by Katrina Leno
“So we’ll just sleep on the floor?”
“It’ll be like we’re camping.”
“We hate camping.”
Ruth sighed. “Yes. I know we hate camping.”
“But a fire will be nice,” Jane added quickly. “Can we get stuff for s’mores?”
“Now you’re talking. Come.”
She led Jane through a door to a dining room at the back of the house, a dining room bigger perhaps than their entire house in California, with a long table made of dark wood and tall, wide windows that overlooked the backyard.
“Fancy again,” Jane said.
“I hated eating in here,” Ruth replied. “We only used it for company. Boring dinner parties. When it was just the three of us, we ate in here—”
And she darted off to the left, through another set of open pocket doors that led into a large, roomy kitchen—high ceilings and a double oven and a fridge you could fit an entire person inside. There was a recessed nook at the back of the house with a little kitchen table and chairs. There was enough light back here that Jane turned her flashlight off and put her phone back in her pocket. She wandered around. She opened a cabinet and found a dusty set of antique china. Another drawer held various kitchen utensils. Another drawer held a set of delicate glass mixing bowls.
North Manor had become like a time capsule, she realized—unchanged and preserved in the absence of occupants.
There was something in the air here, some smell that came in through a broken windowpane, where the cellophane had come unstuck and was flapping in the breeze. It was a sweet smell, an out-of-place smell, the smell of…
“Is that roses?” Jane mused aloud, walking over to the window and peeking out.
“Hmm?”
“I think I smell roses.”
“It’s not the season for them,” Ruth said distractedly, running a finger across the table to see how much dust had accumulated there.
“You don’t smell them?”
Ruth came over to the window. She wiped her hand on her jeans, then ran her fingers through Jane’s ponytail.
“I hate roses,” she said.
She walked out of the kitchen, through a bare pantry to a hallway that ran from the front of the house to the back. Jane followed.
Ruth paused in front of a heavy wooden door with an enormous brass handle. She tapped it.
“This was my father’s study.”
She opened the door.
It was darker in here—the two windows at the back of the room were covered in thick green, velvet curtains. Ruth went and opened them, and Jane imagined the room hissing at being exposed to light after all those years.
The walls were covered with dark wood paneling and the air had a lingering smell of old tobacco. There was a massive desk that took up most of the space. The walls behind it contained floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, completely stuffed with old hardcovers.
Jane felt a twinge in her gut. Something deep stirring inside her. A longing for comfort she tried her best to ignore.
“I was never allowed in here,” Ruth said, smirking a little.
There was a pen case on the desk. Jane opened it and pulled one of the pens out; it was an expensive-looking black, heavy thing that said Montblanc on the side. She pulled her phone out of her pocket to see if it might be worth something, but she still didn’t have service.
She raised the phone above her head, moved to the window, did a little dance—
“I wouldn’t hold your breath,” Ruth said.
“Nobody would find our bodies for weeks,” Jane muttered.
“Relax, Detective Poirot. Let’s keep going.”
Ruth left the room, and Jane took a moment to replace the pen in its case. When she stepped out of the office, her mother had already disappeared. Jane shrugged and went left, toward the back of the house. The smell of roses was overwhelming now; how did Ruth not notice it?
The hallway ended in a little mudroom. There were hooks on the wall for coats and a shoe rack by the door. A pair of galoshes; a pair of house slippers; a pair of old, dirty white sneakers.
Jane had the feeling, again, that the house was like a time capsule—like a glimpse into the last hours and days of her grandmother’s life. Emilia Banks North had passed away in her sleep, found the next day by the nurse who visited every morning. Jane imagined nurses were trained for things like that. Maybe it was nothing more than a gentle shock: finding your employer dead.
Emilia had left everything to Ruth, her only heir.
And then Greer had lost it all.
Well—except for this house.
