CHAPTER TWENTY
I stare at what’s left of the tree, and it stares back at me, the knots in its bark beginning to look like eyes. Maeve stands behind me, practically breathing down my neck, and I tap my foot impatiently.
“Do you have a saw?” Maeve asks, massaging her chin with the tips of her fingers.
“Maeve, this is a bookstore. What would we possibly need a saw for?”
She cocks an eyebrow, not surrendering to the power of my poorly delivered jokes. “What about the hardware store?”
An image of empty shelves lurks in the back of my brain, dark dust gathering on beige metal. “They won’t have one,” I say. “There’s nothing left in there.”
“Fine.” Maeve exhales, turning to meet my gaze. The circles under her eyes have only deepened, the irises’ once sharp green color now dull. “Then give me a solution.” She pauses, brushing a strand of hair away from her face. “And a place where we can get some wood, too, in order to patch up this hole.”
I want to fire back What’s your solution? But I don’t. This isn’t her home turf. It’s mine. My town, my responsibility, right?
As that thought enters my brain, it’s immediately followed by another. I know where to find a saw, and wood, and whatever the hell else Maeve might need to work her magic. It sends an uneasy feeling through my bones, but it’s the best option we have. It’s probably the only option that we have.
“Okay, I have a solution,” I announce, and an ounce of life makes its way back into Maeve’s face. “It’s a house, a ten-minute walk from here, but we should be able to get what you need.” Even though the idea of leaving this place again makes my stomach turn. Even though I remember all too well what happened the last time that I did.
Her lips press into a straight line; a small crease forms on her forehead. “Liz, we’re surrounded by acres of suburbia. I don’t want to come face to face with the bodies of anyone who wasn’t as fortunate as the two of us, and I sure as hell don’t want to be waltzing through a house that smells like rotting flesh.” I nod slowly, about to explain myself, but Maeve isn’t done. “And we can’t just go and grave-rob someone’s home. I mean, it’s different if no one lived there, like a store or a school, but someone’s house?”
I just shake my head. “We wouldn’t be stealing from anyone,” I clarify. “We’d be going to my house.”
• • •
We leave the next morning, a headache pounding at my temples from the moment I wake up. The gravity of the situation hits me in the chest like a ton of bricks as I tie my Converse and head downstairs, Maeve by my side. My house. My. House.
I smile at Maeve, as if to say, Everything is okay. I promise. I’m okay with this.
I’m not okay with this. The truth of the matter is that I haven’t been back since it happened. I’ve tried not to think about it, the way the house used to look, the way it used to smell when my mom would cook dinner. The feeling of the front doorknob in my hand. The way my voice echoed around the drafty halls whenever I called out, I’m home! The sound the floorboards in my bedroom would make on the rare occasion I decided to dance. I’ve tried to leave my home in my memories, build a barrier, and start a new life. I haven’t been that successful.
I’ve often thought about what I would do if someone offered to reset my memory. It sounds implausible, but then so did the end of the world at one point. I’ve thought about starting fresh with nothing left to hold me back. Being content in my present because I had no past to reference. I wouldn’t be able to think about things like school or air-conditioning or family, because I wouldn’t remember their existence. I would start at the present, alone and surviving, and maybe I’d have a real fighting chance at happiness. This existence of sheer survival, day after day after day, would be all that I would know. There would be nothing at all to miss.
But sometimes, the memory is worth the pain. It’s like watching the saddest episode of your favorite TV show again, even though you know how badly it’s going to hurt. It’s like looking through a photo album at pictures of people who are gone.
We set out after our “customer” for the day departs, trading a bottle of antiseptic spray and a bag of rice for an old pack of batteries that I forgot that I even had. That and a copy of The Miraculous Journey of Edward Tulane. The antiseptic spray might have been more helpful a few days ago, but beggars can’t be choosers.
“Are you sure you’re okay with this?” Maeve asks quietly. “We don’t have to go. I haven’t even gone back since…”
I don’t let her finish. I don’t want her to have to think about that. “It’s fine,” I promise. “I wouldn’t have offered it if I wasn’t okay with it.”
Maeve seems to accept that as an answer, though I suspect it’s more because she doesn’t want to argue, rather than because she believes me. She follows me out the front door, the busted lock jingling as it slams shut. We tape the door like we did before hiking through the woods. We’ll be back in two hours, and then we can attack the tree again, full force.
I lead the way, walking away from the bookstore on a path I haven’t traveled in almost a year. I keep my breath steady, staring firmly ahead. This is fine. Everything is totally fine.
