by M K Hardy
“We’d have to go a long way to avoid that fallen tree,” Holly said with a shake of her head, straightening her coat a little. “It’ll be fine—I’ve done it once now. Let’s just…get inside.”
It was a task easier said than done. Even though it was less than the length of a football field between the two houses the deep snow slowed their pace to a trudge. Holly’s nose was freezing by the time they stamped their way up the back steps and hovered outside the door, waiting for Brooke’s numbed fingers to manipulate the key and lock. Eventually it gave way to her attempts and they spilled inside, along with a fair amount of fresh snow, into the kitchen. Reflexively Brooke reached out to flick the light; nothing happened.
“Oh, of course,” she muttered, shaking her head as she pulled off her other glove and stuffed it into her pocket. “Stupid me. Old habits, I guess.”
Holly glanced down at her phone screen as it activated briefly to blink a warning notification at her. “Hah, fifteen percent battery—you got light?”
“I left my phone at the B and B.”
Of course you did. “Right, well, here’s hoping we find those flashlights—we might need one on the way back.”
“Mm.” It seemed a grunt was all Holly was going to get as Brooke shrugged off her coat and tossed it on the kitchen counter before beginning to poke around in the cabinets under and to the sides of the sink.
Holly pulled off her gloves and unzipped her jacket but left it on. The house was cold, her breath condensing in front of her even here. She observed Brooke in silence for a few moments and then began to work her own way around the long rows of cabinets, pulling open drawers and checking inside cupboards. Thus, it took a moment before she noticed Brooke had stopped searching and was just standing, back to her, looking down.
“You find something?”
Brooke turned the rumpled blue ribbon over in her hands, smoothing her thumb over the frayed ends. She remembered when she had gotten it—the fall of her junior year, at an away meet in Cadillac that had ended in a downpour, leaving them all soaking and shivering on the bus home. Her mother hadn’t been there, of course. Brooke was surprised she had even kept the ribbon at all, but maybe it had just gotten put away and forgotten about before she could “declutter” and rid herself of it.
She swallowed. Her mouth felt very dry. Then she registered that Holly had spoken and tossed the ribbon back into the drawer. She went back to rooting around its interior mostly by feel in the low ambient light from Holly’s phone sitting flash upward on the counter. As her eyes adjusted, she spotted, if not what they needed, something that might at least help them find it.
“A lighter,” she said, pulling out the weighty object and turning to face Holly. It was one of those old-fashioned table lighters, a squat 1980s monstrosity made from what was probably Murano glass. Grotesque to look at, but it lit first time and burned a tall, steady flame.
“Nice,” Holly said, though whether she was expressing genuine approval at the find or sarcastic amusement at how hideous the lighter was, Brooke couldn’t say. “At least you’ll be able to see what you’re doing now.” She clicked her tongue, looking around. “One of the wall cabinets, maybe?”
“Sure, have a look. I’m going to check the laundry room.”
Brooke had high hopes—it seemed like the logical place to keep a box of emergency supplies, but the cupboards had been mostly cleaned out, only a few boxes of washing powder and a stack of old towels remaining. She took a moment to close her eyes and breathe; this felt like a dream but opening her eyes wouldn’t banish it. She had been through these rooms briefly with her uncle earlier in the week but now, in the dark, still quiet, the house felt like it had been waiting for her.
Her attention was broken by an exclamation of triumph from the other room. “Found batteries! No candles yet!”
“Great,” Brooke replied, her voice a bit unsteady. “Nothing here I’m afraid.”
Perhaps the wobble was audible to Holly, because Brooke heard booted footsteps on tile, and then Holly was leaning in the laundry doorway, flashlight—phone—pointed at the floor.
“You okay?” she asked. The sudden shift in acoustics from the echoing kitchen to the small, low-ceilinged utility room emphasised the change in her tone—from matter-of-fact to questioning, compassionate, even intimate.