Jane looked at the mudroom door. It had a window in it that was cracked but not broken through. It was as if something had been thrown at it—there was a small point of impact with splinters spreading out around it like a spiderweb.
She opened the door and the cold hit her at once—a big blast of it that chilled her completely. The backyard was in the same state of disrepair as the front yard, but Jane could tell just by looking at it how beautiful it had been once, when it had been maintained. There was a great fountain in the middle of a large expanse of grass, with different stone paths branching out from it in a wagon-wheel pattern. There were little patches of garden—now overrun and dead with the cold—that at one time must have been lush and flourishing.
Jane walked out to the fountain. It was bone-dry now, the stone covered with a thin fuzz of old moss. She looked back to the house and saw a light turn on in a second-floor room. So the power must have finally kicked on. She gave a little wave to the shadow that passed in front of the window and checked her phone again. Still no service.
It must have been all the trees; the backyard was completely surrounded by them.
Jane had never been one to be easily spooked—she spent most of her free time reading mystery books and watching horror movies—but she couldn’t help feeling just the tiniest bit creeped-out in this place. Maybe it was because everything was so brown and brittle. Maybe it was the rustle of fallen leaves blowing against stone walkways in the breeze. Maybe it was the smell of roses. The smell and… Wait a minute. There were roses. She could just make out the bright spots of red and pink and orange at the far end of the lawn. She knew it! It felt nice knowing something could survive out here. Jane started walking toward them.
Ruth had said it wasn’t the season for roses, but she had never had much of a green thumb—they hadn’t even had a grass lawn back in California; instead, their property was filled with succulents and mulch and little patches of small rocks. Greer had called the style drought-tolerant ; Ruth had called it low-maintenance.
Maybe roses were low-maintenance, too, and that was why they were the only thing, besides the shin-high grass, that had survived the years without tending.
But they weren’t just surviving, Jane noted as she got closer, they were thriving—lush, green plants that vined up white arbors to form a covered walkway. Up close, the smell was thick and heavy and made Jane a little dizzy. She sat on a white bench and took the closest blossom in her hand. It was a deep, vibrant red. So bright she felt like she could eat it.
The wind whistled outside the arbor and eventually she realized she could hear something else—Ruth, calling her name.
She stepped out of the protection of the rosebushes and waved at her mother. Ruth hurried over, hugging her arms across her chest for warmth.
“I told you I smelled roses,” Jane said excitedly, pointing.
“These should be dead already,” Ruth replied. “Jesus, it really is freezing. Let’s go get a few things for dinner.”
“And s’mores.”
“And s’mores.” Ruth took Jane’s hand and pulled her back toward the house.
“You didn’t even look at the roses,” Jane whined.
“Honey, my toes are going to fall off. You were right about the roses. Would you like a medal?”
“Rude.”
“Freezing,” Ruth retorted.
Jane looked up at the house. I
t was dark again. The light in the upstairs window was off.
“Well, at least the electricity’s finally on,” she said.
“Not yet. I just checked,” Ruth replied. They reached the mudroom door and stepped into the house. Ruth flicked a light switch on and off. Nothing happened.
“But I saw a light upstairs,” Jane said.
“Are you trying to scare me? I think the fear part of my brain is frozen solid.”
“No, I’m not trying to scare you. I saw a light. And I saw you at the window.”
“I didn’t even go upstairs. There might have been an electric surge or something.” Ruth shrugged. “I didn’t notice anything.”
“A surge?”
“These old houses have old wiring. Old everything. I’ll call the electric company from the car.”
“Old wiring sounds like a fire hazard,” Jane said.
“Not everything is going to cause your imminent demise, my love.”
Jane wasn’t so sure of that.
There was only one grocery store in town, a tiny co-op with low ceilings and poor lighting but plenty of organic produce. They got tomato soup for dinner; bread, butter, and cheese to make grilled cheese sandwiches; and stuff for s’mores. Ruth made a fire and assembled the sandwiches on a cast-iron skillet, which she put over the embers. She heated up the soup in a saucepan next to it.
