Foundations

Where have you been?” Dad demanded when I opened the front door. I pulled up sharply, startled. Damn, they got home early.

He was halfway down the ornate staircase, a hand clutching tightly at the carved banister. He stood tall, rigid, green eyes glaring. His grey hair was unkempt, his mouth a tight line.

“Out,” I said.

“Out,” he repeated. Then nothing. He waited, as if he thought I would suddenly intuit what was wrong. Which was crazy, I thought. But then I did sense something.

The house smelt different. Stale. The blood-red runner under Dad’s feet seemed less vibrant. And the walls felt closer, older, and there were small cracks in them that I hadn’t noticed before. The house couldn’t have aged that much in the few hours I’d been away and yet, I felt it.

I swallowed, suddenly nervous.

From the first floor came my mother’s voice. “Is that Poppy?” She sounded tired, and frail.

“Yes, Mum,” I said.

“Can you come up here, please?”

There was silence then. A silence in which my father continued to glower, in which I heard my heart beating hard, the blood coursing across my temples.

I’d reluctantly agreed to look after Lacy for a few hours while my parents visited a friend in the hospital. But then I’d got a call from Johnnie, and I really wanted to see him, so I’d left my sister by herself with the house. I’d convinced her it would be fine, challenged her even, and she’d convinced me that she could handle the house now that she was eight. And if I’d had doubts, I’d pushed them down so that I wouldn’t feel guilty.

But something must have gone wrong.

I closed the front door and began to ascend the stairs. Halfway up, I eased past my father, who fell into step behind me.

The stairs opened into our parlour. It looked different as well. The walls were darker and bowed. The gold lounges at the centre of the room looked worn. The fireplace was cold, and the ancient swords crossed above the mantle appeared dull and neglected.

Across the room I saw Mum huddled between the drinks cabinet and the large, arched window that overlooked the back creek. Her eyes were red, as if she’d been crying. A sharp pain jabbed up under my ribs. Guilt and shame, and a dash of dread.

“Go,” my father said from close behind. “Go and see what you’ve done.”

I wanted to run from his accusations and whatever was waiting for me, but I didn’t. I walked slowly toward my mother and, as she stood, I saw Lacy. I took in a sharp breath, my body quivering. Oh, God, what had I done?

She was held up about four feet off the floor by wooden tendrils that had snaked up out of the parquetry and enveloped her midsection. She lay on her back, her body arched and limp, her head hanging backward. Her eyes were open—cloudy, white orbs, not seeing, not blinking.

The wall of the house was cracked, and from the fissure in the plaster a skeletal hand had broken free and clutched my sister around the wrist. Her skin was bruised under that tight grip. Uncle Carlton’s tight grip.

“Lacy,” I whispered, but she didn’t respond. Her breathing came shallow, her chest barely moving.

“But why?” I said quietly. “Why would the house turn on her?”

“I don’t know,” my mother said. “But it did, and she was too young and inexperienced to resist.”

“That’s why we’d asked you to look after her,” Dad snapped.

“Derek,” my mother said, turning to glare at him. “This isn’t the time.”

I knew he’d blame me. He always did. I was suddenly annoyed. As if Dad needed another excuse to be disappointed in me. I wanted to shake Lacy. To pull her from the embrace of the house’s floor, to slap her and say, what the hell? How had you been so stupid, or unlucky, or naive to get caught by this slow-moving, behemoth of a house? But just as quickly as the anger flared, it died, leaving me empty.

Dad sighed. “I’ll call the engineer.”

My mother nodded, then placed a hand on Lacy’s forehead.

“What can I do?” I asked.

“I think you’ve done enough for the time being, don’t you?” Dad said. My face grew hot and I felt that stabbing pain in my chest again.

Mum frowned at him, then turned to me with a softer expression. “Why don’t you talk to Grandma Dee and find out what she knows.”

I nodded, turned, and hurried away.

I opened the heavy oak door covered in glyphs and symbols. If they’d meant anything once, they didn’t now, not to me. The basement beyond was hidden in darkness—a thick, black ooze. I reached inside and felt around for the light switch, flicked it, and a single bulb fizzed to life. It cast just enough sickly light to force back the gloom into the corners of the sunken room.

The stone steps leading down were smooth and worn as if two million feet had trodden this path a million times. I stepped carefully so as not to slip, ducking my head under the wooden beam that supported the ceiling. It was cool under the house, and it smelt damp and earthy.

The room was nearly empty. There were only a couple of rolled rugs in the corner next to several half-empty paint cans. And then there was Grandma Dee.

I walked across the uneven stone floor toward her. Her face protruded from the wall only a couple of bricks up from the floor, as did one lean arm and the toes of a foot. The rest of Grandma Dee’s emaciated body was walled into the foundations of the house. Her eyes were closed.