I take another turn as Maeve walks a few paces behind, her boots thudding on the stone as she pulls her cart behind her. We pass through a park. The park where I went on my first date with a boy from my band class. It was my first and last date with a boy, and it ended abruptly after he talked about boxing for two and a half hours straight. Last I knew, he was headed to Harvard. I wonder if he’s still alive. This is the park where I used to go sledding on cold winter days, racing up and down the hill in a frenzy, knowing that a comforting cup of hot chocolate would be waiting for me when I got home. The park I used to walk through on my way to work, where I used to sit on Fridays after school with my friends, letting the grass graze my ankles as I drank Pepsi and munched on whatever flavored chips were the cheapest.
We pass Holland Court, which used to be the best street for a bike ride, with a slight hill that sloped enough to let you pick up real speed as you went down. The houses at the bottom of the hill gave out full-sized candy bars on Halloween, and one of them had a tabby cat that would appear on our back porch during the summer. It smells like summer, too, that tangible scent of hot asphalt and too much pollen. It feels fresh and heavy at the same time. And with the slight breeze comes seventeen years of memories.
Bike rides wearing sweatshirts even though I was sweating like hell, because the sweatshirt was new and made me look cool. Headphones on, the ones that cost fifteen hours of minimum-wage labor because they blocked out every background noise, which was definitely not safe on the road, but I didn’t care. Violent Femmes and Woodkid and Harvey Danger and Radiohead blasting into my ears like I was standing in the middle of a concert hall.
It washes over me, like a thousand little hailstones raining from the sky, almost knocking me off my already unsteady feet. If Maeve notices my fugue state, she doesn’t acknowledge it. Yet the memories keep coming, pummeling me with gut punch after gut punch. Birthday parties in the backyard, hitting tennis balls against the garage door, cold Cokes from the gas station three blocks away. At this moment, the mundane is beautiful. The mundane is rare and precious and gone as quickly as a breeze, depositing me back in the present.
The front gate stands ajar, and when I see it, my heart drops. I stop in the middle of the road, my Converse suddenly glued to the asphalt. Maeve tenses up beside me, and I feel gentle fingers wrapping themselves around my arm.
“We don’t have to do this,” she whispers. “We can find some other way.”
“I’m fine,” I say. I am not.
The gate is purely decorative, a little bit over knee height with white paint chipping off from lack of care and certain weather-related apocalyptic events. A part of me hurts as I look at it, wishing I’d done more to fix it up before I left. To keep it the way I want to remember it. But then I remember what a great job I’ve been doing with the bookstore. Maybe if I had stayed here there’d be a tree through the roof by now.
The actual house is covered in peeling yellow paint, shutters hanging off like something from a poorly made Halloween movie. And sure, I’ve never seen an actual haunted house, but I’d say this qualifies, even without my life-sized cutout of Emma Stone peering down at me through my bedroom window. The roof is almost entirely gone; moss grows on the sides of the building and on the dark gray asphalt sidewalk. I climbed onto that roof once, believing that I could fly like Wendy Darling from Peter Pan. Luckily Mom spotted me before I was able to jump. I refused to talk to her for a week after that.
The whole building looks overgrown and unwanted. I remember that I’m the reason that no one was left to give it the love it deserved. It’s my fault that this building is empty.
I make my way up the front walk, stepping over various weeds and wildflowers that have sprouted from the cracks in the cement. My dad would have a stroke if he saw the state of the yard, considering the number of hours he spent expertly cultivating it.
“I’ll just be a minute,” I say, trying to plaster on the biggest smile I can muster. I don’t think it’s very convincing, but she nods anyway. “You can come in if you want, or you can wait out here.”
“I’m not letting you go in there alone.” Her eyes search mine, but I mask my reluctance well. Still, she stands by my side as I open the front door.
The entire house smells musty, and there’s dust clinging to every surface. As I step onto the carpet in the hallway, a cloud erupts in front of me and I can’t help but sneeze. My shoulders shudder, and I wince from the shock of pain it sends shooting down my arm.
“Are you okay?” Maeve asks.
“It’s just a sneeze; I’m not dying.” I can hear a half-hearted chuckle and feel relieved.
The whole house is dark, except for columns of sunlight that come through the broken windows. I start heading up the stairs, the wood creaking under my feet.
“You keep your saws upstairs?” Maeve jokes.
