Ghost House

by Alexandra Adornetto

  I knew one thing for sure. This wasn’t the last I’d see of the dead.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Grandma Fee decided to stay on for a while after the funeral to help get us back on our feet. To tell the truth, I was relieved. A stupor had settled over our house. It used to be filled with the sounds of lively conversation, plates clattering in the kitchen and the clamor of Rory’s trumpet practice. Now there was only silence, and the days slipped by unnoticed.

  I slept a lot, mainly because it meant I didn’t have to think about how everything had changed, how a huge chunk of my family had been ripped away, like when a tornado sucks out the guts of a house, leaving an empty shell. I’d wake in the morning and for a few ignorant minutes everything would feel normal. Then I’d remember that my mother was dead, and suddenly I hardly knew where I was anymore. The world seemed to fall away from under me. I began to understand why people drank to drown their sorrows; I wished there was something I could do to numb the pain that felt like it was clawing at me from the inside.

  The strangest part was how everything still looked the same. It was deceptive and almost mocking. The pile of clean laundry was still folded on my bed where Mom had left it. The tennis trophy she’d positioned all too prominently on my shelf seemed to stare back at me. Her leather boots were propped by my door from just last week when I couldn’t find anything to go with my outfit and had ransacked her closet instead. In fact, there wasn’t a single thing that didn’t remind me of her, from the emerald earrings she’d given me on my sweet sixteen to the print of Starry Night she’d hung above my bed, hoping I’d absorb some culture in my sleep.

  My cell phone kept buzzing with an influx of messages from people I barely knew, and I wasn’t even sure how they’d found my number. Sam and Natalie were coming up with a million suggestions to try to distract me, but I couldn’t bring myself to respond. Nothing mattered anymore. Nothing could begin to replace what I’d lost.

  At least I still had my vault. If fear or pain ever tried to take over, I could always rely on the vault. It was a childhood invention, an image I could summon at will that never failed. My vault was impenetrable, solid steel, the perfect depository for stressful thoughts. I would picture the bad thoughts as wisps flying around in the air. I had to catch them first, like butterflies in a net; I knew they’d only come back stronger if they got away. But once they were locked away, they could only come out if and when I allowed them to.

  For the most part, I kept my grief in check, apart from the odd random moment when it hit without warning. Like the time Gran was making coffee and I happened to catch sight of the mug she was reaching for.

  “Don’t use that!” I objected. Everyone froze, waiting for an explanation. “That’s Mom’s mug.”

  It was Rory who uncharacteristically came to the rescue. “Here, Gran, have this one,” he said, handing her a non­descript white one from the back of the cabinet.

  Or the time I accidentally strayed into my parents’ bedroom in one downstairs wing of the house. I’d been avoiding it like the plague, but I was looking for our family dog, Darcy, a chocolate Lab named by Mom for one of her favorite fictional heroes. I found him comfortably ensconced on Mom’s side of the bed. Nothing appeared to have been touched since the night she died. I was pretty sure Dad had relocated to the guest room. Mom’s mother-of-pearl hairbrush was still where she’d left it on the dressing table, her robe was still hanging from a hook behind the door, and the bestseller she’d been reading was sitting on the nightstand. It was like she might walk in at any moment.

  The rest of my family wasn’t faring much better. Rory spent the better part of each day locked in his room on his computer, surfacing only at mealtimes. Dad didn’t break down in any dramatic way; he just disconnected. If we did manage to get his attention, even the simplest of questions puzzled him.

  “Dad, how do you turn on the washer?” Rory stood in the kitchen doorway, holding a bundle of crumpled gym shorts and T-shirts. Momentarily jolted from his dazed state, my father looked at Rory like he was a complete stranger. Luckily, Gran saved the day, steering my brother diplomatically away.

  “Come along, dear,” I heard her say. “We’ll figure it out together.”

