The Memory House

by Rachel Hauck

  After 9/11, when Dad was found crushed at the bottom of the North Tower rubble, Mom went dark. Grieving, scared, alone, trying to figure out her new reality, she didn’t see her daughter wandering aimlessly behind her.

  Beck tried to find comfort from her mother, but Mom’s light was not shining. So at fourteen, Beck found comfort in the shadows and shades of night. She found peace in forgetting.

  They lived in a functioning but emotionally void world, their conversations shallow, centered on practical and logistical concerns.

  “How are you getting home from practice?”

  “Ellie’s mom.”

  “Can you clean the house? I’m working overtime.”

  “Can I get a raise in my allowance?”

  “No, I need every penny to keep this house.”

  Beck spent many evenings alone dining on popcorn and Diet Coke, not feeling and not remembering.

  “You should go,” Hogan said. “Check it out.”

  “That’s what Mom and Flynn said.” And Hunter.

  Flynn’s love brought Mom back to life, but not Beck. They tried to include her into their fairy tale, but she was fifteen and her shades were already drawn.

  “I think this will-thing deal might open up some things for you. Hey, Vinny Campanile has connections in north Florida. You could keep your eye out for—”

  “You sound like Ingram. Besides, I’m sus-pen-ded, remember? If I go down, I’m going as a civilian.”

  “Good, you’re going.”

  “What will I do when I’m down there?”

  “What anyone would do on vacation. Beck, you don’t have to have all the answers before trying something.”

  “Yes, I do. It’s too scary otherwise.” Dad ran into the North Tower without knowing . . .

  “This from the girl who runs down dark alleys without hesitation? Come on, you live on taking a chance.” But did she? The dark alleys were a different kind of unknown. Merely barriers to catching a perp or rescuing a victim. “Take a chance. Be surprised. See what life, even God, might have in store for you. Try a little faith. You just might—”

  “I’ve had my fill of God’s surprises, thank you.”

  “—start remembering.”

  She winced, moving to the window, looking down to the car-lined street. She rarely talked about her memory loss. It was second nature to her now. But since he brought it up . . .

  “That scares me the most, Hogan. What heinous thing lurks beneath the amnesia?”

  Her entire childhood wasn’t wiped. She remembered riding her bike through the neighborhood, sleepovers with Ellie Yarborough, singing in the fifth-grade Christmas pageant.

  But Christmas mornings, birthdays, vacations that included Dad’s face had become black holes. He was a character in a story Mom referenced once every blue moon.

  “Don’t overthink this, Beck. Go to Florida, soak up some sunshine, breathe, eat, think, pray. You can’t grow a baby on a diet of coffee and donuts.”

  “I eat a hot dog now and then.” Beck returned to her chair. “Aren’t you a bit worried the sun might melt the Ice Queen.”

  Hogan laughed. “Let’s hope so.”

  “I’m taking the dog.”

  “Good. He could use some R and R too.”

  Beck pictured herself approaching this unknown Florida home—an old Victorian according to Joshua Christian—with her suitcase and a jittery Beetle Boo. “The place is probably haunted.”

  She imaged the wind howling around the eaves, the floor creaking beneath her feet.

  “With what? Your lost memories?” Hogan arched his brow, then glanced at his watch.

  “W-what if remember him? Dad?” Beck took the cue and reached for her coat.

  “Wouldn’t that be a good thing?” Hogan helped her on with her coat.

  “Unless I forgot for a reason.”

  “Like what? He adored you, and you idolized him.” Hogan drew her into a hug, and Beck relaxed against his stable frame. “Go, have fun, let light fill your life for once.”

  “I’m telling you, I’ll melt.”

  She resisted a rising sob. But when Hogan pressed a kiss to her head, she broke, gripping at his shirt. He held her, one arm hooked around her shoulders, whispering words she could barely hear.

  Then she collected herself, wiped her eyes, and headed for the subway. Sitting in the dark, rattling car, she breathed a question against the window.

  “What should I do?” She spoke to no one yet everyone. The fates, the universe, God.

  Go to Florida.

