2. My Mom Springs An Unwelcome Surprise
MY MOM SPRINGS AN UNWELCOME SURPRISE
MARY KATE
The drive to the mansion is a slow suffocation.
Every mile between the college and the Lakes District ratchets my pulse higher, until I can feel my own blood in my wrists.
I take the scenic route, past the skeletal trees and the gray scab of ice on the ponds, circling Lake of the Isles twice to kill time.
My head is a mess, and unconsciously, I shake it like that’ll help clear up the roiling boil of thoughts.
The mansion appears through the windshield like a hallucination.
Four stories of limestone and glass, perched above the frozen creek, flanked by a sweep of manicured hedges and naked rosebushes bristling with old thorns.
I roll to a stop at the curb, engine humming in the cold, and just sit.
The manor is silent, lights off except for the faint gold glow leaking from the library window.
I carry my bags up the walk. The chill air is so thin and dry that it burns inside my nose. My hands, already numb, fumble for the key that’s always tucked in the flowerpot. The lock sticks, as if the door is trying to hold me outside.
Inside, the silence has teeth. No echo of TV from the den, no clatter from the kitchen, no Jeannine clacking around in high heels, commanding the cleaning service.
Just the creak of my boots on Italian tile, the faint smell of lemon polish, and the distant hush of the heating system.
There are still faint scratches on the doorframe from where Kent’s old dog, Basil, used to paw for attention, but the pooch’s been dead for years.
I drag my bags into the foyer, letting the wheels rattle over the grout lines.
The art on the walls is still the same: a cold watercolor of the Amalfi coast, a moody oil portrait of a woman with a broken nose and piercing blue eyes.
There’s an absurd amount of space, as if the house is built for a family of twenty.
The emptiness breathes around me, making every movement a performance for an invisible audience.
I call out, “Mom?”
No answer. Just the click of my own voice ricocheting through the front rooms. I check the time—only four-thirty. Jeannine said she’d be here after five. She had some kind of luncheon to attend, although why those things end so late, I have no idea.
I drag my suitcase to the grand staircase. The steps are wide enough to land a plane on, each one trimmed in dark cherry wood and thick, soundless carpet. I feel ridiculous, a college girl in a battered sweatshirt and leggings, hauling a Target suitcase up a luxurious staircase.
At the top, I pass by Kent’s office—door closed, totally silent.
He’s not home, but there’s a subtle shift in the air here, as if the molecules themselves are under stricter supervision.
I move faster, shoes muffled by the carpet runner, until I reach the third-floor landing and the hallway I used to call home.
My room is exactly as I left it when I moved out for college.
Pastel blue walls, the corkboard still pinned with AP exam schedules and a wrinkled Taylor Swift poster, the shelf above the window lined with a military parade of cheerleading trophies and three years’ worth of Show Choir ribbons.
My old twin bed is dwarfed by a headboard upholstered in cream velvet, the comforter pulled tight and perfect as a hotel suite.
The desk holds a single bottle of perfume (Juicy Couture, half-empty) and a stack of SAT prep books.
I set my suitcase down and look at myself in the mirror.
The girl in the reflection is an older version of the teen this room was built for: a half-inch taller, blonde hair grown out in luscious waves, hips and bust that don’t fit the memory of my cheerleader body.
The old pink desk lamp is still shaped like a daisy, and it throws a petal-shaped shadow across my cheekbones.
I stand for a while, unzipping my suitcase but not unpacking it, letting the new version of myself leak into the static air of my old life. The feeling is so dissonant it makes my teeth ache.
After a minute, I start refolding my sweaters and stacking them in the closet, which still smells faintly of last spring’s dryer sheets.
The action is pointless—nobody will see them—but I do it anyway, arranging the knits by color, then by thickness, then by how likely I am to wear them in the coming week.
With each pass, the stack becomes more orderly, and my breathing slows.
Once, I pause, holding a tattered copy of the Rick Steves guidebook to my chest, thumbing the creased cover as if it might still open a portal.
I picture Kent standing in the library, reading over a patient chart or scrolling through Italian phrases on his phone, dark and handsome, with a gleam in those blue eyes. The image makes my mouth go dry.
