Page 46 of Play Nice

“Are you sure?” I ask, pulling up the image on my phone.

She crawls over to where I am, puts her head on the pillow next to mine. I show her the picture.

“That’s stunning. Damn.”

I show her some of the YouTube tutorials I’ve been watching. She falls asleep as we watch time-lapsed kitchen remodels.

She snores and steals the covers, so I end up on the couch.

I came back to the city earlier this week for work and for some appointments—facial, personal training session, trim and blowout—and to have dinner with Daphne. But ever since I got here, I’ve been anxious to return to the house. The progress is addicting. And the potential. Looking around at all that raw space. There’s just something about being there.

What would Daphne say if I told her about waking up on the floor with the bedding all piled up beside me like a soft cairn? If I told her about the sketch that I don’t remember drawing?

Probably blame emotional distress or lack of sleep or alcohol. Probably be right. Definitely tell Dad and Leda. And they would change the locks and put the house on the market.

So I won’t tell her, even though it justifies her having concerns about me being there. I won’t tell her because it justifies her concerns.

I won’t tell her because I’m starting to suspect that part of me wants to believe the house is haunted, wants the place to prove to me that it is.

How could I forget the bedroom door incident? How is it possible I could just block something like that out? Mom locked outside, holding a knife, trying to get in. Screaming.

No.

No, it’s not that I want to believe the house is haunted.

It’s that part of me wants to believe she wasn’t crazy.

The closest church was St. Ann’s. Catholic. I’d been raised Greek Orthodox, but our family had never been particularly committed to the church. My ex-husband wasn’t religious, and so our girls weren’t brought up in faith.

Any belief I’d had in God as a child had waned over the years. If there was a God, he was at best apathetic, at worst cruel. Why would I worship such a being?

But after falling from the attic, I was desperate. I needed help and I would seek it anywhere, from anyone.

I attended mass on a Friday evening while the girls were with their father—he was taking them out to dinner and to the movies because he could afford to do fun things like that with them. They would whine on the weekends they were with me about how bored they were.

Catholic mass was a solemn affair, but I found something soothing about it. A peace I hadn’t ever experienced before. I was grateful for that hour, sitting in the mostly empty pews, the divine words echoing through the space.

The church itself was beautiful. Outside, a statue of the Virgin Mary stood surrounded by flowers. The exterior of the church was simple—white and square with a tall steeple. Inside, the walls were painted pale yellow. There were elaborate stained-glass windows all around. The ceiling was high and curved, and the floors were cherrywood except for the green runner down the aisle. There were statues on either side of the altar, the Virgin Mary again—one with her holding Jesus as an infant, the other her holding him after he died. Beyond the pulpit, Jesus was alone on his cross.

After mass, I lingered, waiting for an opportunity to speak to the priest, Father John. He was an older man with gray hair and a soft face. Kind eyes.

“Hello, Father,” I said.

“Hello,” he said, extending a hand. “I don’t believe we’ve met. Welcome.”

“I recently moved to the area with my three daughters,” I said. When I slipped my hand in his, a shadow passed across his face. His hand was warm; mine was freezing. He held on to it. He didn’t let me go. He could sense something was wrong, and I think he wanted me to know that I could confide in him. “It’s been a rough start. I…I was wondering if you could come and bless our house.”

“Of course,” he said. “I would be glad to.”

I gave him the address, and we settled on the following Wednesday at one o’clock. I told my boss I had a doctor’s appointment, an excuse to leave work early.

I couldn’t have Father John at the house while my girls were there. They would tell their father, who would ask me why I had a priest at the house. I wouldn’t have a good answer, a good lie, and the truth wasn’t an option. If my ex-husband knew that I suspected there was a presence in the house, he would take it as further proof that I was crazy. It infuriated me how he would revel in my agony. How he would wield my vulnerabilities as weapons against me. Any opportunity he had to exploit my very human weaknesses, he would take.

I hung my hopes on Father John’s visit. Whatever evil was in the house, I thought he could cast out. It was something.

I’d read and loved Jane Eyre as a teenager. As a grown woman, my perspective on the novel changed. I was Bertha Mason. Rochester was not a romantic hero; he was a criminal asshole.

I went to sleep on Tuesday cautiously optimistic.