26. Summer #2
At the end of the hallway, my parents’ bedroom hides behind a closed door. I don’t look at it. Instead, I reach up and tug the red cord dangling from the attic hatch. The ladder unfolds with a screech, releasing a waft of dust and age.
Addie coughs, swatting away the muck. “Charming.”
“It’s been a while.”
“No kidding.”
We both climb up. I fumble for the light switch, gasping when my fingers connect with a thick cobweb.
Addie’s shriek is loud enough to wake the dead.
The bulb flickers for a few seconds before illuminating with a low buzz.
Messy stacks of cardboard boxes are scattered everywhere, labeled in penmanship I don’t recognize. I lift my brows, impressed. Didn’t know the fucker was ever sober enough to write.
Addie’s gaze sweeps over the cluttered chaos. “Jesus-fuck. Casper wouldn’t even set foot in here.”
I eye her incredulously. “Satan wouldn’t set foot in this shithole.”
It’s true.
The room holds no feeling. It’s as though the life has been siphoned from it, leaving behind only the vacant shells of things that were once loved, touched, admired, used. The memories the object once held sit in stillness, haunting the space.
It’s cold and dark and gloomy.
“Where do we start?” Addie asks as she steps toward a dresser. She opens the top drawer.
“You won’t find the guitar in there,” I say.
She rolls her eyes. “Obviously. Wait,” she says, squinting and pointing beyond me. “What’s that?”
I crouch beneath a low wooden beam and there, tucked in the far corner leaning against a bedside table, is Mom’s guitar.
“Is that it?”
My mouth pops open. “Yes!”
I scramble across the dusty floor, shoving knickknacks out of my way until I reach it. The finish is rough and covered in grime, but it’s here.
“Oh, Mom,” I whisper, running my fingers over the strings. They’re rusted and useless, but I don’t care.
“You found it,” Addie says, placing her hand on my shoulder.
I jump, sucking in a sharp breath, but the tension dissipates.
“Sorry,” she murmurs.
“It’s okay.”
“What’s that?” she says, pointing to the bedside table.
“Hmm?” I gently place the guitar down, reaching for the folded paper Addie spotted.
I open it, trying not to tear the delicate edges, and read.
Ocean Grove Pawn her face lined with worry.
She doesn’t ask what happened; she simply guides us to the kitchen and sits us down with fresh mugs of coffee.
I’m halfway through my drink when a knock sounds at the door.
Addie’s eyes snap to mine. “Who do you think that could be?”
“I have no idea,” I say, pushing my chair back to stand. “I’ll be right back.”
I make my way to the front and swing the door open. My eyes widen when I find Uncle Phil on the other side.
“Hey, kid,” he says.
Time has caught up to him. His once smooth skin has crinkled around his eyes, and deep lines frame his mouth. He looks smaller than I remember. Older. Like the years haven’t been entirely kind. Must be the booze.
“Phil.” My spine straightens. “What are you doing here?”
He scrubs a hand over the back of his neck. “Didn’t see you at the funeral. I was collecting something from the camping store when I heard someone mention you were back.”
Great. I’ve already been spotted.
“I thought—” He shrugs. “I wanted to see how you were doing.”
“See how I’m doing,” I repeat.
“Yeah.” His throat bobs.
I study him for a moment. The man who drove his brother home from the bar more times than I can count. Who sat at our kitchen table and laughed at my father’s jokes while I made myself invisible in the corner as they drank themselves into oblivion.