2

THE WHISPER

It’s nearly midnight, but I can’t sleep, so I’m reading in the hallway, so as not to wake Sabrina by keeping a light on. They say the key to getting enough rest when your kids are young is to sleep when they do, but I can’t rein in my thoughts tonight. Even the book in my hands can’t pull my attention from the state of this house. I imagine what this place will look like when I’m finished with it—once the door is in place at the foot of the attic stairs, once these cheap metal registers are replaced with replicas of the original iron grates, once the walls are painted and the carpeting is hauled off the property in a dumpster.

There’s nothing I can do about the probably asbestos-ridden dropped ceiling in the dining room, or the god-awful, dysfunctional kitchen until we manage to build our savings back up, but that doesn’t mean I have to live with this gaudy décor forever. Elbow grease, and my time, won’t cost anything. I can get this place looking nicer than it does, and the sooner, the better.

I peek into the master bedroom, find Sabrina still fast asleep, and decide, Why not get started? I’ll feel better about being here if the place feels more like home.

I curl up a corner of the orange-and-yellow shag in the upstairs hallway and find a gorgeous cherry parquet floor beneath it. Even if the floor is in desperate need of refinishing, which is likely, it’ll look better than this ugly carpet. It’s too late to start a project tonight, but I can’t help myself. I pull on the loose end of the carpeting, yanking it free from the staples, then begin to roll it up.

The odors embedded in the shag over the past forty-some years rise up in tufts as I make my way from one end of the long corridor to the other. It smells like an old, neglected fishing cabin: stale cigarette smoke, beer, even the faintest scent of cat urine.

The pad beneath the carpet practically disintegrates in my hands. It crumbles under pressure into a fine, grainy, gritty mess that actually makes my skin crawl.

Halfway down the hallway, I uncover a square plywood patch, covered with linoleum, directly in the center of the hall—probably where an old-fashioned heat grate used to be and was torn out. I swear under my breath at the bad luck of it but keep going, figuring I can pry up the square and fix it some other time.

When I reach the end of the hallway, I run a roll of masking tape around the trunk of the discarded carpeting and shove it down the stairs. I look back down the hallway and observe.

Already, it’s an improvement, but it isn’t enough. Not while the shag still lines the walls beneath the chair rail. Dust and grime accumulate beneath my fingernails as I rip the carpeting from the plaster. I cough and sneeze. Sharp staples bite into my hands and snag the soles of my shoes . . . so many staples, which I begin to yank out with pliers.

Pluck, pluck, pluck.

Some come easily; others need convincing.

I can’t leave any sharp edges exposed with Sabrina mobile, so I have to work diligently until every single staple is yanked, creaking and screaming, from the floor and walls. I sweep mounds of dust and shards of staples into the bin. The powerful stench of the rug still emanates from the walls and floor, however, so I run a sponge soaked with pine-scented cleaner over the space. Twice. By the time I finish carrying the whole mess down the stairs and onto the porch, my hands are blistered, I’m exhausted, and it’s after two.

For a moment, I stand on the porch, if only to draw in some good, fresh air. I look out over the vast stillness of the acreage. One day, when the dead trees are completely cleared from the property and sunlight inspires grass to grow again, and we’re well past the renovations of this place, Sabrina will play in the yard. Someday, it’ll feel like home.

I lean against the house, right next to the marvelous door Bill the Tree Man found buried on my property, and listen to the wind in the leaves. In the distance, I see the house where my husband grew up, a single light illuminating the attic. Maybe I’ll drop in tomorrow to say hello to my in-laws, invite them to see the place. It’s odd they haven’t stopped over to see the baby, or even called to see if I need anything, but maybe I should count my blessings. What would I do if Terese were here every day, sticking her nose in my business?

It’s late, and I’m too tired to debate the issue with myself. I turn to go back inside, my hand already on the doorknob.

But the knob won’t turn.

My heart instantly leaps into my throat.

I jiggle the knob again, but to no avail.

Have I locked myself out of the house? How could I have done such a thing?

It’s so late, and Sabrina is alone inside . . . sleeping on a bed, not in a crib. Suppose she twists herself in the blankets; suppose she gets wrapped up in the sheets and can’t breathe!

What kind of idiot does this?

I wipe tears from my eyes. “Please,” I say aloud.

After another attempt, the latch gives way, and I enter.

I exhale. It’s just old hardware, stubborn with years of grime and dirt. Tomorrow, I’ll pull the knobs off the doors and properly clean and oil them.

I lock the door behind me and practically sprint up the stairs, pass the linoleum square directly in the center of the hallway, and check my sleeping child.

She’s precious. All I really want to do is curl up next to her and sleep.

But I’m as filthy as the shag carpet, so I quickly shower before practically collapsing onto the mattress on the floor—I still haven’t found the time to assemble the headboard and frame—and take a few deep breaths.

I feel this house in my lungs, in my bones.

“It’ll be worth it,” I whisper to my sleeping child. “I see what this place can be.”

But for now, there’s no denying I hate it. I hate the way it looks, hate that nothing works, hate that it’s going to cost me muscle aches and splinters to make it only fractionally beautiful. I even hate that my mother-in-law is my closest neighbor, despite her respecting the distance, and I hate that Edison is living it up in some posh Times Square hotel while his child and I are here in this rat hole.

The house rattles with the strong winds whipping up the hill, and every once in a while, I hear a whistling, which seems to reverberate, as if traveling through the maze of old pipes hidden in these papered walls.

I feel this house in my lungs, in my bones.

I close my eyes and imagine the door installed at the end of the hallway. I pretend the home is gorgeous. If it were, maybe I’d be able to enjoy it.

And, oh, that wind!

I practically feel the breeze filtering through the walls of this old place. There’s probably no insulation. I wonder how unbearably cold it’s going to be come December. The walls shiver with the next gust, and a creak and a pop echo in the hallway.

Yet Sabrina still sleeps, her little lips puckered and sucking, as if on a pacifier. At least one of us will be well rested come sunrise.

I climb out of bed to investigate the now-recurring creaking, but one step into the hallway, I freeze and swallow a scream. The attic door is again standing wide open, and a breeze, slow and steady, rolls down the stairs in waves.

Cautiously, I make my way down the hallway, toward the high pitch of a whistle coming from the attic. My knees quiver with every step, but I manage to make it all the way to the attic access. I close the door, slamming into it with my shoulder to ensure it stays shut.

“Hey.”

I flinch when I hear the whisper behind me, but no one’s there.

I feel something, even though there’s nothing to see. It’s like the feeling you get when you know someone’s looking at you, watching you sleep.

“Ana.”

I turn around again, but find nothing but empty space.

“Ana.”

I hightail it all the way back to the master bedroom, to my baby.

She’s still there, still breathing, still perfect and pink.

The windows rattle in their frames.

I try to catch my breath.

It wasn’t real. Just the wind. Just my imagination. Just an echo in the hallway. Now that I’ve bared the floors, I have to expect unusual sounds.

But I heard it.

“Hey. Ana.”

Plain as day.

I’ll stay awake. It’ll be murder tomorrow, when Sabrina’s crawling through boxes and getting into everything, but I can’t fall asleep now.

“Hey.”

And if it were just my imagination, would I hear it again and again?

I gather my daughter into my arms. To keep her close. To keep her safe.

I listen hard, begging for another chance to rationalize it, but no whisper tufts in my ear.

The numbers on the clock morph from 3:11 to 3:12 to 3:13.

My eyes grow heavier with each breath I take.

Suddenly, seemingly seconds later, my eyes pop open.

It’s nearly eight o’clock. I must have managed to sleep.

Sabrina is giggling. “Zo.”