“You are a true mountain man,” Jane observed.
“My father made me go to Girl Scouts,” Ruth replied. “He was afraid if I didn’t do something outdoorsy, I’d turn into one of my mother’s society ladies. Or even worse—I’d turn into my mother herself.”
“Emilia wasn’t that bad, was she?”
“She was on her best behavior when you saw her. She could be a proper pain in the ass, though. I was sent to my room once for not remembering which of my many forks was for salad.”
“And yet you slid down the staircase on a trash-can lid.”
Ruth smiled proudly. “That was my dad’s influence.”
“I wish I had met him,” Jane said.
“Yeah, I wish you had met him, too. He was a good guy.”
“Like Dad?”
“Couldn’t be more different.” Ruth laughed. “Chester was always a little… I don’t know. Hesitant. Reserved. I think it maybe came from living with my mom all those years. But still, every now and then, when she wasn’t looking, I think I got a glimpse of who he might have been.”
“Honestly, Emilia sounds like a real piece of work.”
“My dad once compared this house to a mousetrap,” Ruth said conspiratorially. “You let your guard down and all of a sudden you’re trapped for life.”
“But you left.”
“Yeah. I left. And look at me—right back where I started.”
“Are you okay?” Jane asked, because Ruth’s eyes had become unfocused; she seemed distant and strange.
She took a moment to answer. She looked up at the ceiling, then stared into the fire. “I don’t know,” she admitted finally. “It’s weird. I never thought I’d be saying this, but… I miss her. Emilia. Being back here makes me miss her.” She bit her lip, paused again, folded her hands in her lap and interlaced her fingers. “When she died, I felt so many things. This rush of pain, of sadness, of guilt, of regret. I should have come back to see her. I should have moved her out to California with us after my dad died. I should have done more to take care of her. But I don’t know. I don’t know that she really did that much to take care of me.” Ruth closed her eyes, and when she opened them, they were red and wet, and Jane reached over and took her hand.
“I’m sorry, Mom.”
“I’m sorry, too, because now you know what it’s like. To lose a parent,” Ruth whispered. “It’s a terrible thing. And yours was so good. So much better than mine.”
Jane was crying now, too, and they sat in silence for a few minutes, holding hands, crying, letting their soup get cold.
“I want you to know that I’m here for you, Janie,” Ruth said. “I never want you to feel how I felt with Emilia. I never want you to feel like you have to go through this alone. You can always come to me.”
“I know,” Jane said. “I know.”
“Grief is different for everyone,” Ruth continued. “There’s no right or wrong answer. Just remember that, okay?”
“Okay, Mom.”
“For example, sometimes grief is crying onto your grilled cheese sandwich,” Ruth said, wiping at her cheeks.
“Does it make you feel any better that these look like the best grilled cheese sandwiches ever made? Tears or no tears.”
Ruth smiled. “It does, a bit, yeah.”
“Let’s do this.”
They ate cross-legged in front of the fireplace, dipping their sandwiches into the bowls of tomato soup. The food and the fire warmed Jane’s body until her skin had a faint pink glow to it, and neither of them spoke until there were only a few crumbs left on their plates.
It was only after they’d eaten two s’mores each and cleaned up all the dishes, leaving them out to dry on the counter, that Jane felt the first wave of fatigue wash over her.
“Oy,” she said.
“Same,” Ruth agreed.
They’d brought in sleeping bags and pillows from the back seat of the car, and they spent a few minutes getting everything unrolled and set up.
“Is it okay to leave this burning?” Jane asked, already buried in the sleeping bag, just the tip of her nose showing, her voice muffled.
“It’ll be fine. We need the warmth,” Ruth replied.
A few moments of rustling as Ruth settled into her own sleeping bag. As soon as she was still, the only noise was from the fire, crackling and popping as it burned away. Behind that, if she strained her ears, Jane could hear nothing but an overwhelming silence. She almost said something, but she realized Ruth was already sleeping, snoring gently, passed out in ten seconds flat.