The silence of the house isn’t peaceful though; it’s the kind of silence that swallows up all attempts at noise. Even with the heating running, even with the ticking of the hallway clock, every sound I make is immediately absorbed, leaving nothing behind.
After I finish arranging the closet, I sit at the edge of the bed.
The mattress is unfamiliar, plush yet firm, the opposite of my broken-down mattress at the apartment.
I slide the Rick Steves guidebook under my pillow, as if it’s a forbidden diary, and open my laptop to check on a class discussion board.
The Wi-Fi here is faster than god, but I can’t focus on the screen.
Instead, my eyes drift to the window, where the sun is already disappearing, leaving only a bluish-lavender haze and the faint grid of security lights across the yard.
Somewhere out there is the garden where Jeannine once made me pose for family Christmas photos, Kent’s hand on my shoulder, his wedding ring a bright punctuation mark.
I imagine him now, at the hospital, lecturing a room full of residents or working some double-blind trial in the bowels of the research wing.
I can’t picture him sick. He’s not the type who goes soft, even in private.
But I can picture him angry, or worse, bored— prowling the empty house, hunting for something to break or seduce.
A shiver runs through me, not entirely unpleasant.
I try to distract myself by going to the bathroom and splashing cold water on my face.
The en suite is a showroom, all marble and gleaming silver fixtures, with a drawer full of hotel-sized perfumes and expensive soaps.
I towel off and catch my reflection again.
My eyes look huge, almost swallowing my entire face. I force a smile, then give up.
Back in my room, I open the old jewelry box on my nightstand.
Inside, every trinket is arranged like a time capsule: the chain necklace Kent bought me on my seventeenth birthday, the tiny gold charm from Jeannine (for luck, which never seemed to work), a cheap glass ring I bought at the Renaissance Festival with my high school boyfriend.
I close the lid and place a palm flat against it, as if blessing the ghosts inside.
For a while, I just sit cross-legged on the bed, picking at the hem of my leggings and listening for any sign of life in the mansion. There’s nothing. No car in the driveway, no voice on the intercom, not even the distant thump of the household staff moving about.
I wonder if Jeannine will actually show up, or if I’ll have to spend my first night alone. I wonder if Kent will come home later, or if I’ll have to go to bed, seeing a glimpse of his face only in my dreams.
Finally, I give up and flop onto my back, arms flung wide, breathing in the cold linen. The ceiling is painted with glow-in-the-dark stars, painfully juvenile, come to think of it. I trace a faint crack in the wall with my finger, sensing the familiar crannies.
After a few minutes, my mind goes blank, or at least as blank as it can get. I think about Italy, about the ancient stone and the little dogs in sweaters, about getting lost in some foggy alleyway with nobody watching.
But then, always, the thought comes back to the house. To the man who occupies the master bedroom, or to the phantom of him, pacing, hands in pockets, eyes lit up with all the things he never says out loud.
I close my eyes and try to will myself to sleep, but I know it won’t work. Not with the echo of his name in my head, and the phantom ache of his thumb on my cheekbone.
Eventually, I give up, and just lie there, waiting for the next voice, the next footstep, the next sign that I’m not alone.
And all the while, the house listens, patient and hungry, swallowing my secrets and waiting for the rest.
The next voice in the house isn’t Kent’s.
It’s the sharp, familiar cadence of Jeannine, high heels ticking down the corridor, a suitcase rumbling behind her like a petulant dog. I know her rhythm before I see her, the way she pauses at the end of the hall, the precise interval she waits before rapping once on my door and breezing in.
“Mary Berry?” she calls, the old nickname flickering across her tongue.
She’s already halfway through the doorway, pearl earrings glinting, hair blown out and pulled tight at the crown, as if she’s running late for a photoshoot.
There’s a whiff of La Mer and travel-size Purell in her wake, clinical and expensive.
She surveys the room, taking in the half-unpacked suitcase, the open laptop, the girl on the bed curled like a question mark.
“Hi, Mom,” I say, voice hoarse from not talking. “Sorry, I fell asleep.”
She smiles the practiced, TV-ready smile—teeth flawless, corners just slightly softened by the crow’s feet she’s recently decided not to have Botoxed. The lines make her look more human, not less. “Look at you. You’re back, and looking wonderful.”
“Thanks,” I say, sitting up straight. “How are you?”