Susan stood in Mother’s room. It was bright but barren. That moldy odor lingered. A dizzying striped pattern of thin, alternating lines of yellow and brown papered most of the walls. The north wall had been stripped, revealing the faded jade paint she had always disliked. Black scuffs ran clear across the floor, the hardwood still cold and unwelcoming. A broken cup in two perfect pieces lay in a corner.
Susan moved to the dusty west window and cleared a small circle with the butt of her fist. She saw the yard in the back. The swing was still there. The sandbox. The trees had grown. The leaden sky made it look like a graveyard.
Her heart sank. There was nothing for her here, and she knew it; nothing but memories best left to rot. What had she expected? Mother to appear, gushing with open arms and I’m sorrys? She had been so stupid. Even in life, to think the woman capable of such an act was simply asking too much.
And yet, she had expected something. Perhaps nothing was it. Perhaps she only needed to come. To prove she had survived all those years. To know she still could.
Susan turned to go, but two cardboard boxes drew her attention. Half a dozen issues of Hustler sat in the first. Of all things, she discovered a black bible in the second, one of those pocket-sized ones found in motels. Centered neatly, it lay alone in the box, a red bookmark marking its place. It looked oddly familiar, like the glimpse of an old friend on a crowded street. Purely out of curiosity, she picked it up.
If she didn’t feel it in her hands—didn’t see it with her own eyes—she would have told herself she was dreaming.
It was her father’s. He had taken it with him, she was certain. His faith ran deep and he would not have forgotten it. Had Mother stolen it? Kept it as a bitter reminder to drive her fury? Susan tried to recall it about the house. No. No.
She didn’t open it. Its stories held no meaning for her—they were just words, written by men—yet she felt strangely compelled to keep it. Call it crazy; call it love. As odd as it was, it was here, waiting, waiting for her to find it, and as she slipped it into her breast pocket, she sensed a connection to her father she had lost so long ago.
Susan lingered. Let the past seep from her soul. There was something here: ghosts.
She felt stronger, a little, anyway, and perhaps time would provide answers, to questions she could not yet ask. She closed the door behind her. Her heart was heavy, shackled with memories, but she felt their bonds loosening. She paused before going down those solid stairs, knowing her work was far from finished. The battle here had been fought, the wounds of the combatants now beginning to heal, but outside, in the cold and the wind, a war was still to be won.