Chapter 11 #2
I look around for my phone and find it a few feet away, wincing as I slip it into my pocket.
The ground below me is damp and hard, and the air is stale and heavy, as if it isn’t quite air at all, but something thicker, heavier.
I check the stairs, my eyes flitting with fear as I remember it’s my only point of exit.
The third step is busted in the middle, but the rest seem unaffected by my fall.
Carefully, I stand and cross the shadowy cellar, my muscles and bones stiff and sore. I’m definitely going to be bruised by morning, if I’m not already.
I’m not trapped down here. I can make it up using the stairs that haven’t broken, I just have to be more cautious when testing them.
I got too confident, too trusting of the old wood.
Still, being down here fully makes each breath feel a little bit more difficult.
My body is as tight as a stretched rubber band—both from the fall and from the fear of this place.
Of being trapped, though I know I am not, and of what I might find down here.
It’s like the quintessential basement in every horror movie, and though I have to know what’s down here, there’s a part of me that wonders if I’ll regret looking.
I breathe in the dusty scent of the cool, damp air as I make my way to the row of old, wooden shelves.
There are a few old jars, labeled in a scratchy handwriting I don’t recognize.
Beans
Carrots
Pickles
Tomatoes
Beets
Corn
I’m shocked by how well the food appears to have held up over the years, though I wouldn’t dare eat it.
Still, it’s a little time capsule left for me, most likely from my grandma.
A piece of history I’m grateful to have.
Once, she must have had meals planned for these foods.
I wonder what happened. Why they weren’t eaten.
It’s hard not to picture the shelves filled with vegetables from the garden—meals just waiting to be made. Grandma was always a brilliant cook, and she was never afraid of the hard work it took to run this house on her own.
I’m tossed into my memories of her suddenly.
I remember the chickens she kept on the property and the large garden she tended.
I remember how she’d wake me each morning with a kiss to the head, telling me the sun was waiting for me to come outside.
I remember eating tomatoes right off the vine, or slicing them up, adding mayonnaise on a slice of bread, and eating it as a sandwich.
I remember how she’d pour lavender and rosemary oils into my bathwater, how she’d sprinkle it with flower petals and tell me to call the fairies to come and play.
How she’d serve every drink in a teacup, just because she could.
I remember sitting on her porch learning to braid wildflowers, repeating each of their names and the special things they could do.
Wisteria for deep pain.
Valerian for sleep.
Lavender for stress.
Chamomile for the belly.
St. John’s Wort for sadness.
Marigold for infections.
Yarrow to stop bleeding.
She said it to me often, as if she wanted me to memorize it. And I guess in the end I did. She made the most mundane things feel special, and that will forever be her legacy for me.
Passing the shelves, I move on to the boxes sitting in the back corner of the room. To call them boxes at this point is generous. As soon as I touch the cardboard, they deteriorate under my fingers, damp clumps falling to the dirt.
I wonder if Mom knows this is down here. Would she want any of it?
I pick up a white onesie, stained brown across the front. It might’ve belonged to Mom once, which is strange to think about.
I’ve never seen any of Mom’s baby clothes, nor much from her childhood.
From what she’s told me and what I remember, Grandma was incredibly frugal.
She used to take all the old bars of soap that had been worn down to slivers and put them in her soap dispenser, mixing them with water to make a concoction that could be used as liquid soap.
Shirts were torn to make rags, and jars were reused again and again for one thing or another. She made everything last, only bought what she couldn’t make herself, and donated anything she didn’t need.
That’s why it feels odd to find this box of things they clearly meant to keep. Under the first layer of old clothes, I spot a stack of old photographs. They’re covered in a film of dust, but once I dust it off, I’m surprised to see the first one is of me as a child.
I’m…maybe three or four here. Dressed in a strawberry dress and matching bonnet.
In the next photo, I’m a little older. Or, at least, my hair is a little longer, tied back in pigtails.
I’m standing in front of the cabin with my arms around a child I don’t recognize.
A baby. She’s around a year old, maybe two, with hair so stark blonde it’s almost invisible in the bright sun.
I bring the photo closer to my face, trying to discern who this baby might be.
She’s not anyone I recognize. Maybe a cousin.
I believe there are a few on my great-aunt Marie’s side, but it seems unlikely there would be any photos of us together.