I sat beside her on the cold floor, and looked over her face—leathered skin, thin lips, grey, wiry hair hanging partway over her forehead.

“Hello, Grandma Dee,” I said.

She snorted, and her eyelids fluttered open, exposing rheumy eyes. I watched her irises contract, then expand, then she turned toward me. Her mouth twitched, smiled, the frail skin on her cheeks wrinkling.

“Hello, dear,” she croaked. She cleared her throat. I saw her exposed toes wiggle.

Grandma Dee wasn’t actually my grandmother. She was my great, great, great, great-grandmother, but it was easier to call her Grandma Dee.

“Lacy’s in trouble, Grandma Dee,” I said. She frowned, then closed her eyes tight. I watched the flickering movement beneath her lids as her eyes coursed back and forth. When she opened them again she appeared disappointed. I felt sick of adults being disappointed.

“Lacy’s let the house in,” she said. “Why?”

I shrugged noncommittally.

“How did the house get past you and your parents?”

I hesitated. “We weren’t there,” I eventually mumbled.

“Oh,” Grandma Dee said. She didn’t accuse me like Dad had, and yet there was enough in the silence that followed to make me uncomfortable. She allowed the silence to build, and build, like waves on waves, doubling in size until they were crashing down around me. I cracked.

“She said she was okay,” I said. “I believed her. I mean, I was fine with the house by the time I was her age.”

“You were always strong,” Grandma Dee said. “Not all children are the same.”

“Lacy’s strong,” I said, and I wanted so hard to believe it. I was still hoping she’d miraculously fight off the house.

“Yes, dear,” Grandma Dee said. She sighed. “We all make mistakes. Me included. I should have been watching. It’s your Uncle Carlton, isn’t it?”

I nodded.

“He’s been unhappy. He doesn’t like the way your father is running his factory.”

“What’s that got to do with Lacy?”

“Your father won’t listen to your Uncle Carlton, but he thinks your father may listen to Lacy.”

“That’s crazy. He’s going to destroy a little girl for nothing.”

“He doesn’t see it like that, dear. He doesn’t want to hurt Lacy, just swap with her. She’ll live on, in the house.”

I swallowed, thinking over what Grandma Dee had said. “So what do we do now?”

“We wait for the engineer.”

“Wait,” I repeated. I couldn’t believe that was our only option. “Why can’t we just expel Uncle Carlton? He’s turned on his own. He doesn’t deserve our protection.”

Grandma Dee sighed again. “It’s not that simple, dear. The factory was Carlton’s business originally, and he’s linked with it and our home. Like him or not, he helps hold our estate together.”

I rubbed my hands together, eyes downcast. Finally, I took a breath and looked back at Grandma Dee.

“I wonder sometimes,” I said, tasting the words as I said them, not sure if I should continue. But if not with Grandma Dee, then with who?

“Yes?” she said.

“I wonder if it would be so bad to be houseless.”

The raw cackle that escaped her cracked lips surprised me. It rose around me, and then shattered and fell like broken glass.

She exhaled loudly. “I suppose you think it would be freeing.”

“But it would. No pressure, no ancestors weighing down on you with responsibility, with expectations, with …”

I didn’t know what else I meant. It just felt heavy here, claustrophobic and crowded. It didn’t feel like that with Johnnie.

“Your parents became part of the house for you and Lacy.”

“But I never asked for it.”

“No. Not many of us did. And yet if you neglect your role in the house, fair or not, it is often not you that is hurt, but the others that look to you for support.”

The ice shard that stabbed at my heart was swift and cold. I lowered my head, fighting back hot tears.

“Don’t fret, dear,” Grandma Dee said. “If there’s one thing I know, it’s that broken things can be mended.”

My sleep was filled with troubled dreams, so I felt relieved when I woke. But the feeling didn’t last.

The room was biting cold, and the light that spilled through the stained-glass image of my Great-great-uncle Roman was dull and grey. A thick layer of dust feathered the canopy above my four-poster bed as if it had stood for an aeon, unused. My room didn’t feel welcoming anymore.

I shimmied out from under the covers and padded across icy floorboards to find a dressing gown and slippers amongst the pile of dirty clothes in the corner. Then I opened my door carefully and slipped outside before making my way downstairs to check on my sister.

In the parlour I felt surprised to find Mum crouched next to Lacy, her hand on Lacy’s stomach. Mum had a blanket around her shoulders, and her head rested on her chest, asleep. Had she stayed with Lacy all night?

I moved closer, past the faded lounges and my ancestor’s swords, which now had a hint of rust on the blades. Lacy was still encased in tendrils of the house, looking like a surrealist coffee table. Her eyes remained sightless orbs, and her hair hung to the floor. Outside the back window I could see willow trees swaying in the breeze, long branches caressing the creek water.