“Um, yeah.” The only light in the small room was the spotlight on the floor and the gentle flicker from the lighter—and Brooke was glad of it, because she wasn’t sure there weren’t tears on her cheeks. “Yeah, all fine. The dining room will probably have candles. We should check there.”
“Right. Yeah, of course, makes sense. Uh, why don’t you keep looking for batteries, and I’ll go do that?” Holly didn’t wait for a response. She pushed away from the doorframe and headed off into the belly of the house, leaving Brooke alone. She wasn’t sure what she had done to deserve such compassion, but she was grateful for it, and for another minute’s respite from having to poke through her mother’s house.
It didn’t take long to establish that there were definitely no batteries in this room, and after a hesitation, the worry of finding some other memory hidden away in a drawer or cupboard weighing on her mind, she doublechecked the kitchen too, coming up empty. It couldn’t have been more than a minute or two, however, before Holly reappeared at the kitchen door, arms laden with an assortment of long, slim cartons, phone flashlight pointing off at an angle as she trapped it awkwardly between her fingers.
“Well, the good news is I have enough candles to reconstruct the scene at the end of Romeo Plus Juliet,” she said with a grin, white teeth reflecting the blue glow through the kitchen windows from the snow outside. “Any luck?”
Brooke stared at Holly for a moment as if she was an apparition materialised out of thin air. She shook her head. “No, I haven’t found anything. That looks like plenty, though. We can head back.”
“Great. There a bag anywhere? In the laundry room maybe?”
“No, but…” She turned to reach under the sink for one of the bunched-up plastic bags she had seen earlier. “Here you go.” But Holly didn’t take a bag—she had no hands free to do so. She shuffled over to the kitchen counter and gingerly deposited her phone on it before approaching, nodding for Brooke to open one of the bags for her. Close up, Brooke could see the haul was a mix of straight-sided white utilitarian and long, tapered, decorative candles, some even coloured and patterned. Holly tipped them from her arms in a semi-controlled fashion, manoeuvring them into the bag.
“Margie won’t be able to say we didn’t follow orders,” Brooke said with a snort. “But I guess it’s not like they’re needed here.”
“Mm, probably not.” Holly hesitated. “D’you need a minute? I can wait here, if you want to…” Her hands now free, she gestured vaguely. “Y’know, whatever. I can wait.”
I honestly don’t want to spend a second longer than I have to in this house. “Thanks, but it’s fine. We can go.”
Holly nodded. “’Kay. You bringing the murder weapon?” she asked, nodding to the weighty lighter.
“Hah, better not if I have to help you over that fence again. I’ll need both hands.”
“I mean God invented pockets for a reason, but as you please.” The moment of levity might have been jarring had there been any time to dwell on it, but Brooke had turned to head back out into the snow.
“Oh, there you are—I was all ready to send out the cavalry,” Margie said as she welcomed them back into the house.
Holly grinned, still flushed from the wind and snow as they stamped their boots in the back porch. “Safe and sound,” she said. “And victorious,” she added, nodding to the bag of candles in Brooke’s sure grip. Brooke had taken them after they got back over the fence, a process every bit as clumsy and embarrassing as it had been on the way out. It hadn’t helped that her phone had given up and died just as they’d left Highfield.
“I’m,
uh…” As Brooke deposited the bag of candles on the kitchen counter, Holly grabbed one from one of the open packets and waved it. “I’m just gonna light this and head to the restroom,” she said. “I’ll be right back.”
There was still hot water in the tank, Margie had assured her, but it was cold Holly wanted; ice-cold water splashed on her flushed face and neck. It wasn’t just the weather. She was completely at sea tonight; ever since Brooke had shown face, she’d felt unsettled and uncertain, second guessing everything she did and said. The whole excursion to Highfield had been strange and affecting for Holly so she couldn’t imagine what it had been like for Brooke. In the moment, seeing Brooke biting back tears in the laundry room, she’d deeply regretted enabling the trip. Why hadn’t she thought? Why hadn’t she read the cues—Brooke’s long estrangement from her mother, this business with the properties…
Guilt slithered through Holly’s insides, weaving together with the snakes that had already taken up near-permanent residence there of late. You did this all wrong. Maybe there was no way to do it right, but you definitely did it wrong.