  As the days passed I watched Dad drift further away from us. Some days we barely saw him, but I’d hear him late at night rummaging in the kitchen, eating cereal because he’d forgotten about lunch and dinner. For the most part, he preferred to nurse a large scotch on the back porch, looking up at the stars. Seeing him that way made my chest hurt. I waited for signs that he was coming back to us, but nothing happened. It was hard to see him unshaven, mooching aimlessly around in sweatpants. How could this be the same man who had given us pep talks about going after our dreams only a few weeks earlier? But what can you do when your whole world is shattered? How do you pick up the pieces and move on when you don’t know what you’re moving on for? I wished there was something I could do to ease his pain, but I was only just treading water myself.

  It didn’t help that the ghosts were appearing thick and fast. I was changing into my pajamas the following night when I saw the next one. A man with thinning hair sat in the rocking chair by the open window, smiling aimlessly into space. I recognized him. He’d shown up many times when I was a child, always smiling but never uttering a word. But that wasn’t the scariest part. I could feel the walls I’d built to keep the ghosts out starting to crumble. They were slipping through the cracks. My grief had made me weak, and I didn’t have the strength to rebuild my inner fortress. There was no room for anything other than the overwhelming ache of missing my mother.

  I backed up against my desk, trying to put as much distance between us as possible.

  “Go away,” I told him forcefully, even though I knew he probably couldn’t hear me. “You shouldn’t be here.”

  I tried to show him I was unfazed by busying myself, re­arranging my bookshelf. The smell and touch of the well-worn pages and fraying spines settled my nerves, and when I looked again, he was gone. My eye fell on the top shelf, which housed my most treasured editions. Books had always been my refuge, and I had Gran to thank for that. For as long as I could remember, every year on my birthday she’d sent me a classic novel. The first was a forest-green leather-bound edition of Peter Pan. I always remembered that one famous quote: “To die would be an awfully big adventure.” I wondered if that was true. Did we really pass on to a dimension full of stardust and limitless possibilities? Or did nothingness await us? I sure hoped Peter knew what he was talking about.

  I jumped as my bedroom door opened a crack and Grandma Fee poked her head into the room.

  “Chloe? Is everything all right? I heard voices.” I quickly snatched up my laptop. “I was just watching a YouTube video.”

  I could tell she didn’t believe me as she perched on the edge of my bed, twirling her string of pearls between her fingers. She looked like she came from a different era, where women wrapped their hair in scarves and smoked cigarettes through a holder. She tucked a strand of hair behind my ear, her usual gesture of affection.

  “Things will get easier,” she said. “I know it doesn’t feel like it right now, but trust me, I’m speaking from experience. When my mother died it really hit me for six.”

  The expression was unfamiliar but I knew what she meant. I figured it was a reference to cricket, which we didn’t follow in America on account of it being the world’s most boring sport.

  “It was a long time ago now,” Grandma Fee went on. “But I still remember how it felt. It’s not something you ever get over. The pain doesn’t really go away, but it does dull in time. Enough for you to get on with your life.” I nodded, glad for once that someone wasn’t sugarcoating the truth. She stood up and straightened my duvet.

  “I know I’m not your mother, Chloe. But I want you to know I’m right here if you need anything at all.”

 
I struggled to keep my throat from tightening up. Gran noticed and deftly changed the subject, squinting curiously over my shoulder at the Twitter page on the screen.

  “What’s this silly little sign?” she asked.

  “That would be a hashtag.”

  “What’s it for?”

  “Well, um, it’s sort of… It’s meant to…”

  “See, even you don’t know!” she said triumphantly. “Honestly, I’ll never understand why people feel the need to share what they’re having for lunch or what the person next to them on the train is wearing. It isn’t even remotely interesting.”

  “It’s like an online diary,” I tried to explain.

  “So you write about your feelings?”

  “Sure. So long as they’re one hundred and forty characters or less.”

  Grandma Fee shook her head as she bent to kiss me good-night. “Be up at eight for breakfast tomorrow.”

  “Gran, we don’t have scheduled eating times around here.”

  “Just because you live in California doesn’t mean you can’t be civilized,” she told me primly. “I’m making my famous Scotch Eggs.”

