. Linklater, I figured. I removed my cashmere scarf and gloves and draped them on the finial at the bottom of the staircase banister. The furniture had been removed. The entire house was empty. Other than that, nothing much had changed on the inside either. Same yellow paint on the walls and white eyelet curtains, though weathered by time and dusty from disuse. A heaviness sat on my chest as I looked around. The furniture was gone, but the ghosts remained.
Blades of sunlight crisscrossed the weathered oak stairs leading to the second floor. My gaze followed them up. I’d forgotten how well-lit the house was because my memories were dark and dingy. They were of the basement concrete floor where my grandfather forced me to stay kneeling in prayer for hours in a dark so deep and disorienting, I welcomed the pain in my knees because I was afraid I’d float away. Of the wet cold that seeped into my bones in the dead of winter with only my cotton pajamas to keep me warm. Of the way I’d learned not to cry, or he’d make me stay there longer. I’d never dared to disobey. He’d once told me he had cameras watching me. Years later, in my teens, I realized that it couldn’t have been true because it was pitch black down there, but at the time I’d believed him.
Every muscle in my body was shaking by the time I finished climbing the creaking stairs on unsteady legs, my heart clashing inside my chest as if I’d just run the NYC Marathon, which I’d done once with mediocre results and vowed to never do again. I had no intention of strolling down memory lane and went straight to the cord hanging in the hallway, tugged on it, and watched the stairs that led to the attic unfold.
Dust bunnies and a single small white document box were the only items in the space with a low-hanging ceiling. It was sitting in the middle of the room, my name in big black block letters written on top, seemingly waiting for my arrival. I would’ve laughed at the drama if the story wasn’t so freaking sinister. It was a good thing I was a runner too because the jolts my poor heart was sustaining would’ve ended a less fit person.
Lowering myself to the dusty floor, legs crossed, I raised the lid and peered inside the box. It was half-filled with large manila envelopes. I reached for the one on top, opened it, and out slid a decade’ old edition of Martha Stewart Living magazine. This was beyond odd. I mean, I liked the magazine for its recipes but I’d never subscribed to anything while I was living with them. They would’ve most likely decided it was a “bad influence” somehow and confiscated it. Puzzled but curious, I flipped through the first copy and a letter fell out.