My mother roused, her head rising slowly, eyes looking without seeing until her dreams shook free from her head. When she spied me, her eyes hardened and she frowned, which hurt. Once again I felt like a moth fluttering at a window, confused and unable to get inside.

“How is she?” I asked.

Mum cleared her throat, glanced at Lacy and then back at me. “She hasn’t changed.”

I didn’t know what else to say. Everything that bubbled to the forefront of my mind didn’t seem to hold sufficient weight.

“Your father has arranged for the engineer to come this morning,” Mum said. I watched her hand gently rubbing at the part of Lacy’s stomach that the house had left untouched. I couldn’t remember the last time she’d touched me with such affection. When had I stopped being a child to her?

“That’s good,” I said.

“What did Grandma Dee say?”

“She said that Uncle Carlton wanted greater control of the factory, and he thought he could use Lacy to achieve that.”

I watched the worry work its way through Mum’s features.

“Oh,” she said. For a moment I thought she might cry, but instead she sniffed hard, then continued. “I could do with some tea.” Her knees made popping sounds as she rose to her feet and stretched.

“Why don’t I get it? You’ve had a long night.”

She looked at me strangely, as if she wasn’t quite seeing her oldest daughter, but then her expression warmed.

“Thank you, Poppy.”

As I waited for the kettle to boil, my phone rang. I removed it from my pocket. It was Johnnie. A glance across the parlour showed me that Mum was still focussed on Lacy, not me, so I quietly closed the kitchen door and answered my phone.

“Hey, babe,” he said. I could hear the grin in his voice. “You free tonight? I miss you already, and—”

“I can’t,” I interrupted. “I’m sorry.”

“But Jonesy’s having a party down by the river. It’s going to be great, babe.”

I sighed, looking out the kitchen window across our front lawns to the street beyond. There weren’t as many houses as there had once been. The block across from ours was vacant, as were several blocks farther down the street. Each had had a house collapse in the last few years, one after the other, as if a contagion had spread.

“I can’t. It’s Lacy. I shouldn’t have left her last night to see you. She’s let the house in and, well, it’s bad. She’s in trouble and—”

“So it’s my fault?” he asked.

I hesitated. Was it? Did I resent him for what had happened? Outside the window a white car turned into our street, driving steadily, veering around the potholes.

“No,” I said finally. “That’s not what I meant. I’m just upset, and worried about her. She’s lying there, comatose, and … it’s hard to explain. It’s just bad.”

I suddenly realised how difficult it was to make a houseless understand the gravity of a house’s incursion. I mean, what did he have to compare that to? And yet he wasn’t stupid. His family had come from a collapsed home once, so I expect he grasped the general problem.

“So, what now? Should I come visit? Pay my respects or something?”

“She’s not dead,” I hissed.

“Sorry, wrong words then. But—”

“No.”

“But I want to see you, babe. I’m desperate.” I loved to hear him beg, and he knew it. Despite Lacy, despite my guilt, I smiled.

“I know, me too. Soon, okay? I just have to make sure Lacy’s better first.”

“Okay, babe. I understand. But if you change your mind about tonight, come find me at the river.”

The white car stopped by the footpath outside our house, beneath the large jacaranda. When the car door opened, a slim man emerged. He was neatly dressed in a grey suit, with round spectacles perched on the end of his nose. His hair was white and thinning.

I watched the stranger close the car door and take the path to our house.

“I’ve got to go, Johnnie. We have a visitor.”

“Okay, sure. I love you.”

Those words seemed to come so easily for him. He said them almost casually.

“I love you, too,” I said, but he was already gone.

I met Johnnie at my father’s factory, which was actually a large printing press. Dad employed the houseless to man the machines, collect the books, and load trucks. I’d finished another visit—“learning the trade,” as father called it—and Johnnie had just finished a shift.

Dad had asked if I was okay to find my own way home. He could go with me, of course, he’d said, if I wanted. It’s just he had so much paperwork. I’d assured him I was fine, which was both what he and I wanted.

On my way out I spied Johnnie. He was older than me, maybe twenty, and while he wore the white coveralls the other workers donned, they didn’t fit him the same. On Johnnie they were tight, hugging him in the right places, revealing muscles. He was tall, with dark, wavy hair and darker eyes that seemed to stare into my soul. He was someone people noticed. Someone I noticed.

I guess I’d stared when I walked by, because he smiled at me. I faltered mid-stride, feeling strange.

“Hey, babe,” he said.

That stopped me. I turned sharply, trying to glare.

“I’m not your babe,” I said.

He didn’t hesitate. “You could be. I’m sure you could do anything you put your mind to.” Followed by the grin. That cheeky, sexy, I-know-what-you-want grin.

I tried to be mad, but my damn mouth betrayed me, and I laughed.

