by Katrina Leno
Most of the books and journals slid only a few steps down, coming to a rest on the landing, but a few of them tumbled farther down, toppling over and over until they reached the first floor.
“Shit,” Jane said. “Shit.”
“Janie, you okay? What was that?” Ruth appeared at the top of the staircase. “Oh shoot. Was that the heavy one? Let me help you, honey.”
“Shit!” Jane repeated. Her foot throbbed where the journal had hit it, and even though she hadn’t thought about them all day, she swore the cuts on the bottom of her feet started to sting again, too.
“Honey, not a big deal,” Ruth said calmly, skipping down the few steps to meet Jane. “Deep breaths, okay? Did you hurt yourself?”
“Shit. Yes. No. I’m fine. You don’t have to help, let me just do it myself.”
“Baby, baby. Breathe.”
Jane squeezed her eyes closed. Her body felt hot and itchy. The familiar first pangs of anger. She put a hand on the banister and squeezed the wood as hard as she could, squeezed it until her hand throbbed.
If Greer were still alive, he’d be the one carrying the heavier boxes upstairs, but—Jane realized bitterly—if Greer were still alive, there would be no boxes to carry, because they never would have had to move to Maine. He would have figured out another solution. He would have come here alone, maybe, and fixed up the house enough to sell it. He would have made their money back. He would have made everything okay again.
Jane closed her eyes and suddenly she wasn’t in North Manor anymore, suddenly she was back in their old house, sitting cross-legged on her bed, working on homework, and Greer was nudging the door open with his foot. He came into the room holding an enormous box, and as Jane watched, he dumped its contents out on the bed next to her.
Agatha Christie paperbacks! At least three dozen of them. She picked one up greedily, then looked up at him and asked, “Where did these come from!”
“Mother lode, right?” Greer said, clearly proud of himself. “Estate sale. End of day, no one had taken these yet. Guess how much for the lot of them.”
To Jane, these books were nothing short of priceless, but she did some quick math and said, “I dunno… two hundred?”
“Free!”
Greer began doing a silly dance around the room, stomping all over the carpet, waving his arms around wildly. Jane looked at the book in her hand. Poirot Loses a Client. She couldn’t wait to read it.
Jane could hear Ruth now, gathering books into her arms, picking up the ones that had fallen on the landing. She heard her jostle the box upside down, so the rip was at the top. There were still some books in it; they tumbled around as Ruth carried the box past Jane and up to her new bedroom.
Jane struggled to breathe evenly. She opened her eyes. You’re fine.
She made herself go collect the books that had fallen down there. Ruth reappeared and grabbed another stack from the landing. Jane met her back in her bedroom.
“See?” Ruth said, depositing her load of books on the floor. “No big deal. Are you okay?”
Jane put her own books on the floor and nodded stiffly. “I’m fine. Sorry. I just… It was just stupid.”
“No big deal,” Ruth repeated. “I think I’m going to take a quick shower. You’re good?”
“I’m good, Mom.”
Ruth touched Jane’s hand, then left her alone, shutting the bedroom door behind her. The carpet was littered with journals and books. Jane took a seat in the middle of them and started stacking them into piles, organizing them into groups. Her hand paused as she picked up one of the books. Poirot Loses a Client. The cover had become one of her favorites, made even more special because Greer had given it to her. Poirot’s infamous bowler hat and mustache. An enormous mansion surrounded by topiaries in the shape of giant birds, a revolver, and a skull bleeding red roses from its base.
The cover had ripped in the book’s fall. It had twisted backward and torn down the middle. Right through the bowler hat.
Jane threw the book violently; it hit the side of the bed and fell to the floor.
She covered her face with her hands. Her heart was beating too quickly; she could feel it hammering against her rib cage. She tried to remember Ruth’s easy tone: No big deal. But her fingers were shaking. Her hands were shaking. She was having trouble getting air into her lungs; her vision was starting to turn to white.
Then her hands landed on a book within arm’s length—a battered hardcover of The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe. She grabbed for it in a panic, letting it fall open on her lap to the first page in the book. Page 51. Pages 1–50 were gone.
Without ceremony, without pausing to think, she ripped page 51 from the book, then tore off a small corner and put it into her mouth.
Almost instantly, she felt like she could breathe. She let the paper sit on her tongue for a minute, turning pulpy and clumpy as her saliva coated it.
And then she swallowed.
Again and again until the entire page was gone.
Again and again until her anger—the dull throb that never seemed to completely leave her—receded a little.
Again and again until she felt safe.
A knock at the door.
She closed the book and slid it into the bookcase.
“Come in,” she said.
Ruth opened the door and stuck her head inside. She had a towel wrapped around her hair. “Everything okay in here?”
“Yeah, Mom. Just trying to organize.”
“Why don’t you strip that bed and we’ll get a load of laundry going?”
“All right. I’ll meet you downstairs in a few.”
Ruth closed the door again and Jane took a deep breath, then let it out slowly, just like Greer had taught her to do.
She reached across the floor and picked up Poirot Loses a Client. She traced her fingers over the ripped cover.