When she exited the bathroom, she was immediately drawn to the flickering glow that had been set up in the living room, at least a dozen candles clustered on the coffee table to create a light source for the remaining guests. They were clustered around, apparently in a good humour, though whether because of the added light or because Margie had been keeping things “merry” with more rum it was hard to say. She couldn’t see Brooke at first glance, but then she emerged from the kitchen with two steaming mugs in her hands. Holly didn’t even register that one was for her until Brooke was at her elbow and proffering it.
“Oh, uh. Thanks. What is it?” Holly was already lifting the cup to her lips so the question was answered before Brooke could speak, the spicy aroma of hot buttered rum filling her nostrils. Well, I guess I’m not driving anywhere any time soon anyhow.
“Apparently Margie made them specially for us. The light-bringers.”
Holly took a sip and then fought a cough as the alcohol hit her throat. “No kidding Margie made them specially,” she muttered. “The woman’s a menace.”
“At least it’s warm. It’s only going to get colder in here.”
“Mm.” Holly wrapped her free arm around herself, observing the gaggle around the table. “The candles will help, and the fire,” she added, nodding toward the glowing hearth. “But I wonder whether we should be looking out blankets…”
Brooke nodded, sipping her own drink contemplatively. “I’m sure we’ll get sent on our next errand soon enough.”
Holly cast her a sidelong look. “Not the evening you’d pictured, huh?”
“I don’t know what I pictured. I don’t know why I came here. But this tracks with the luck I’ve had this week, so I guess I’m not really too surprised,” Brooke said candidly.
Holly was silent at first, sipping at her slightly-too-hot drink, staring past the crowd of friends to the fire beyond. When she eventually found the courage to speak, she couldn’t look at Brooke for fear of…she wasn’t sure what. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m sorry you’re having such a shitty time.” She couldn’t quite bring herself to acknowledge her part in causing said shitty time.
“You’re the last person who should be apologising. I don’t know why you’re even talking to me, honestly. I’ve spent so long resenting this town, resenting the people in it, and then I come back and everyone’s welcoming and kind and forgiving. They probably always have been, and I just couldn’t see it.”
Holly felt a lump rise in her throat. She wasn’t sure what she’d expected in response, but it wasn’t Brooke’s honesty. She took another, longer drink, the rum and spices searing their way down her throat, clearing a passage. “Nobody’s all good or all bad,” she said thickly. “I expect you know that. But sometimes it can be hard to feel it.”
Even as she spoke the words, Holly realised she could certainly feel it now, standing next to this woman. So brittle and yet somehow so endearing, so cold and off-putting but with those steady hands that felt only warm and safe…yes, it was very easy to see the bad and the good in Brooke. But did she know how exposed she was right now, how much of herself she was showing to this stranger?
“You don’t know anything about me, clearly…”
It was true. Holly didn’t know anything about Brooke’s life, her friends, her ambitions—the only tangible thing she had was a work address and even that didn’t tell her much.
And yet in a few short meetings, a good half of which she’d spent yelling, she had begun to feel like she did know Brooke, in some intangible, involuntary way, as if she was being pulled into her orbit in spite of herself.
She wasn’t sure how to feel about that.
“Not when you’re a kid, that’s for sure. Or an isolated teenager.” Brooke sighed and took what looked like the final swig of her drink. “Maya’s lucky,” she said then, surprising Holly once more. “She’s got you. Don’t ever give up on her. No matter how weird or difficult or angry she is. She just needs you to be there for her.” Her voice was low and tight, like if she let it go it might betray her even more than her words did.
Now Holly’s eyes did fill with tears, and she turned, reaching out to touch Brooke’s arm—maybe even for her hand, she wasn’t sure—but Brooke had already spun away and was beating a retreat at speed.