I had always been told the houseless were a sad bunch. Poor, lost, and desperate, roaming in hope of something better—a home like ours. Work, like at my father’s factory, was a blessing.

That wasn’t Johnnie. If he was representative of the houseless, they were free. Unconstrained. He was different from what I’d always known, and I guess that, as much as anything, was why falling for him was so damn easy.

“Hmm,” the engineer said.

He waved a slender, electronic wand over Lacy, which made high-pitched sounds as it moved.

“Well?” Dad asked, standing close to the drinks cabinet, Mum’s hand clutched in his. “You can fix this, right?” I could hear strain in his voice.

I stood back, leaning against the golden lounge in the middle of the parlour, watching the small man complete his examination.

The engineer turned to my father. “It’s a complicated case.”

“How?” my mother stammered, tears spilling onto her cheeks. I wanted to go comfort her, but I didn’t. I couldn’t.

“It’s okay,” Dad told Mum quietly. But I knew it wasn’t all right.

The engineer frowned. “The house is not simply holding your daughter, they’ve become intertwined. Part of her has become the house, part of the house—more specifically, your ancestor here—has become her. He’s managed to push most of your daughter out.”

“But you can reverse it, surely?” Dad asked. “This has to have happened before?”

The engineer sighed, then brought the wand quickly around and slapped it into the open palm of his left hand.

“The problem is her age and experience. Her entry into the walls of the building has weakened them. You can see cracking here, and here,” he said, pointing his wand toward the corner of the parlour room. “She can barely hold the house together as it is. If I remove her …”

“But, but,” my father stuttered. “But can’t you cast Uncle Carlton out and back into the house?”

He shook his head slowly. “In my experience, when an ancestor deserts a house, nothing will compel them to return.”

“So he stays in Lacy?” I said, horrified. What had I done? How did I not know this?

The engineer turned and looked across at me with pity. “Expelling him is possible. But it will come at a cost to the structural integrity of your home, and anything else throughout your estate that has links to your uncle.”

My father swallowed. “Our factory.”

I watched anger and anxiety work their way into his face, and I knew he was thinking of me again.

“So,” my mother said, new tears wetting her cheeks, “it’s Lacy, or the house and factory?”

The engineer cleared his throat. “Most likely, yes.”

Oh, God. What had I done? And yet, it was an easy choice, wasn’t it?

“We’ll need to think on it,” my father said.

“What?” I said.

“I understand,” the engineer replied. “It is a difficult decision.”

“No, no it’s not,” I said, my voice rising. I hurried toward them. I couldn’t believe they were all standing calmly talking about Lacy as if she were interchangeable with bricks and mortar, as if she were a thing that could be cast aside. But my father continued as if I hadn’t spoken.

“How long do we have to make our decision?” he asked.

The engineer glanced at Lacy, then back again. “She’ll be fine for another twenty-four hours or so. After that, the expulsion becomes riskier to the host.”

“This is crazy. It’s just a house,” I said.

Dad turned on me. “Haven’t you done enough?” The ferocity in his words hit like a punch to the guts. I tried to be strong, to roll with the blow, but felt hot tears welling. I blinked hard. “None of this would have happened if you had just done your duty and protected her instead of running off to meet up with whatever piece of street trash you’ve picked up this time. And now you dare to tell us what the right decision is? Leaving your little sister alone to her history was wrong. She’s too young to do anything but let them in. Don’t you get it? Even if we free her, she may never be the same. And the house, our legacy …”

He grew quiet then, as if his outburst had shocked and drained him. His face had grown pale, and his hands shook.

The engineer looked at me as if I were a naive child. And mother wouldn’t even catch my eye.

With tears beginning to fall, I turned and fled the room.

“You’re upset, dear,” Grandma Dee said, looking up at me from beneath drooping eyelids.

I nodded.

“What’s wrong?”

“The engineer says he can’t just bring Lacy back, not without damaging the house, and maybe the factory. And Mum and Dad, they … How, Grandma Dee? How could they even consider putting the house before Lacy?”

Grandma Dee sighed, and shifted her withered arm until it brushed up against my hand. I took her hand in mine, her skin papery.

“The house is bigger than one person, dear. It’s hard to understand when you are still so young.”

I pulled my hand back, holding it to my chest. “That’s rubbish. Lacy’s alive. She has to come before the house.”

Grandma Dee paused, and I felt for a moment I could read her thoughts—she wanted to ask me why I’d left Lacy on her own then. But she didn’t.

“When you approach the end of your life, you wonder what you will leave behind. It’s the nature of things. A repeated pattern.

“A house is a marker. Something to say that your time meant more than just the life you lived. A house is how you are remembered, how you live on, how you keep giving to those you love after you are gone. It’s not an easy thing to let go of.

“Lacy is to be part of that, whether it is today, or in the future. Choosing to forgo the house would ruin Lacy’s legacy as well as yours, and your father’s, and your mother’s, and mine, and everyone who lives on in the house.”