If her father were here, he would have found tape and taken the book from Jane to mend it. He would have said there was nothing sad about a book with a few dings in it. That was how you knew it had been enjoyed.
He was the one who had always known the exact thing to say to help her calm her anger. He would sit with her, breathe with her, listen to her. Who would do that for her now? She knew Ruth tried, but there was just something different about Greer. He seemed to understand her in a way she didn’t even understand herself. He understood her anger, why it sometimes exploded out of her in waves of red.
That anger was faded now, replaced with sadness, replaced with a gnawing in her stomach that she identified as the place that had been ripped out of her when Greer had died. The absence of Greer.
She stood up and placed the book carefully on the bookcase, then walked over to the bed and pulled the heavy comforter to the side. She unbuttoned the duvet and made a pile of linens on the floor. The door creaked open as she was pulling a pillow from its pillowcase. She turned around, expecting to see Ruth again, but there was no one there.
She crossed to the door and shut it again, making sure it latched. When she turned back to the room, she paused. What was that? A buzzing noise? She stood listening for a few moments before she realized it was her phone.
“Shit,” she said, kneeling in front of the pile of linens. The buzzing was coming from underneath them; her phone must have slid out of her pocket and gotten buried. She pulled the sheets to the side and found it after a minute of searching. She’d missed the call, but as she held the phone in her hand, it lit up with a voicemail. She hit Play and held it to her ear.
“Hi, Jane! I’m realizing now it’s a bit early—sorry for that; I’ve been here since six and you sort of lose track of time. Anyway, oh—I haven’t even said who I am. It’s Will, from Beans & Books. Just wanted to see if you were down with doing some training this week. How does Tuesday after school sound? It’s all right if it’s too late notice; you can text me back at this number and let me know. Thanks!”
Grinning, she texted Will that Tuesday sounded great, then she slid the phone
into her pocket, rebuilt the pile of linens, gathered it all in her arms, and stood up. She turned around and paused—
That was weird.
The door was open again.
Something must be wrong with the latch.
She dropped the linens and crossed the room, then closed the door again. She gently pulled without turning the handle. It wouldn’t open.
She left it closed and took a few steps back, waiting.
Nothing happened.
She shrugged, opened the door again, gathered up the linens, and headed downstairs. The laundry room was empty, but Ruth had already started a load. Jane dropped her pile in front of the machine and paused as she heard footsteps on the floor above her. Like someone was running down the hallway. What was Ruth doing?
“Mom?” she yelled to the ceiling.
“What?” Ruth answered from the doorway; Jane jumped a mile and turned around, her hands covering her heart.
“You scared the crap out of me!”
Ruth dropped more linens onto the pile and laughed. “Sorry. Thought you heard me coming.”
“No, I thought you were upstairs. There were footsteps.”
“Footsteps?”
“Yes, footsteps!”
The house creaked. As if on cue. Like a long exhalation of muffled pops. Ruth smiled knowingly.
“It’s these old houses, Janie,” she explained. “They’re constantly making noises. It’s called settling; you’ll get used to it. Come help me get some curtains down.”
They stayed busy the rest of the day, doing endless loads of laundry, stripping and making beds, dusting and vacuuming the rooms they were going to sleep in.
And it was fine, really. Nothing else weird happened. But still… Jane couldn’t shake a strange feeling. Like a tingle down her spine that never quite went away. It was silly, of course, just nerves and overtiredness and the time change messing with her head.
That night, when she finally said good night to Ruth and went upstairs to her new bedroom, she pulled the bookshelf in front of her door.
For what exactly, she wasn’t sure.
But she felt a little safer, anyway.
She didn’t sleep well. She had the same dream, over and over, a fuzzy dream that became fuzzier if she tried to focus on it. Long corridors. Closed doors. The sound of footsteps and the feeling that there was someone in the shadows, watching her.
When her alarm went off she moaned and hit Snooze, but she couldn’t fall back asleep. She stared up at her ceiling for a few minutes before getting out of bed and pulling on a sweatshirt. She dragged her bookshelf away from her door. She’d been silly to put it there—what was she afraid of?
Ruth was already in the kitchen, eating a piece of toast spread with peanut butter and jelly, drinking a cup of coffee.
“Morning, honey,” she said. “How did you sleep?”
“Meh,” Jane replied.
“Same.” Ruth sighed, and Jane watched her struggle to put on an encouraging face. “We’ll get used to it. It’s only been four nights.”
“At least no one threw any rocks at the windows.”
“Small favors,” Ruth agreed. “Get yourself some toast. Excited about your first full week?”
“Meh,” Jane repeated. “Excited for your first day at work?”
“Meh.”
“Word of the day.”
“It appears so.”
They ate in a silence that felt even more profound because of the silence of the house. Jane found herself missing the noises of California, the constant car horns, music blasting from a distant stereo, Greer mumbling aloud to himself about some new business idea as he roamed throughout the rooms with a cup of coffee gone tepid.
What would Greer think of North Manor?
He would probably love it; he had an affinity for old things, for things past their prime, for things that needed a little imagination to find their true beauty. He’d probably have replaced all the windows himself, and given everything a fresh coat of paint by now, and kept them up at night with the sound of hammers and table saws and sandpaper sliding roughly against wood.