  “You do know I’m vegan, right?”

  I’d been converted about six months ago after watching a PETA documentary on the meat and dairy industry. I’d shown Natalie, who’d been just as horrified and vowed to join me in the fight against animal cruelty. She’d even crusaded in the hallways of our high school until someone pointed out that her fur-lined, leather Jimmy Choo boots were a slight contradiction of ethics.

  Grandma Fee gave me the look, brows raised, chin inclined. “Don’t be so ridiculous,” she scoffed. “You’re not a hippie.”

  The next morning, I was spared the deep-fried atrocities that were Grandma Fee’s Scotch Eggs when the chime of the doorbell interrupted breakfast. I ran to answer it and found a guy from the gas company standing there, twisting his lip apologetically.

  “Hi,” he said in a voice usually reserved for preschoolers. “Are your mom and dad home?”

  “Mom’s dead,” I replied flatly. “And I don’t know where Dad is, but you’re more than welcome to look for him.”

  He stood there in stunned silence a few moments before clumsily handing me a sheet of paper. “I…um…have a disconnection notice for this address.” I took it from him and sighed.

  “Just give me a few more days, okay? I’ll deal with it, I promise.”

  By then I was mad. I marched off in search of my dad and found him in his workshop in a pair of overalls and a mask, fine sawdust clinging to his eyebrows, temporarily transforming him into a redhead. It smelled familiar and comforting in there—a mixture of shellac, beeswax and turpentine. Dad was surrounded by furniture in various stages of repair. I leaned against an armchair whose gray stuffing had burst through the tapestry. It reminded me of our own lives, coming apart at the seams now that the weave holding us all together was gone. I had to wonder whether Dad was throwing himself into fixing broken things because he couldn’t fix the damage to his heart.

  Once, when I was younger, he found a discarded dresser on the side of the road that looked like a piece of junk. But as he worked away at it, something beautiful began to emerge. Something with a reddish glow and tapering legs, a bow front and soft brass handles. Seeing him restore it was like watching something come back to life before your eyes.

  Dad turned off the sander when he saw me. I spotted the pile of bills gathering dust on the bench.

  “Hey, Chloe, what’s up?”

  “I need your credit card to pay those bills.” I pointed at them accusingly. He dug out his wallet and handed it over without blinking. I sighed, gathered up the invoices and went to leave. His willingness to let us shoulder all the responsibility didn’t seem fair. Gran had her hands full taking care of the cooking and cleaning as well as responding to the innumerable sympathy flowers and cards we’d received. Couldn’t he just handle this one thing?

  “Chloe?” he called after me.

  “Yeah?”

  “Thanks for…y’know, dealing with things right now.” He looked so vulnerable it was impossible to stay angry.

  “Are you okay, Dad?”

  “No,” he replied. “But I will be.”

  Asking him when was on the tip of my tongue, but I stopped myself and tramped back to the house with the unopened mail tucked under my arm.

  I found Gran wearing a pair of fluorescent rubber gloves, up to her elbows in the kitchen sink even though we had a perfectly functioning dishwasher. She had a deep mistrust of any newfangled appliance designed to save time.

  “I’m worried about Dad,” I told her. “I know everybody grieves differently but he just seems so…” I trailed off.

  Gran took off her gloves and cupped my chin in her hands. I caught a whiff of Chanel No. 5, her trademark scent.

  “Actually, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that.” She offered me a cryptic smile. “I know your father has been struggling. We had a little chat about it last night.”

  “What kind of chat?” I asked suspiciously.

  “There’s no need to look at me like that,” she replied. “It’s nothing ominous. We just came up with a little idea.”

  Why was everything little with these British people? Little chats and little ideas and little freaking cups of Earl Grey tea. “You just have to promise to keep an open mind. We only want what’s best for you and Rory.”

  I felt like this was the speech that came right before we got shipped off to military school. But Gran was looking especially pleased with herself, like a cat who’d scored a saucer of cream.

  “You’re going to love it,” she continued mysteriously.

  “Love what?” I was seriously confused by now.