I looked at Grandma Dee, her leathered face entombed within the bricks of the basement. Did she really think this was something special? Something bigger than the sum of its parts?

“I’m not sure I believe that, Grandma Dee. I’ve met the houseless. They seem free in a way we aren’t. Is it so bad to concentrate on the here and now, living each moment without constantly scanning the horizon?”

“Perhaps,” Grandma Dee said.

I watched her close her eyes, drifting back to sleep as if our talk were finished.

“I’d tear the house down tomorrow to save Lacy, and then she could stay with me,” I said quietly. “I’ve met a boy, Grandma Dee. He’d look after us, me and Lacy. I think we’d be fine out there without the constraints of a house.”

Grandma Dee’s eyes snapped open, her hand sprang out and grabbed my wrist. “But is that what Lacy wants? Or this boy, for that matter? Is that what you really want?”

I tried to pull away from her bony grasp, but couldn’t. And suddenly I could feel the house as if it were an electrical current that flowed through Grandma Dee and into my veins. I felt the history, the struggles and triumphs and rebellions and hurts and love of my family, the sacrifices made so that I could be safe and warm, protected. It hit me so hard I almost believed.

Illustration by Aidin Andrews

But then I remembered what the house had done to Lacy, and I wrenched my hand back from Grandma Dee. I watched warily as her sharp eyes searched my face.

“The houseless are not freed, they’re lost. They haven’t escaped, they just haven’t found a spot to plant roots. Neither have you. It doesn’t mean you have to wander forever. It just means you have to look, and find something worth staying for.”

I lay on my bed, unable to sleep, listening to the quiet murmur of my parents talking down the hall. I couldn’t distinguish specific words, but I knew they were discussing Lacy. She was on my mind too.

I felt powerless. I was to blame for Lacy’s predicament, but I didn’t have a say in how to resolve it. Everyone told me I was part of the house, but I felt like a tiny cog trying to spin against the churn of the machine.

The only person who made me feel different was Johnnie.

I sat up in bed and glanced at my window. Moonlight streamed through the stained glass features of Great-great-uncle Roman. It was the wrong decision, but I no longer cared.

I eased off of my bed and changed into the freshest-looking clothes I could find on the pile in the corner. Then I opened my window and slipped outside, using the ivy and trellis to shimmy down the side of the house.

I found Johnnie sitting on the bonnet of Jonesy’s coupe, swigging liquor from a half-empty bottle. He was centre stage, surrounded by ten of his mates, most of whom also worked for my father. A fire burned in a rusty drum nearby, casting flickering light, and heat. At Johnnie’s feet, purring around his ankles, was a girl I knew as Rachel.

I walked across the abandoned lot, gravel crunching under my feet as the damp, oily smell of the river filled the air. When he saw me he stopped orating, rose to his feet and waved, the bonnet groaning under his weight.

“You made it, babe,” he said, grinning.

I smiled back. “Yeah. I needed to get away for a while.”

He jumped to the ground with a thud, and the circle of revellers parted and allowed me to enter. He offered me his hand, which I took, and he pulled me close.

I saw Rachel rise lithely to her feet, pouting.

“You want a drink?” he said, proffering the bottle. I shook my head no.

“Can we go for a walk? Somewhere private?” I cast a quick look at Rachel, who watched us intently.

He frowned. “Go somewhere? But you just got here.”

I gave an apologetic shrug to the group, then pulled Johnnie by the hand out of the circle, away from the fire and his friends. He followed like a stubborn child, feigning resistance, but he kept walking. I led him out of earshot of the party and only stopped when I saw his friends had resumed chatting amongst themselves in the light of the fire, all except Rachel who stood on the edge of the group watching after us.

“What’s up with you?” he said finally.

I huffed. “Lacy of course.”

“Oh, yeah. How is she?”

I wasn’t sure he actually wanted an answer, but I gave one. “Not good. The engineer came this morning and said he may not be able to save both her and the house. To me, it’s simple. We save her. But Mum and Dad … they’re not so sure. They’re thinking on it. How could they even hesitate, Johnnie? How?”

“Ah, damn it,” he said, and this time he sounded genuine. “I’m sorry. That’s rough.” He took another swig of his liquor. “What you need is to take your mind off it. Come back to the party with me. We’ll put on some music, you’ll have a couple of drinks, we’ll shoot the breeze, maybe dance.”

I smiled. “Sounds good. But in a little while, okay? I just need a few minutes with you alone to collect my thoughts.” I pulled him closer, but this time the resistance was real.

“What is it?” I said.

“Nothing. Look, I invited you to a party, not …”

“Not what?”

