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Chapter Four
The large, three-levelhouse at 223 Scarth Road had been built in 1932 and, from the outside, looked every one of its years. If I were describing it to prospective buyers, I’d advise them to try to look past the dark redbrick exterior and thick, old-fashioned windows that made the place look, in a word—my son’s word, actually—“spooky.” I’d assure them that the inside of the house was a different story altogether.
And, for the most part, it was.
My parents had remodeled the interior several times since purchasing the house almost half a century ago, installing copper plumbing and wiring, stripping the walls of their heavy brocade wallpaper in favor of a crisp white paint job throughout, repeatedly updating the kitchen and bathrooms to keep up with the latest trends, enlarging the closets, and even creating a home theater and fully equipped exercise room on the lower level, a level that opened onto a fully landscaped back garden with a large, free-form swimming pool.
Yet, despite all the updates, the house has retained a curiously old-fashioned feel. Maybe it’s because of the enormous staircase with its ornate mahogany banister that sits in the middle of the huge center hall; maybe it’s the wide wooden ceiling beams anddark wainscoting of the cavernous living and dining rooms; maybe it’s the fact that there are just so many separate rooms, in contrast to the more open-concept layouts favored by today’s home buyers.
Interestingly, despite its more than five thousand square feet, the house is one of the smaller homes on the street and, despite its slowly crumbling, “spooky” façade, would likely sell for a not-so-small fortune in this most desirous of locations within days of being listed.
Except that my father had no interest in selling.
I tried for years to persuade my parents to move to a condo, especially after my mother’s diagnosis. Or even a small bungalow, I suggested. Something without stairs. Something easier to manage. My father wouldn’t hear of it. This was their home, he insisted. They weren’t going anywhere.
Now, of course, it was no longer an option. My mother would likely not survive a move.
My father’s one concession was to install a small elevator to the right of the staircase. Initially, it saw a lot of action, but the last year had seen its usage sharply decline, my mother too crippled to venture out, too weak to sit in the garden for any length of time, too proud to enjoy being pushed through the streets of Rosedale in the wheelchair she despised.
I saw Tracy sitting behind the wheel of her sporty red Audi at the end of the street as soon as I turned the corner onto Scarth Road. I pulled my decidedly un-sporty white SUV into our parents’ driveway and exited the car, walking down the street to where my sister was parked. “What are you doing all the way down here?” I asked, leaning toward her open window.
“You weren’t here yet, and I didn’t want to get trapped in the driveway, in case I want to leave early,” she explained, swinging long, bare legs out of the car. She was wearing a short pale pink sundress and matching flats, her long hair pulled into a low ponytail.
“You look nice,” I told her, hoping she might offer upsomething in return, but whatever she thought of the beige skirt and flower-print blouse I was wearing, she kept to herself. “Why didn’t you go inside?”
She rolled her eyes, as if this was answer enough. “So, where’s Mary Poppins?”
I checked my watch. “She should be here any minute.”
“Not a good sign, if she’s late.”
“She still has ten minutes.”
Another roll of her eyes as Tracy reached inside her purse for her mirrored pink sunglasses.
“Those are cute,” I said as she pushed them over the bridge of her nose. “New?”
“Tom Ford. They cost a fortune.”
I wouldn’t expect anything less,I thought, but didn’t say. “I guess we should probably head in,” I said instead.
“Do we have to?” she whined.
“Well, we can’t very well stand in the middle of the sidewalk until Elyse gets here.”
“Why can’t we?”
“Because,” I started, then stopped, deciding there was no point in trying to come up with a suitable response. Instead, I turned and started walking back toward the house, leaving Tracy no choice but to follow me.
“Wait.”
“What?”
“What if Dad hates her?”
“Then we’ll find somebody else.”
“You’llfind somebody else,” Tracy corrected. “I’m not going through this again.”