He would have filled up all the silence of this house with noise. He would have made it feel like a home, as opposed to just another place to sleep.
Jane finished her toast and carried her dish to the sink just as her phone buzzed—Susie was in the driveway.
“Ride’s here,” Jane said.
“Hey,” Ruth replied, taking Jane by the wrist. “I’m sorry I’m such a grump this morning.”
“Ditto.”
“It’ll get better,” Ruth continued, but she wasn’t quite able to make herself sound convincing. She smiled weakly to make up for it, and Jane kissed her on the cheek.
“Love you.”
“Love you, Janie.”
Jane grabbed her backpack and pushed out into the brisk morning. She slid into the passenger’s seat of Susie’s car and tried to sound as cheerful as possible when she said good morning.
“Hey!” Susie said, backing out of the driveway and starting off down the street.
“Morning. Thanks for picking me up.”
“Don’t mention it.”
“How was your weekend?”
“I feel like it was ninety percent homework. What about you? Anything exciting?”
Jane thought back to Friday night, to the smashed window. That definitely qualified as exciting, but for some reason, she didn’t want to tell Susie about it.
“Well, I cleaned for approximately thirty-eight hours. But I actually slept in a bed last night. So that was nice. Oh, and I got a job.”
“Already? Where?”
“Beans & Books. I start Tuesday.”
“Are you serious?” Susie said, brightening. “That’s my dad’s place!”
“Wait, are you Will’s sister?”
“Yes!”
“Small world.”
“Small town,” Susie corrected. “You’ll like Will. Technically, my dad owns it, but he’s totally hands-off. It’s basically Will’s thing now. He goes to state school a half an hour away, but he only has classes two days a week. So he’s at the shop the rest of the time. He wants to franchise it eventually; he’s trying to open one near his school.”
“That’s cool.”
“Maybe he’ll finally leave me alone now; he’s been trying to get me to work there. I just prefer drinking the coffee rather than making it, you know?”
Jane laughed. “Well, I guess I’ll be the one making it for you now.”
“Have you worked in a café before?”
“Yeah, back home, just a couple days a week.”
“I bet there’s very fancy milk in California.”
“Oh, the fanciest. Macadamia, pea, walnut.”
“Macadamia milk sounds amazing, I mean, why did you ever move? You had to know Bells Hollow wouldn’t have macadamia milk.”
Susie was joking, of course, but Jane paused anyway. Did she tell Susie the truth? It was still hard, saying it out loud—my father died. The words always seemed to catch in the back of her throat. But not telling her seemed worse, like an insult to Greer’s memory.
Finally, with a deep breath, she said, “Actually, we moved here because my dad died.” She paused, trying to keep her tone light. “To be honest, he loved macadamia milk, too. He would have been super bummed you guys don’t have it here.”
“Jane, I’m so sorry,” Susie said. “I had no idea.”
“Thanks. It’s been…”
“Terrible?” Susie supplied bluntly.
Jane looked at her and smiled sadly. “Yeah. It’s been terrible.”
And it had been terrible, but it was strange.… The more distance they put between themselves and North Manor, the better Jane felt. Like a weight was lifting from her shoulders. Like something huge and dark was dissolving from her heart.
She settled back in her seat and tried not to think about how good it felt to be away from that house.
Transferring to a new schoo
l was a lesson in makeup work. Jane had done a fair amount of homework over the weekend, but she still felt behind in her morning classes, struggling to figure out where the rest of the class was in the lesson. She was exhausted by the time the lunch bell rang; Alana found her by her locker, not putting anything away, just sort of staring into it blankly.
“You okay?”
Jane blinked. “I think I fell asleep with my eyes open.”
“Long night?”
“Long night, long morning.”
“Anything I can do to help? I am your buddy, you know.”
“I haven’t missed a coffee shop on campus, have I? Maybe tucked behind the science wing or something?”
“Are you telling me you had a coffee shop in your high school?”
Jane nodded sadly. “They actually made great cappuccinos.”
“Of course they did.”
Just then someone emerged from the crowd of lunch-bound students and bumped their shoulder against Alana, hard. It was the same girl who had kicked her chair at lunch Friday, the girl with the dyed-black hair and dark eyes. She was trailed by a guy in cut-up jeans and a stained Henley shirt.
“Did you bring it?” she asked, not looking at Jane.
Alana rolled her eyes. “Yes, Melanie.”
“You were supposed to put it in my locker.”
“I’ve been busy. With classes.”
“Busy with classes? Or busy making new friends?”
Melanie looked at Jane for the first time. Her expression was hard to read, but she was looking at Jane like she was pathetic, not worth the time it took to glance in her direction. And there was something else there.… Something like anger or recognition. Jane couldn’t quite pinpoint it.
“Melanie, this is Jane. Jane, Melanie,” Alana said stiffly. She dug around in her backpack for something, pulled out a small, stapled stack of paper, and handed it to Melanie.
Melanie took it but didn’t look away from Jane. A funny smirk spread across her face. “It really is you.”
“What do you mean?” Jane asked.
“I told you it was her,” the boyfriend said.