“Nothing. Just … Sure. Let’s talk.” But then he glanced back at Rachel who was still on her own waiting for us, or more likely him. I suddenly felt annoyed. He might stay out here in the cool with me for a few minutes, and I could talk, but he wouldn’t really listen. Because Johnnie was Johnnie. He was honest to himself, he was free. He had no obligations, because he chose not to.

“Never mind,” I said. I surprised myself when I walked away from him into the darkness.

“Hey,” he called after me. “Where are you going? Party’s this way.”

“Maybe next time,” I said as the cold night engulfed me.

It was quiet when I returned home.

I slipped inside, removed my shoes and padded softly upstairs. I thought about going to bed, but I decided to check on Lacy first.

I sat down next to her and began to run my fingers through her hair. It felt brittle. Her unseeing eyes still stared sightlessly.

“Lacy, come back, please. I want you to come back,” I said. I felt hot and anxious sitting there, hoping desperately that something would change, but she didn’t respond.

I placed my hand on her forehead, surprised at how cool she felt. I could feel the house beneath her skin worming around like a parasite. I could feel her struggling to hold the south wall together, bearing Uncle Carlton’s responsibility. The anger came on abruptly—anger at myself and at this damn house. Fury filled me like a drowning man finally giving in and inhaling cold water.

I pulled my hand back and turned away, disgusted, and as I did my eyes settled on the swords crossed over the mantle. There was no question in my mind as to what I would do next.

The sword came free of the wall more easily than I’d expected. It was heavy in my hands, but the weight felt reassuring. I tested the balance of the weapon, swinging it to and fro, getting a feel for it before I returned to Lacy and Uncle Carlton.

I felt liberated as I raised the heft of that sword above my head, and brought its full weight down onto Carlton’s arm, which cracked but didn’t break. The force of the blow vibrated up my arms, and into my shoulders. I pulled the sword back and swung hard again, and this time the blade sheered through his arm and smashed into the floor, the house screaming as it did.

I worked the sword back and forth, until I could wrench it free from the parquetry. And then I went to work on the wooden tendrils clinging at Lacy.

With each jarring blow, more and more wood snapped, splintered, and split. When the protrusion began to groan, and slowly tilt, I stopped, breathing heavily, and I stepped back to watch it slowly bend, then crack loudly and topple, Lacy spilling free and sliding across the floor, only a few wooden strands still clinging to her.

Then I turned on the wall hiding Uncle Carlton. Selfish Uncle Carlton. Chips of plaster flew, then wood, then bone. The screams of the house began anew, growing insistent, and louder, rising in pitch until my ears rang, but I kept hacking away until my arms burned with lactic acid, until they barely responded to my will to move, but still I would have kept swinging if someone hadn’t grabbed me from behind and wrested the sword from my exhausted grip.

“What are you doing?” Dad hissed in my ears. Before I could answer he pulled me hard backward, and my feet slid from under me, but Dad took my weight. We moved away from the wall, my feet dragging along the floor, and I noticed with confusion that the southern wall continued to crack and split even though my father had interrupted my manic work. And then, I realised with shock, the wall was giving way.

“Lacy,” I said, looking around frantically. “Where is she?”

“Your mother has her,” Dad said. I tried to fight, but I was too exhausted and he was too strong. We backpedalled together until we slammed into the couches in the middle of the parlour. Mum was there, cradling Lacy, who was now awake, the whiteness receding from her eyes as she looked around, muddled. The rising din of destruction drew my attention once more.

I watched in horrid fascination as cracks became fissures, and plaster fell in chunks, exposing beams of wood that were also breaking, along with the bricks behind them. And then with a roar the whole wall fell away, the window shattering violently, and I raised my arm to shield my eyes against the cloud of dust that rose from the debris and expanded, enveloping us. It kept coming thick, and I was soon coughing, tears stinging my eyes. I closed them tight and buried my head in my hands, listening to the sounds of wreckage shifting.

When I opened my eyes again, through the dust I could see a gaping hole, and the sag of the unsupported roof. Closer than I ever imagined was the cold night, already encroaching.

I’d done this. Me. I shivered, suddenly very frightened for us all.

“And where is your father now, dear?” Grandma Dee asked.

The basement smelt damper than before. I could hear running water somewhere behind Grandma Dee’s wall.

“The factory, checking the damage.”

“I see.”

I watched her close her eyes, the pupils fluttering beneath as she searched the connections in our house, and throughout our wider estate. Then she was back, the hint of a grin caressing her lips.

“The factory will be okay. Your father underestimated his links to the building. He does that, your father. He puts too much stock in others, not enough in himself. Uncle Carlton may have made the initial investment, but your father made the factory work.”

I exhaled. “The house is a wreck, though. The entire back wall is nearly gone.”

Grandma Dee looked me over, letting the words hang in the air. “What did your father say about that?” she said eventually.