It’s enough to get me to laugh, or rather exhale through my nose in a sort of half laugh. I turn to face her. “Yeah, right under my pillow.” I point at a door on the ground floor. “There should be wood in the garage from the time when I tried to build a shed in the backyard. You only have to take the pieces you think you can use. The saw should be there as well. It’s right through there. I’ll just be a minute.”
Maeve rushes through the opening, closing the door gingerly behind her. I continue my ascent, managing to put one foot in front of the other even though each step feels like it weighs a thousand pounds.
My bedroom is the first room at the top of the stairs. The door is slightly ajar, and I hesitate in front of it, wondering if I want to go in. I’m not sure if I want to see this world, this place that served as my safe space for so long, in shambles. I’m not sure if I want to walk in and smell the air just to realize that it no longer smells like me. But my curiosity eats at me, so I push on the knob gently with the pads of my fingers.
Part of the outer wall has crumbled away, yanked off my house by some ungodly force. I knew that there had been some structural damage during The Storm from the wind, but I hadn’t stayed long enough to find out what or fix any of it. The entire room has been exposed for the past year, allowing in rain and snow and who knows what else. The white bedsheets have turned a faded shade of beige, so moth-eaten in some places that you can see the mattress. Mr. Frog, a childhood favorite, sits on top of my comforter, fur matted and one button eye hanging off by a thread. The sight makes my insides turn, but I still step inside, taken over by some sort of macabre fascination.
I sit down on my desk chair, which feels as firm as a rock. The metal has been corroded, but I can still swivel a bit in the seat. It’s weird, but this feels normal. This feels the closest to normal anything has in a long time, and so I close my eyes. I close my eyes and don’t look at the moth-hole-ridden covers. I don’t look at the peeling paint or the dust that surrounds me. I imagine that this is normal, just for a moment. For as long as I can maintain the illusion.
I’m transported back to another time, one and a half years ago. I’m hunched over my laptop typing away some nonsense about Frankenstein, nattering on and on about Pandora and Prometheus and the metaphor of it all. The sun sets outside, slowly replaced by twilight, but I don’t notice, earbuds in as I listen to Interpol and tap along to “Evil” with the tips of my boots.
The light on my desktop flickers, perched atop a pile of books I’ve yet to read, no matter how many times I promise myself that I will get to them eventually. I am happy, or happy enough. Somewhere between happy and content as I write my essay and listen to music about murderers, pretending to be more rebellious than I ever will be.
In my imagination, my dad taps on the door gently with his knuckles, even though it’s open. I pull my earbuds out of my ears, setting them down on my laptop keyboard. I can still hear the pulsing bass notes of the song, now small and insignificant. As he looks at me, I smile, and he smiles back.
What are you working on? he asks, his voice warm.
Just an essay for Thompson. I know what I’m going to write but…it’s not flowing as well as I might have hoped.
Is it any good?
It’s good enough for me to turn in, I reply.
He smiles, lines appearing around his soft blue eyes. I know you too well. I’m sure it’s fine. You’ve always been such a good writer.
I know he’s just saying that, in the same way that all parents do. It’s their job to tell little lies sometimes, just to make you feel better. But I decide that in this memory, he believes he’s telling the truth.
Have you eaten today? he asks.
I had soup. And that much is true, because I ate soup every single day during my senior year of high school. It was my main food group.
Dad groans. If you keep eating so much soup, you’re going to turn into soup!
I know, I know. But what can I say? Don’t mess with a good thing.
Dad reaches behind him, grabbing something off the table in the hallway. A mug sits in his hand, dotted with images of golden retrievers.
I made you some tea.
I can feel warmth rise to my cheeks as if this were real life and not just a figment of my imagination.
You’re too good to me, I tell him.
It’s my job.
Before he leaves I turn to him, swiveling in my desk chair and breaking away from the path of my pre-lived memory.
I love you, you know.
I love you too.
I let the sound fill my ears. I let it encircle me, suffocate me. When I open my eyes, I’m transported back to real life. The illusion is over.
The essay still hangs above my desk, haphazardly thumbtacked onto my bulletin board, torn mostly to shreds but still distinguishable. Its yellowed pages have curled up into themselves, and I stand to take a closer look.
With a shaking hand I push the pages down. The 8/8 grade is barely there, almost faded into obscurity. If I didn’t know it was there, I wouldn’t be able to see it. I am the only one who still remembers that I got an 8/8 on this assignment. It will die with me.
I hear a door slam downstairs and footsteps across the wooden floor below me.
“I found the wood,” Maeve yells up to me. “And the saw, just in case you were still looking.”
