Page 36 of Play Nice

I turn around and look. It is. It’s white, generic. There’s a window in the center, a flower etched into the glass. It’s not my favorite. I’ll probably end up replacing it again. Partner with a brand to shill some cute but overpriced babydoll dresses to cover the cost. How much are doors, anyway?

“The frame was damaged. Uneven,” he says. “If it wasn’t locked, it’d swing open.”

“Really?”

“It was a lot of work, Clio. Big project. Luckily, Pete was around. He’s handy.”

“Who’s Pete?”

“Pete. My friend Pete. You know Pete.”

“Oh, yeah. Pete.” I’m sure I’ve met him but doubt I could pick him out of a lineup.

“You should thank him next time you see him. He’ll be at the barbecue on Memorial Day.”

“Okey dokey, smokey.”

“All right, all right. Pick you up tomorrow? One o’clock?”

I trace the flower in the glass with my fingers. A feeling washes over me. It’s brief but unambiguous. There’s someone behind me, standing over my shoulder. It happens to me all the time. At bars. On the subway. Some stranger hovering closer and closer, their looming presence prodding through whatever narrow space is left between us. Wanting to be near me, to touch me. For me to acknowledge them, which I rarely do.

“Clio?” Dad asks.

“Yeah,” I say, spinning around. There’s no one here. “Thanks, Dad. Sounds like a plan.”

—

I spend the afternoon taking photos and video of the house. The “before” state. I sketch out design ideas with my freshly sharpened colored pencil set. I blast music from my new portable speaker. I cruise Pinterest.

The ceiling fan only spins when I turn it on. It stops when I turn it off. The new front door remains shut and locked. I don’t encounter another mouse, though I’m still on edge.

I find dead flies on the kitchen counter, on the windowsills—icky but not mouse-level icky. I use paper towels to pick them up and drop them into a giant black trash bag. I didn’t realize when I ordered the bags how big they were. Good for contractors, serial killers, and apparently, moi.

I find the fridge empty except for a box of baking soda. I find a bottle of vodka in the freezer.

I don’t find the back half of the book. It’s not in my room. It didn’t fall behind the nightstand or under the bed like I’d assumed. It’s not in Mom’s room. It’s not anywhere. I decide I don’t care. I don’t want to finish it. The whole thing is derivative, and I resent being cast as the creepy little girl.

Reading it hasn’t invoked a grand swell of memories, but some things have come back to me, and I do think I have a vague memory of Mom asking me about my closet. I probably realized validating her got me attention, my one true love. I buy that over me whispering to myself and claiming there was an entity in my closet unprompted, over seven-year-old me originating the idea of the demon.

I don’t trust her version. How could I? And my own might be so faded that it’s basically useless, but I do trust myself. I know myself. I don’t know my mother. I never will.

I order takeout, enjoy watching the delivery kid squirm on the doorstep. I eat eggplant parmesan at the dining table while watching DIY home renovation videos on YouTube.

The sun goes down, and I anticipate the darkness turning the house into somewhere I don’t want to be. But it’s fine.

I get the bottle of vodka out of the freezer and set myself up on the couch under a thick blanket, another new purchase. I balance a sketchpad on my lap and experiment with color palettes, periodically reaching over to the coffee table for different colored pencils and for the bottle. I take a few swigs and feel like a rebellious teenager, drinking vodka straight. It’s disgusting but I love it. The burn of it reminding me how alive I am inside my body, inside this moment. In the present. The past is over, and the future is overrated. Now is my favorite.

My eyelids go heavy, and I’m comfortable and content enough to doze off, which feels like a win until I’m awoken by a low, slow creaking.

I sit up, groggy, my throat sore. The sketchpad slides off my lap and flaps like an injured bird down to the floor. The overhead light is on, and it’s not particularly bright, but it still takes my sleepy eyes a moment to adjust. My vision is spotty, so the shadow standing in front of the sliding glass doors isn’t anything at first. Just another smudge. An inkblot.

Until it isn’t.

Until it’s something. Someone. Someone standing there.

Until it screams.

Until I scream.