I turned my mind back to last night. To freeing Lacy, to my father rescuing me before the south wall collapsed. After, he’d held me as the piles of bricks continued to shift, and the dust settled, both of us listening to the sounds of the night floating in—an owl, cars revving far away.

“He was quiet,” I said, recalling his distant gaze. He’d looked defeated, and yet in his eyes there was also something new. “Very quiet for him. It was worse than yelling.”

“And Lacy?” Grandma Dee asked.

“She’s okay, a little disoriented, but okay. Afterward, we bathed and fed her, then put her to bed. When she was asleep, Dad mumbled something about checking on the factory, and he left.”

“I see.”

But I didn’t. I didn’t know what was going on. I’d defied him and ruined our house and I’d expected an explosion, but it had never come.

“What now, Grandma Dee? Can a house this damaged be repaired?”

“Yes, dear. But it requires sacrifice. Someone needs to replace Uncle Carlton. Someone who can buttress this family.”

“And if there is no one?”

Grandma Dee stared at me, a hard stare. “We can hold on for a while, but not forever. The house will fall, and if it doesn’t, the houseless will come and make sure it does. And then the factory will follow. I expect you’ll be sad for a while, but you’ll be free of us. And after you’ve buried me, and your great aunts, your Great-great-uncle Roman, after that you’ll join the houseless and work for someone else if you’re lucky, and survive as best you can on your own.”

I couldn’t reply. I couldn’t even breathe.

I’d fantasised about the houseless, but I didn’t really know what being houseless meant. I’d thought Johnnie was special, but that was wrong. I’d begun to realise that the attributes I’d admired in him—his honesty, his freedom—may have simply been narcissism thinly disguised.

And my family? What had once seemed like a weight pulling me down suddenly seemed warm, and comforting. Had it really taken nearly losing Lacy for me to realise? And now our home was at risk, we were all at risk.

“I need to fix this,” I whispered.

I sat with Lacy on her bed, patting her thin leg beneath the covers as she ate her breakfast. Mum had delivered the eggs moments before, but then she was gone again, saying something about tea. Since Lacy had come back to us the night before last, Mum had moved into overdrive, buzzing back and forth like a bee pollinating flowers, doting on her. Dad still wasn’t home, and that worried me.

When my phone rang in my pocket, Lacy gave me an inquiring glance. I hoped it was Dad, but when I checked I saw it was Johnnie.

“I’ll just be a moment,” I said.

“That’s okay,” Lacy mumbled around a mouthful of food. She sounded happy, innocent. I couldn’t believe the change in her—it was as if she’d somehow wound back time to before her ordeal, as if it had never happened. She was our glimmer of joy.

I went outside her room and answered my phone, heading toward the study at the end of the hall.

“Hey, babe,” he said.

“What do you want?”

“What’s with the attitude, babe? I just wanted to check on you, make sure you were okay. You seemed distracted the other night.”

“I’m fine,” I said, stepping into the study and toward the large bay windows. I wasn’t in the mood for his charm.

“Good. So … want to catch up tonight? I’ll make it up to you,” he said.

I glanced out across our lawns. It looked cold outside, as if the sun was still waking. I thought about asking him what had happened between him and Rachel after I’d left, but then I wondered if I really cared. He continued before I made up my mind.

“It’ll be great. We’re heading to Razzie’s for a few drinks—”

“Then going to the river,” I interrupted. Just like last week, and the week before.

“Yeah,” he said.

I laughed, I couldn’t help it. How had I imagined he had the answers? He was stuck in a cycle, going to the same places, doing the same things each week, with the same people, trying to feel a little control in his life. But it was a sham.

“What’s so funny?” he asked. The cheer was gone from his voice.

“Take Rachel,” I said.

“Aw, come on. There’s nothing between us. It’s you I want, babe.”

But I’d had enough. I hung up on him.

When Dad returned later that night, I was waiting for him on the stairs. Mum and Lacy were asleep in Lacy’s bed.

He looked wrecked, his eyes bleary and red. When those tired eyes found me sitting at the base of the stairs he stopped in the doorway, hand still clutching the door handle, eyes widening a little.

“Hi, Daddy,” I said.

He smiled at me briefly, then frowned, his default setting.

“How’s the factory?”

He closed the door behind him, swaying gently on weary legs. “I was worried. Uncle Carlton started that factory, put his soul into it, but apparently he wasn’t the only thing holding it together.”

“Grandma Dee told me there was more of you in the business than you realised.”

He nodded, then collapsed onto the steps beside me and rested his head in his hands. “Still, it’s taken damage,” he mumbled, “but nothing that can’t be repaired. It’s in a much better state than …”

The house, I thought, but I didn’t finish his sentence, and neither did he. He and I both knew that the factory might be okay for now, but it would only stand so long as the house stood, and without intervention that might not be long.