  The thought was soft, almost pleading. The more she meditated on the urging, the more her adrenaline flowed. Almost with a kick-butt-and-take-names force.

  All right, she’d go. She’d pack her bikini—okay, maybe not, but a couple of pairs of shorts and flip-flops—book her ticket, buy a pet carrier, and spread her wings, flying south for the winter.

  chapter seven

  Bruno

  He never liked good-byes. Especially permanent ones. But Miss Everleigh deserved his respect, his attendance.

  He hung around the back of his boyhood church, watching the mourners file in and greet one another with hugs and tears.

  He’d resented this place growing up—Mom dragging him to Sunday school and youth church until he went off to college—but today the familiar sanctuary walls were his comfort.

  As he got older, he understood Mom’s need for the church, for the Almighty, as she raised a man-child alone. God and His people seemed like a good option.

  The sanctuary, once an old warehouse, was filled beyond capacity. The side loading doors were pushed back so the January breeze blew through with the scent of heaven.

  The western door framed the fiery-orange sunset. A perfect tribute to Miss Everleigh.

  Mom and her crew had transformed the rustic sanctuary into a wonderland, crisscrossing the thick old beams with twinkle lights and lining the walls with candles.

  Up front, the stage was set with singers and musicians and a large framed picture of Miss Everleigh in her younger years. She was a beauty.

  Bruno’s phone vibrated as he nodded to Mr. Smock, who tucked in beside him.

  It was a text from his Ohio State recruit, Todd Gamble.

  You used to work in LA?

  Yes.

  Can you introduce me to Sabrina Fox?

  Typical of high-level recruits. Asking for the stars and moon. Wasn’t anything for a kid to want money for family bills or to dance in a music video. One year Watershed had a top draft pick ask to meet Beyoncé. And Bruno made it happen.

  Yeah, sure, I’ll see what I can do.

  It was one thing if a player wanted things or connections. If an agency had enough money, they could make anything happen. But a one-on-one romantic fixup was another ballgame. It made Bruno nervous. As did most matters of the heart.

  Yet he was desperate to sign top talent, and if Todd wanted to meet a beautiful starlet, then a beautiful starlet he’d meet.

  Besides, Sabrina owed Bruno. Getting her to at least talk to the player seemed simple enough.

  As the mourners still gathered, Bruno tapped another message to Todd, an All-American defensive end.

  Flying up Tuesday. Private jet. Sending a limo to pick you up from campus. Bring whoever you want with you as long as we have time to talk some business.

  Cool! See you then.

  As he tucked his phone away, Mrs. Gunter patted his hand. “I know you adored Miss Everleigh. Wasn’t she like a grandmother to you?”

  “Yes, she was.”

  The woman watched him with a pinched expression, as if waiting for him to break down. If she wanted tears, her cheap perfume might do the trick.

  He turned slightly away, clearing his throat. “Sh-she’ll be missed.”

  “Our prayer group won’t be the same without her. Oh, there’s Letty Macintosh. Let me go say hi.”

  Alone again, Bruno shot his pilot friend, Stuart Strickland, a quick message.

  Tuesday? We good?
I really appreciate this, man.

  Who’d have thought losing his lucrative job, moving across the country to his old beach condo, and starting over would come with the bonus of a personal pilot.

  God bless Stuart’s rich grandfather.

  Stu hit him back.

  We’re on. 10:00a.

  He might as well reach out to Sabrina while he had his phone in his hand.

  S, got a player who’s dying to meet you. Good guy. Out of Ohio State. Thoughts? Hope you’re well and remember, you owe me.

  She didn’t really owe him, but he’d rescued her from a drunk LA Laker a few years ago during a Sportswood-meets-Hollywood party. Young, innocent, new to the Hollywood scene, she put herself in a precarious position with a giant, hungry, used-to-getting-his-way athlete.

  They’d been good friends ever since.

  Bruno scanned the room, his gaze falling on the cross at the back of the nave. Was it right to ask for something personal during the memorial of such a holy, sweet lady?

  Mom appeared, gently touching his arm, looking pretty even in black.

  “I saved us two seats up front. Look at all of these people.”

