WHEN I WENT to my grandparents’ house that weekend—the weekend—when Mom went mad and killed everyone, they were surprised to see me. That should have alerted me that something was wrong.
“Deanna?” My grandmother peered at me through the screen door, squinting as though she were having trouble seeing me. She pushed the screen door out, looking at me, then my suitcase, her expression confused. “Is everything okay?” I stepped forward, hugging her tightly, and planted a quick kiss on her soft, fragile cheek.
“Hey, Nana.” I reached down, grabbed my suitcase handle, and dragged it forward, toward the front door. “Mom said I was spending the weekend with you guys.”
Her face showed surprise, but she recovered quickly. “Oh! Well, come in, dear. Don’t worry about that suitcase. I’ll have your grandfather grab it.” She ushered me inside, pulling the farmhouse door shut behind us, the smell of mothballs and old books hitting my senses as I stood in the foyer and she scurried around me, turning on lights and adjusting the thermostat.
My family lay dead in our home for almost an entire day before a next-door neighbor, while on a walk, saw blood splatter on the kitchen window. The neighbor looked in the window and saw my sister, Summer, slumped over the kitchen table, a congealed pool of blood around her head. My grandparents and I were at a church dinner when the police came to notify us. They waited at the house, and when we returned from church they sat, two uniformed officers, on the porch, a black-and-white car parked near the mailbox. Nana clutched her chest as soon as we pulled in.
The men stood as our car came to a stop, and Papa put it in park. We opened the doors slowly, none of us wanting to know why they were here. As soon as I saw their faces, I knew they brought bad news. We all knew.
Nana held on to my grandfather’s arm, and they approached the two uniforms. I could see the weight of uncertainty and fear on my grandparents’ shoulders. I moved past them up the steps, opened the unlocked front door, and headed up the wide stairs to change out of my church clothes. I wanted to put as much distance as possible between them and me. As I climbed the stairs, my head pounded, and I gingerly touched the side of my eardrum, feeling the crust of dried blood.
My grandparents delivered the news to me after the policemen left, sitting me down in their formal living room, their voices shaking and eyes weeping. I had no reaction; I said nothing when they told me. My grandfather repeated the news, looking into my eyes to be sure I understood. I sat there in silence for a full minute, then a wail bubbled up in me, and once I started sobbing, I couldn’t get myself to stop.
I stayed at my grandparents’ until I graduated from high school, then I moved out. That was when I enrolled in community college, using the small amount that remained from my parents’ life insurance. There wasn’t much left after paying for four burials.