“It’s my fault. All of it,” I said.

I watched him closely, but he didn’t respond. He was very still, head in his hands, hunched.

“Grandma Dee said it’s not too late for the house.” I cleared my throat. “I’ll take Carlton’s place.” And when I said it out loud, I knew I meant it.

My father’s head rose, his eyes narrowed. “No,” he said firmly.

“But, Daddy, I—”

“No. That’s not what I want for you. That’s not what we did all of this for.”

I didn’t understand. Was his faith in me so shallow? A puddle when it might have been a pool?

But as I watched his expression soften, I realised that wasn’t it. There was a foreign expression on my father’s face. Concern, pride, and shame mixed together. Then he averted his gaze again, staring down at his feet. I followed his eyes. His usually neat shoes were scuffed and dirty.

“I’ve been hard on you. Perhaps unfairly so,” he said.

“And I’ve disappointed you.”

“No, you haven’t.” He sighed, turned to look at me. “Fathers like to think they’re needed. We get protective, and sometimes begin to believe that our role is to protect our children from making the same mistakes we did. But that never works, because we all become who we become through trial and error.

“You’re your own woman, Poppy. I may not have always liked that you were so strong-willed, and that you were unwilling to take my guidance, but I’m proud that you’ve grown up to make your own decisions and to own them when they are right, and wrong.”

I swallowed, my eyes feeling hot. Like Grandma Dee sharing the pulse of the house with me, I felt my father’s contribution to our legacy coursing in the stairs beneath me, plucking at my skin. I felt close to Dad in that moment. And I think I understood him a little. He’d always tried to make Lacy and me understand family responsibility as he did, not as an obligation, but as something that paid back on itself. And I think I did now. Love was a reward, for love.

“Then why won’t you let me save the house?”

“You bringing Lacy back reminded me how much more life you girls have to live, and how much more you both have to give to the family, to each other, and to yourselves.”

“But she wouldn’t have needed bringing back if I—”

“That’s in the past now, honey.”

He smiled, and then did something confounding. He reached out and placed an arm around me and pulled me close. I surprised myself by letting him.

I rested my head on his shoulder and inhaled the scent of him—aftershave and ink from the printing presses.

“There’s a reason I took you to the factory with me so often over the years. You were always the one I wanted to take over. And you can run it, Poppy. I know you can.”

After we cleared away the rubble, the true extent of the destruction became clearer. Barely three feet of the southern wall remained consistently intact, although in each corner where it joined the east and west walls the bricks rose a little higher. About halfway along, a large window frame jutted from the bricks, but the glass was gone, shattered during the collapse.

The engineer had put in place struts to support the roof and the top floors. Tomorrow he’d begin rebuilding the wall.

Mum, Lacy, and I stood close together on the muddy lawn, a gentle breeze whipping our hair. Mum had her arm around Lacy, who rubbed her small hands together nervously. Lacy’s eyes were already wet. I knew how she felt, but I was going to keep it together. Dad had asked me to. And maybe he’d asked the same of Mum because she watched on stoically, proudly even.

“It’s time,” Dad said. He sat on the broken wall near the eastern corner. Beside him on the lawn was a neat pile of bricks, a bucket of mortar, and a trowel.

Without warning, Lacy disentangled herself from Mum and sprang at Dad, leaping into his arms with a hug so fierce she nearly knocked him backward off the brick ledge and into the house. Dad chuckled but hugged her back hard as Lacy began to sob into his chest.

“I don’t want you to go,” Lacy said, sniffling.

“I’m not going anywhere, sweet one. I’ll always be here.”

“You promise?”

“Yes, I promise. Come talk to me often, okay?”

“I will, Daddy.”

Mum began to gently pry Lacy from Dad’s arms, and when she was done, she bent and took Dad in her own, hugging him tightly.

“I love you,” she said. “You know that, right?”

“Of course,” he whispered. “And I love you, too.”

When she pulled back, he turned to me and I knew it was my turn.

I shuffled forward, hesitated, then leaned down and kissed the rough stubble of his jaw. As I did, he raised a hand to my face and cupped my cheek for just a second, but then he released me and I pulled back from him.

“Okay. Over to you,” he said.

I suddenly found it hard to swallow, as if something had lodged at the top of my throat. He was letting go of an integral part of himself and passing it to me like a baton. I wasn’t sure I felt ready, but I was determined to damn well try.

I bent, picked up the trowel and scooped a generous amount of mortar from the bucket. Dad lay down on his side, turning away from us so that he gazed into the house. He allowed one arm to fall inside, just like Grandma Dee.

I took a breath, which did little to calm the sporadic beating of my heart, and then I placed the mortar onto the side of his face, covering his ear. I smoothed it a little, and then stepped back to allow Mum and Lacy to affix the first red brick in place above the newest foundation of our house.