  “I think we’re violating a fire code.” Bruno moved off the wall when Mom linked her arm through his.

  “We’re good. Fire Chief Hayes is on the front row.” Mom pointed to the somber man in full dress uniform. He greeted Mom when they got to the row.

  “Natalie, you’re a saint for pulling this off. Miss Everleigh tended my mama when she was sick. Don’t know what we’d have done without her.”

  “Half this room has the same story. When Stone left me, then passed away, she was my rock. My new stone. Of course, she pointed the way to Jesus every day.”

  Mom walked around to the chairs she’d saved. Bruno took the vacant seat at the end.

  Pastor Oliver called the room to order. As the room hushed, Bruno’s phone pierced the silence.

  “Turn that off,” Mom said with her best scowl. “Work can spare you for a few hours.”

  He acknowledged with the just-a-minute sign. In sports agenting there was no such thing as “not now” or “not today.” One missed call could cost him a key client. Young men with millions of dollars on the line waited for no one.

  Bruno moved toward the wide bay door as he answered.

  “Mr. Endicott, it’s Tyvis Pryor. How you doing? Hope I’m not disturbing your Sunday.”

  “I’m at a memorial, Tyvis. Can I call you back?” Bruno scanned the cars jamming the street, his gaze stopping on a lanky brunette with flowing hair and smooth curves striding his way.

  There was something familiar about her. The way she carried herself with bravado, yet not quite sure where she was going.

  “Y-yeah, sure, that’d be great. Listen, I hate to bother you but . . .” Tyvis’s hesitation and lack of confidence felt odd, so unfamiliar in this biz. “I just wondered if you decided to take me on. I promise to work hard for you.”

  A voice rose in the background. “Tyvis, need you on the grill.”

  “I have to go, Mr. Endicott.”

  “Bruno. Call me Bruno.”

  “Sure thing, Bruno.”

  He slipped his phone into his pocket, watching the woman approach. He knew her. But how? Where?

  As for Tyvis, well, he felt for the guy, but Bruno couldn’t build a business on a JUCO kid. He’d be crazy to sign him, pay for his training and living expenses, when there wasn’t a snowball’s chance he’d ever make a pro roster.

  The woman walked past with a clean, meadowy fragrance and stopped at the bay door.

  Bruno bent to see her face, his heart blipping with familiarity. “Can I help you?”

  “No, thanks.” Her reply was blunt, almost cold, and she didn’t even look at him.

  Bruno’s attention lingered on her profile a moment longer, then returned to his seat. How did he know her?

  At the metal pulpit, Pastor Oliver spoke eloquently of Mrs. Everleigh Callahan—Miss Everleigh to all who knew her—as a slideshow of her life played on the screen behind him.

  “She was born Everleigh Louise Novak on June 15, 1929, in Waco, Texas . . .”

  A young, beautiful Miss Everleigh smiled at them in black and white. The slide shifted to another image—a faded color shot of her sitting on a porch with her arms wrapped around a handsome, John Wayne–looking dude.

  Bruno nudged Mom. “Do you know the woman at the door?”

  “Shhh.” She pressed her finger to her lips, and her eyes fixed on the repertoire of Miss Everleigh’s life.

  Bruno angled forward with a clipped glance toward the woman. She remained, leaning against the doorframe with a stoic expression.

  “I loved her soft strong hands,” Pastor Oliver said. “I could always tell when Miss Everleigh touched my shoulder after service. Even before she said, ‘Good word, Pastor.’”

  The falter in his voice rammed through Bruno, and everything he loved about Miss Everleigh flooded to the surface.

  Her kind eyes and gentle voice. Her patience. Her bone-crushing hugs. How she left her back door open every afternoon for him to run in after school, a plate of homemade cookies and a glass of milk waiting.

  How she laughed when he came in muddy after football practice with the entire offensive line.

  “Sit down, boys, sit down. Let me bake more cookies. Does anyone want a sandwich?”

  Every hand would shoot up.

  He clenched his jaw against the emotion rising in his eyes, against the tight grip of regret in his chest.

