Chapter 3
Chapter Three
SORROW
Coming back here feels both nostalgic and painful. I hate how this tiny whimsical town holds both my best and worst memories. I swore I’d never come back and meant it. I should have known my mother would have the last laugh.
When the lawyer tracked me down and told me she was dead, I laughed.
Does that make me a horrible person? Maybe, but it was either that or a scream at the top of my lungs.
Once I’d finished freaking him out and got my shit together, he informed me that my mother’s will stipulated that the house and all her meager belongings were to be left to me.
I wanted that house about as much as I wanted to use a rusty spike instead of a tampon, but I was now liable for the damn place and the financial headache that came with it.
So, being the responsible adult I apparently am now, I took everything he handed me and signed some papers so he could wash his hands of me. I’d tied up some loose ends and finished off my last few jobs before jumping in my van and heading back to my picturesque version of hell.
When I cross the bridge that leads into Tempest, I have a moment of doubt.
I should have paid someone to do this for me.
I owe these people and this town nothing, but therein lies the issue.
I might not owe anyone else anything, but I owe it to myself to get some closure.
It’s time to truly put this part of my life to rest so I can bury it in the ground beside my mother. After all, I’m good at burying shit.
As I get closer to the house, my stomach becomes more and more unsettled until I have to pull over and throw up the burrito I forced down my throat at lunchtime.
Once my stomach is empty, I grab a bottle of water and a toiletry bag from the back of the van.
I brush my teeth and use the few minutes of peace to calm my racing thoughts.
Nobody is going to hurt me. I’m strong now.
Far stronger than I was before. People may call me names, but I survived far worse than that.
I steel my spine, toss the toiletry bag and now empty water bottle into the back, and climb back in.
Needing a few more minutes before I go to the house, I make a detour to the grocery store.
Thankfully, not much has changed—at least visually—in the last six years.
I pull my van in and tug my bag over my head so it sits across my body.
I throw on the navy-blue cap I picked up at one of the gas stations on the way here and tug my shades free from my T-shirt before slipping them over my eyes.
The town might not have changed, even if I have.
But changing on the inside doesn’t alter how I look on the outside, and I have no doubt that some people will recognize me if I’m not careful.
I can’t keep my identity a secret for long, but I just need a few days of breathing room before people arrive with their pitchforks.
I keep my head down and head through the doors, snagging a basket on the way.
I fill it with cleaning products and essentials before heading to the checkout.
I smile when I see two self-serve checkouts alongside the one with the cashier.
Using the self-serve, I scan and add my few items to a paper bag before swiping my card to pay.
Once that’s done, I bend down to pick up the bag and accidentally knock the cap off.
I grab the bag in one arm and head for the door as I put the cap back on with the other.
A cold feeling washes over me, making the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.
My fight-or-flight instinct kicks in. I pick up my speed and leave without looking back.
I toss my groceries in the passenger seat and head to the house, somehow finding comfort in heading there now instead of fear like before.
When I get there, I sigh at the state of the place.
There are six houses down this lane. Three on each side, all with a sizable space between each, which is why the neighbors never heard my screaming.
It’s easy to spot the house where my mother lived alone for the rest of her days.
The other five houses have been updated and painted, and pretty new shutters have been added to the windows.
The yards are neat, with borders of flowers in various colors.
The only one lacking flowers is the house next door, but the lawn is still perfectly mowed to match the others.
Not wanting to leave the van out front where everyone can see it, I fumble for the garage key fob the lawyer gave me and hit the switch to open it.
It seems to take forever. I expected it to be filled to the gills like a bad episode of Hoarders, but thankfully, beyond a chest freezer, a set of ladders, and some large plastic tubs filled with God only knows what, it’s empty.
I pull the van in and hit the fob again to close the door.
When the light fades as the door makes its slow descent, I sigh with relief.
I climb out and walk over to the door that leads into the house, pressing my fingers to the wood.
I wonder if this house remembers me, if it pulses with evil intent, or if it was just a spectator to my trauma, caged by the same walls I was.
The thought of stepping through that door makes me feel physically sick.
But with nobody else to do it, it falls to me.
For once, I wish it would fall on someone else’s shoulders.
Enough of my blood has been spilled in this house for it to be classed as a sacrifice.
But for once, I want to be the goddamn lion instead of the lamb being led to slaughter.
I fumble in my pocket, looking for the key, and take a deep breath. I try to remember my counselor’s advice as I close my eyes and steadily count to ten in my head, breathing in deeply and releasing it slowly.
Okay, I can do this.
I unlock the door and push it open, jumping when an ominous creak makes me think of a horror movie I once saw about a haunted house. And if that’s not a bad omen, I don’t know what is. Good thing I’m not scared of ghosts.
Ghosts, I can manage. It’s monsters that hurt me. And for better or worse, they’re dead now.
I leave everything in the van for now, in case I can’t handle being here and need to make a run for it.
I don’t beat myself up over it. I’ve had a lot of time and therapy to learn how to be kinder to myself and more forgiving of the decisions I made as a scared, touch-starved girl.
I’m not there yet. There are some things I’ll never forgive myself for, but my anger has diminished into guilt and sadness, which I suppose is just the next step in the grieving process.
I walk through the doorway into the mudroom before pushing open the door that leads to the kitchen.
I’m hit with the smell of dampness and mildew.
I breathe in and out through my mouth as I make my way inside so I can open the window above the sink.
I have to shove it hard before it opens, but when it does, I take a deep breath, letting the crisp morning air fill my lungs and clear my mind.
I turn back around and freeze, feeling like I’ve been teleported back in time.
I cover my mouth with shaky hands as I survey the room.
The old pine cabinets were out of date ten years ago, and the avocado green peeling paint makes the room look as if it has been frozen in time since the seventies.
In fairness, it probably has been. The Formica gray and white table that came from a garage sale sits to the side with its mismatched chairs and scratched surface.
I ate many lonely meals at that table and did my homework sometimes by candlelight when my mom forgot to pay the electricity bill.
It was one of the first things I took over when I got my first job at the local ice cream parlor.
I wander into the hallway before stepping into the living room.
Nothing has changed. It still has the same smoke-stained wallpaper with the tiny red flowers dotted over it.
The same gray carpet that is so worn in places that you can see the floorboards beneath.
The faded brown leather sofa and reclining chair sit in the same spots they did six years ago.
If I close my eyes, I can picture my mother sitting in that same damn chair, yelling at the television with a glass of wine in her hand.
At least the place is relatively clean. Housework was not one of my mother’s strong points.
Not that she had many strong points, to begin with.
I’m sure some people would say it could have been worse, and I’m sure that’s true, but neglect can be just as damaging as physical abuse.
When you’re a kid and the only parent you have forgets that you’re alive— well, unless they’re making you bleed—that leaves a lot of mental scarring.
No hot meals until I was old enough to fend for myself, no new clothes unless I could sneak some money from her purse without her noticing, and—perhaps worst of all—no I love yous.
Maybe that’s why I latched on as hard as I did to the first person who said they loved me. I just had no way of knowing that they would twist that love until it resembled something dark and ugly.