Jane rolled over onto her back, the fire warming the right side of her face, the left side feeling abruptly chilled.
So this was it. The first night of her new life. She pulled her phone out of the sleeping bag and checked it. Still no service. She hadn’t even texted Salinger—her best friend back home—to let her know she’d made it.
She opened her messages now, even though the phone was useless, even though the battery was almost dead. She wrote a text to Sal. I miss you so much. I hate it here. I want to come home.
She didn’t hit Send. She clicked back to her messages. She scrolled down until she found Dad.
The last message he’d sent her said: Outside!
He’d been picking her up from Sal’s house. The night before his heart attack.
Jane ran her thumb over the text.
Outside!
She squeezed her eyes closed and imagined he’d just sent that text, that he was outside now, waiting for her, the heat blasting in his old pickup as he drummed his fingers against the dashboard in time to whatever was playing on the radio.
She almost imagined she could hear his truck idling, the driver’s-side door creaking as he opened it and stepped out onto the driveway, his faint footsteps as he walked up to the front door, to knock lightly, to come and fetch her since she didn’t have any cell service to respond to his text. She almost imagined she could hear those knocks—tap-tap-tap—and then her eyes opened suddenly, because she had heard them, or no, of course she hadn’t, she’d just been concentrating so hard, trying to hear them, that she’d tricked herself into believing they were there.
She sat up in her sleeping bag, wiping at her eyes (had she started crying again, or had she never really stopped?), peering into the darkness of the house, the flickering shadows that the fire cast on all the walls, the unfamiliar shapes of furniture jutting out of the floor like icebergs.
Tap-tap-tap.
She froze.
She’d heard it that time, she was sure she had, and she was up and on her feet, running to the window at the front of the house, pushing the cello
phane aside to peer out of the dirty, cloudy glass.
The moon was bright in the sky. The driveway was empty. Of course the driveway was empty, because her father was dead and his pickup truck had been repossessed and he would never again come to pick her up, never again come to drive her back home.
Tap-tap-tap.
It was only an old tree, the wind knocking it against the side of the house, its branches clicking against the windows like long, dry fingers.
Tap-tap-tap.
Grief is different for everyone, Ruth had said, and maybe Jane’s grief manifested itself in visions, in thinking she could almost see the outline of Greer’s truck in the driveway. Almost. But when she blinked—it was gone.
She was still holding her phone. She looked down at the screen now, open to her father’s text, and felt a heavy, cold ache in her stomach.
Outside!
She looked out the window once more.
She’d give anything—anything—if that were true.
Although Ruth had told her she could wait until Monday to start school, Jane woke up early the next morning and got dressed while her mother slept. It was Friday, and Jane figured it would be nice to ease into it, to have only one day of school and then a weekend, instead of five straight days of classes.
She made instant oatmeal they’d bought at the co-op and ate it standing over the kitchen sink. She kissed Ruth on the forehead before she left. Her mother mumbled and rolled over; she’d never been much of a morning person.
The bus stop was at the beginning of the street, a ten-minute walk. It was a gray, chilly morning. Jane wore a flannel and her jean jacket, and after three minutes her fingers were numb. Jane was sure she’d be the only senior riding the bus. In California, she had walked to the high school or else gotten a ride with Sal and her brother.
She reached the end of the street and looked down the road. She could just about see the bus now, about a quarter mile away, making the occasional stop, dutifully extending the bright-red stop sign.
Another minute and then it was pulling up in front of her, brakes screeching, and she climbed the steps before she could change her mind.
The smell hit her first; it was like she was eleven years old again on the first day of middle school. It was the smell of whatever plastic they used to make the drab brown seats, the smell of a dozen packed lunches, the smell of unwashed hair and sweaty skin and runny noses.