“Awesome,” I tell her, my voice breaking on the last syllable. Her voice reminds me that I’m not alone, no matter how lonely I might sometimes feel. And for that, I’m grateful. “I’ll be down in a second.”
Something warm and wet falls onto my face, and I realize I’m crying. I wipe the tear from my cheek and take one last look at the room, my room. I try to remember it as it once was. I try to remember Dad and the tea and the essay, not the moth holes and the peeling paint and the smell. Not the horrible things that happened here. Before I head back out the door, I pluck the frog from my bed and hold it close, clutching it with the crook of my elbow.
Maeve waits for me at the bottom of the stairs, saw in hand, standing in front of a carefully stacked pile of wood.
“I have some nails in my pockets, too,” she says as she passes me the saw. I struggle to hold it without losing my grip on Mr. Frog. Maeve looks from the frog to me and then back to the frog. “What’s with the toy?”
“A friend.”
• • •
It’s hard to sleep tonight. Well, it’s hard to sleep any night, but especially tonight. Because going back forced me to remember. It brought all those locked-away memories to the front of my mind. They roam around my brain with nothing left to stop them.
After we got back to the bookstore Maeve immediately fell asleep in the armchair by the kitchen window. She sat down, just to rest her feet, she said, but in an instant she was out like a light. I didn’t want to move her, and even if I did, I probably wouldn’t be able to with only one hand. The bedroom feels empty without her. Too quiet. There’s no sound of rustling sheets in the corner, or snores, or the occasional twisting and turning. There’s just quiet.
I stare out the window at the street below. Only the smallest square outside is even visible from my position in bed, but I look anyway, staring at a crumpled-up poster advertising a coding summer camp as it flutters around the street. It reminds me of a lyric from a Fiona Apple song, which just reminds me of Maeve.
I don’t notice the figure at first, creeping in from down the street. No one stays outside long at night anymore. There’s too much to be afraid of. But this figure—this person—seems totally unaware of the fact that they’re being watched. Totally unaware of the fact that there’s someone awake inside to be looking at them. It’s the same person from the other day who was lurking underneath the railroad bridge. I can tell from their hunched posture.
The figure moves closer to the bookstore, bending over to look at something that I can’t make out from this vantage point. They pause before walking toward the side of the building, disappearing from my view completely. Maybe they’ve noticed the giant tree poking out of the wall. It would be hard for them not to notice, figment of my imagination or not.
It’s a few minutes before the shadowy figure returns to my field of vision. I scoot out from under the covers and tiptoe across the floor to get a better look. It’s a man, I think. Or a very tall woman. They stand on the sidewalk across the street, hand in their pocket, fumbling for something.
When they withdraw their hand, they are holding a small square of white. A slip of paper. After pausing and scanning the page, they pull out a pencil and begin to write.
My heart flutters as I continue watching. Who are they? What are they writing? A message? A warning? What do they want? Maybe I’m being ridiculous. Maybe they’re drawing a cute little portrait of the building and I’ll wake up tomorrow to find it sitting on the front step, a gift. Maybe they’ve been struck with artistic inspiration and absolutely had to write a poem about the stillness of the night and the weeds growing through the pavement. Both of these theories are highly unlikely, but I’d rather pretend that the mysterious person stalking the house is really just a nocturnal poet, rather than a dangerous interloper.
I creep toward the window, as if the extra foot will give me a better view. All it does is cause the floorboards to emit a ghastly groan. Shit.
I hear Maeve rustle in the other room as I stumble back to my mattress. “Liz? You okay in there?”
Maeve has woken up in the kitchen, her voice making its way through the closed bedroom door.
I want to tell her to look out the window, but I know what will happen if I do. I don’t want her to think I’m crazy all over again. I can play it off once, but twice? That’s pushing it.
“I’m fine!” I reply. “Just headed to the bathroom.”
And sure enough, when I look back out the bedroom window, the figure is gone.
Tobias Browne
42 Years Old
New York, New York
I swear I was right on the cusp of the rest of my life, you know? I mean, I guess I’d spent a couple of years in that state, just about to accomplish everything I’d ever wanted. But I mean it. Two days before The Storm I received the final callback for this feature film. A stage-to-screen adaptation of a musical—you remember the one about Greek mythology and that cult?—yeah, that one. They wanted me to play Dionysus, this really rich baritone role. I finally felt like I’d found a part that was written for me. And sure, it wasn’t mine yet, but it was going to be. But I guess that doesn’t matter anymore. Things can fall apart more easily than they are put together. And poof, the role was gone, and everything else with it.