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The familiar lump chokes me. Nothing about this place brings memories I welcome. There used to be good times here. Early on, we were happy together as a family. But I store those memories in a box labeledbefore. Everythingafterovershadows all the good. Its strength pushes it back until I can’t find the good anymore.
“Claire?” Jake intertwines his fingers with mine, bringing me out of my reverie. “You good?”
I swallow back my fear and nod.
I wonder what he’s thinking, pulling up to what looks like a beautiful home.
To me, it’s derelict.
The person inside is only a shell, living in a shell of a home.
“It used to be beautiful,” I whisper. He doesn’t correct me. To everyone on the outside, it is beautiful. I don’t know why I feel the need to tell him. Maybe it’s embarrassment bubbling in my chest. “She’s really house proud. We always had the most beautiful garden in the neighborhood.”
That’s always a good memory that peaks out of its box. During the summer, if we didn’t go to the lake, she spent all day in the garden planting flowers and, in the evening, she played the piano while dinner was cooking. The sound of her playing beautiful music drifting through the neighborhood was always the sound of coming home. I can’t remember the last time she played. Or maybe she plays all the time, and I don’t come around often enough to hear it. I’d do anything for just an echo of those sounds.
I shake the thoughts away, knowing entering this house always brings ghosts out of the shadows. I can’t let it consume me tonight.
I take a deep breath, fill my lungs, and pump my backbone with some well-needed courage.
Time to face it.
“I won’t be long.”
“Take all the time you need. I’ll be right here.” He tries to smile, but it falters, and his fingers slip through mine again before I turn around. His eyes land on our hands and then on me, his grip tightening until my trembling subsides. “You’re good.” The simple tilt of his lips is enough for my heart to stop hammering and my shoulders to relax.
Nodding, I squeeze him back. “I’m good.”
I twist my hair in a bun a couple of times before letting it fall to my waist, then scratch at my neck like I can free the blockage.
Amy stands on the front step when I open the gate.
“She’s lost it. For real this time.”
My sister is exhausted and frustrated.
I get it.
“She only wants you.” The bitterness in her tone stings, but I ignore it. “Even Kate came by to help, but she wouldn’t talk to her.”
“What did she drink?” I finally ask, not meeting my sister’s gaze. My eyes roam over the house of horrors.
“What didn’t she drink?”
Nodding, I squeeze Amy’s shoulder.
The house smells clean, like lemons, bleach, and sage. Which can only mean one thing—she had a sober day and scrubbed until her fingers bled, then rewarded herself with a bottle of whatever she could get her hands on.
“Someone get my baby,” she screams from the living room.
She’s screaming to herself. Or maybe it’s the demons in the wall. I can’t be sure.
Oh, Mama.
Dropping my bag, I rush to her side.
“Mama!” I shout, grabbing her face in my hands. “I’m here. Look at me.”
Please look at me, Mama.