“Guess that rum went right through her, huh?” Holly gave a start. Margie was like a cat—she’d be across the room one minute and then, when you looked away, she was suddenly wrapping around your ankles. “Now, Holly honey, I wanted to ask—if you’ve finished your drink of course—would you mind fetching some blankets from the linen closet? They’re upstairs, and with my eyesight even when the lights are on…”
What followed was a lot of fetching and carrying and, after a few more drinks for the guests, tucking old ladies into their beds. Margie had plenty of spare bedrooms, but Holly couldn’t help but count as they began to fill up with other people.
Brooke had reappeared in due course to help put the household to bed, and the pair hadn’t had cause to talk further—or even be in the same room, really. This hadn’t stopped Holly from casting longing glances at her. She really wanted to speak to her again, though that might’ve been the rum talking.
“What would I do without you two?” Margie asked, reaching out to take Holly’s hands and beaming at Brooke. The house was quiet, finally, the last choruses of “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” having died out when Harold eventually allowed himself to be shepherded to bed. “You’re godsends, both of you.”
Holly smiled. “Honestly, I’m—we’re just glad to be able to help,” she said, trying and failing to catch Brooke’s eye over Margie’s head.
“I’m sorry I don’t have two more rooms…but there’s the attic room. The cots there are very comfy…”
Holly cast her gaze upwards as though she could somehow see the room from here. With the blizzard blowing outside, an attic didn’t sound like the warmest place to spend the night, but the big front room would be colder still once the fire died down.
“I’m sure it’ll be fine,” she said. “Thanks, Margie. Is there anything else we can do before bed?”
“Oh, no, honey, you two have been just wonderful. Go on now and get some sleep.”
They made the climb upstairs in silence. There were no pyjamas, no toothbrushes; Holly was glad she hadn’t dressed up much and so would be relatively comfortable in her well-worn jeans and the long-sleeved tee she had on beneath her Christmas sweater. Another narrow staircase and they were up in the attic space, which smelled of mothballs and dust and was surprisingly warm—but then, heat did rise.
“Uh, your pick, I guess. That one’s maybe a little longer?” Holly suggested, gesturing to one of the two mismatched camping beds.
“Thanks.” Without any further ado Brooke sat down on the creaky cot and began unlacing her
boots, all her attention seemingly on the simple task.
Holly dumped the blankets Margie had given her down on the floor between them and sifted through them in the candlelight, trying to divide them fairly in terms of size and warmth. Eventually, the silence and her own discomfort grew too much for her, and she couldn’t prevent herself from speaking any longer.
“I, uh, about earlier. What you said. About Maya. Uh. Thank you.”
“Don’t mention it.”
Holly got the distinct feeling this was a plea rather than a “you’re welcome”, and perhaps it was the rum, or the lateness of the hour, or just the strangeness of the night, but something wouldn’t let her leave it there.
“She’s been asking about you,” she commented, trying to make it sound casual, like a “things kids do” anecdote. “Maya, I mean. She wanted me to check that you liked your boots.”
“Oh. Well, tell her I do. And thanks for helping me get them.” Brooke glanced up, her expression bemused. “She’s a good kid.”
“Mm. I mean, yeah, she is, but…it’s more than that, I think.” Holly grabbed her pile of blankets and moved to sit on her bed. She stooped to work on her own laces for a moment, gathering her thoughts. Then she sat up. “She has this…this unerring ability to see when someone’s in pain. I guess it figures, with everything she’s been through. And it’s like she gets a bee in her bonnet. All she wants to do is help that person.”
Holly knew it was an overstep, an assumption, or at least, not something you said, even if anybody could see it. But this seemed like the night for crossing lines.
“What do you mean, with everything she’s been through?” Of all the responses Holly had been expecting, this was way down the list. She had to pause to find the right words before responding.
“Right, I forget, you haven’t been here.” She worried immediately that it sounded like a dig, though she didn’t mean it to. “Her dad—Chris. You remember him.” It wasn’t a question. Anyone who’d been to school with Chris Jackson would remember him—quarterback, golden boy, Homecoming King. “There was an accident. Maya was five.”