  She beamed at me, her lively gray eyes crinkling at the corners. “England, of course.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  An emergency family meeting was called in the living room. Dad looked guilty as hell, gulping down hot coffee to avoid answering my flurry of questions. Even Rory put aside his comic books; the baffled look on his face mirrored my own.

  “I can’t believe you’re kicking us out!”

  “Please, Chloe, it’s not like that,” my dad said weakly.

  “You can’t just send us away to England!” I protested. “That’s like…really far away.”

  “Only five thousand miles,” Gran said briskly. Was that a British attempt at humor?

  “But it’s really cold there…” Rory added. “And they don’t have In-N-Out…”

  We weren’t doing too well in the constructive-argument department. I’d been expecting a suggestion about grief therapy or family counseling, so this proposed trip had caught me completely off guard.

  “Now, now.” Grandma Fee seemed utterly nonplussed. “It’s not supposed to be a punishment. Think of it as a holiday. Your father and I both feel it would do you good.”

  “But our whole lives are here! We don’t need a holiday and I think you mean vacation.”

  “Don’t be so dramatic, Chloe,” she said. “Everything will be here when you get back.”

  “What about school?”

  “Oh pish posh, there are only a few weeks left before winter break. And you can always do summer school to make up for anything you miss.” Good one, Gran. She really knew how to entice us.

  “But I don’t want to go!” It came out more petulant than I intended. I couldn’t leave now. I still couldn’t keep the ghosts from appearing, and it was messing with my head. I wished my mom were here to back me up. If only she would send Gran a sign from the beyond, topple a vase or rattle something to voice her objection. Where was she anyway? Could she see what was happening in my life? There were so many burning questions I needed answers to, and I sure wasn’t going to find them in England.
/>
  I looked pleadingly at Dad, but he was too busy trying to wipe the Benedict Arnold look off his face.

  “What will we do there?” Rory wrinkled his nose.

  “Oh, there’s plenty to do,” Gran replied. “You can go horseback riding or play in the woods. And if you’re very good, I’ll take you for tea and scones in the village.”

  “That sounds like crap!” I cried. “I don’t want any scones. I just want to be treated like an adult, and that means being asked instead of told what to do.”

  “Well, Chloe, I’m afraid it’s not up for discussion.” Gran’s voice took on that didactic sharp edge it always did when she was putting her foot down.

  “Dad?”

  “Please don’t make this harder than it already is.” He wouldn’t even look me in the eye. I didn’t know who to be angrier with—Gran for coming up with such a crazy plan or Dad for giving it his blessing.

  “What about Darcy?” my brother asked suddenly. I was pretty sure Rory loved that dog more than he loved Dad and me.

  “Your father will look after him,” Grandma Fee said chirpily. “And I have a dog. You remember, Maximilian?”

  “The English sheepdog?” I asked dubiously. “Isn’t he, like, a hundred years old by now?”

  “Well, his eyesight’s not what it used to be, but he can still play a decent game of fetch.”

  “Super.” There was no point trying to argue with Gran. She really did have an answer for everything.

  “But isn’t your place old and creepy?” Rory asked.

  “Not anymore,” Gran replied with undisguised pride. “You won’t recognize Grange Hall now that the renovations are done.”

  The last time we saw it, Rory was six and I was almost twelve. That wasn’t long after Gran bought the property, astounding everyone with such an impulsive decision. I had a vague memory of a vast gray English manor house with cracked windows and chimneys that looked ready to topple. I remembered bleak skies and thick twisted forest you couldn’t pay me enough to venture into. After that, my parents kept making plans to visit again, but something always got in the way. That had been perfectly fine by me. The house had been musty and damp and made me feel like I’d fallen into a time warp. I’d kept looking outside expecting to see a horse and carriage rattle through the mud. I remembered my parents telling me that, after Pop passed away, Gran decided to fix the place up with the small fortune he had left her in his will. Initially Mom and Dad had been concerned that it wasn’t a wise investment, but it had turned out that Gran had sound business acumen.