  He should’ve come home from LA more often to see Mom and Miss Everleigh. But he thought he had time. Thought his career was more important.

  When Mom sobbed and crushed her white handkerchief against her wet cheek, Bruno took her hand and braced against his own sorrow.

  “She was known as a woman of character and integrity, a woman of prayer,” Pastor Oliver went on. “If you were impacted by Miss Everleigh’s life, her powerful prayers, please stand.”

  The entire room lifted.

  A young man with a guitar stepped up to the mike and started a hymn. “Sing with me. ‘The Old Rugged Cross.’ One of Miss Everleigh’s favorites.”

  “On a hill far away, stood an old rugged cross.”

  The rising voices, the melody, the lyrics battered Bruno’s resolve. He ached for his old friend, for the days gone by, for her backyard Bible school and unconditional love.

  He caught the tear trickling from the corner of his eye. Tears changed nothing. They didn’t grant wishes, bring fathers or old women back from the dead.

  Miss Everleigh is worthy of your tears.

  As the singing went on, Bruno let his emotions go and fall from his chin. Just then his phone vibrated, bringing him back to reality.

  Releasing Mom’s hand, he stepped toward the bay doors. “Endicott.”

  “Coach Brown here.”

  Bruno sighed, staring down at the cracked, stained concrete that had once been a loading dock.

  “I’m at a memorial.”

  “My condolences.” And the line went silent.

  Bruno guessed Coach probably wanted to pitch Tyvis more, brag about how he volunteered at a children’s home between two and four a.m.

  Tucking his phone away, he stood a few feet from the familiar stranger and yielded to another glance her way. This time he thumped with recognition.

  “Beck?” he whispered. “Beck Holiday?”

  She shifted her attention to him. “Yes?”

  “Wow, I can’t believe it.” He stepped toward her, lowering his voice. “How long has it been? Eighteen, nineteen years?” Her blank stare almost deterred him. “You came. So sad about Miss Everleigh, isn’t it? Did Mom get ahold of you?”

  Seeing her up close, he fell a little bit in love. Just like the first time he saw her. He was eight, riding his bike up and down Memory Lane, while she stood in Miss Everleigh’s yard flying a kite with her dad.

  Then again at nine, ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen, an
d fourteen. Every summer he fell deeper. Then came 9/11, and he never saw her again.

  Dressed in dark-blue slacks with a matching jacket and a fitted white blouse, she exuded something hard beneath her mature beauty.

  “Your mom? No, coming was a last-minute decision.” She faced the church as the congregation sang the chorus one last time.

  “So I’ll cherish the old rugged cross.”

  “Can you believe she’s gone?” He stood next to her, imitating her protective stance, arms folded, amused and annoyed at his driving pulse. Was he still part teenager? “When Pastor Oliver started talking, I was flooded with memories.” He glanced at her. “Remember the time—”

  Her hard glare knocked the words from his lips. “I’m sorry, who are you?”

  Bruno lowered his arms, cracking a small smile. “Okay, I get it. We lost touch. But you didn’t write me either. Wait a minute—” He turned to her. “I did email you. Right after 9/11, but you didn’t email back. I emailed you again when my dad died.”

  She scowled, her expression hardening even more. “Look, whoever you are, I don’t know or remember you.”

  It was his turn to scowl. “You are Beck Holiday, right? Daughter of Dale and Miranda Holiday? You spent summers at Miss Everleigh’s place? Sat next to me at Backyard Bible School? Road bikes up and down Memory Lane? Called her place the memory house?”

  She hesitated, then nodded toward the church. “I think that woman wants your attention.”

  Mom waved him inside. What did she want? Whatever it was, it couldn’t be as intriguing as this exchange with Beck. Bruno studied her another moment before returning to his seat.

  “People are sharing,” Mom whispered in his ear. “You should say something.”

  “No thanks. I’m a behind-the-scenes guy.”

  “Who were you talking to out there?”

  “Beck Holiday.”

  Mom’s eyes popped as she leaned around him. “Land sakes, I’ve not seen hide nor hair of the Holidays since ’01. So awful about Dale. Is that her there?”

  “Don’t stare.”