Grandma’s sister died before I was born, and as far as I know, her kids didn’t stay in touch.
So who is this baby standing next to me, and why don’t I remember her?
I place the photo to the side, digging through the rest of the stack quickly.
There are a few more photos of the two of us, all around the same time and age before I reach the bottom of the stack.
The rest of the box contains an old wooden dog that must’ve been a toy at some point, a soft-bristled baby’s hairbrush, an empty trinket box, and more clothes.
Standing up, I brush off my knees and the seat of my pants and cross the cellar again.
There’s nothing else down here—just shadows and dust.
Still, I take one of the photos of the young girl and me.
I climb the steps out of the cellar slowly, easing my weight onto each one before I commit.
Once I’m out, I suck in a deep breath of the fresh air and study the photo again.
I wait for the memory to come back to me, for me to recall who this baby is.
A friend of the family, perhaps. A child Grandma babysat.
I pull my phone from my pocket, already knowing she won’t answer, but I have to try. Maybe if the police have reached out, she’ll finally speak to me.
To my surprise, after a few rings, the line connects.
“Hello?” It’s not my mom’s voice that answers, though.
“I need to speak to my mom.”
EJ’s pretentious tone is like nails on a chalkboard. He thinks he’s better than me, that he’s more important to my mom than I am. The problem is, he’s not wrong about that part, and I hate him for it. “Sorry, Rin. She doesn’t want to talk to you.”
His use of the nickname I’ve never liked and certainly never gave him permission to use sets my chest on fire. “I didn’t ask that. I need to speak with her.”
“She’s unavailable,” he says, his voice calm and casual.
I hate him, I hate him, I hate him. “I know she’s mad at me.”
“She just needs some time. You really hurt her.”
I want to scream, to yell, to lash out, to grab him through the phone and throttle him, but I don’t. “EJ, can you please put her on the phone?”
In the background, I hear her voice, though I can’t make out what she’s saying.
“Sorry. She says she’ll have to call you back.”
“We both know she won’t.”
He clears his throat. “Take care, Rin.”
The call ends, and I toss my phone onto a pile of clothes, opening my mouth to scream though I don’t allow a sound to slip out. I fling my arms down at my sides, throwing a silent tantrum just to make myself feel better.
And it does. Slightly.
I pick up my phone again once I’ve calmed down and scroll through my contacts, looking for my great-aunt’s number.
If Mom wants to keep being childish and petty, fine. She can talk to me when she’s ready, but I refuse to beg.
If anyone besides Mom would know who this baby is, it would be Aunt Lydia, my grandma’s sister-in-law and one of the last living members of our family. She takes so long to answer, I’m preparing to leave a voicemail when she finally picks up.
“Heya, honey.”
I smile at the sound of her voice. It’s soothing at a time when I need it most. “Hey, Aunt Lydia. What are you up to?”
“Oh, I was just getting in from the grocery store. I’ve been meaning to call and check on you. Are you at Foxglove already? All settled in?”
“Yep, yeah. We got here a few days ago.”
“Your mom said you were going to be there this week. How are you…?” Her words trail off, like she was going to add more—doing, settling in, feeling, perhaps—but the question isn’t about the house or settling into a new place, and we both know it.
“I’m good,” I promise her. A lie, but she doesn’t push me on it. “It’s weird…being back, you know?”
“That place is a little slice of magic right here on God’s green earth,” she tells me wistfully. “I think it’s good you’ve gone back. And besides, I shouldn’t say this, but I always thought you were too good for Lewis.”
I pause, hearing her words. I want to thank her, but she’s wrong. And though she doesn’t mean to be, it feels cruel. I was never too good for Lewis. And I would hope no one would call him too good for me.
Once, we were perfect. Happy and silly and beautifully perfect.
The only thing we’re guilty of is growing apart.
Growing up. Being different people at forty than we were at seventeen.
I have loved him longer than I was ever without him, and a signed paper and months of arguing doesn’t change that. At least not for me.
“Have you heard from Mom lately?”
She hesitates. “Is she still upset with you?”
“No,” I say, attempting to cover the truth. The last thing I need is for her to let it slip to Mom that I’ve been gossiping about her. “We just keep missing each other, so I haven’t had a chance to check in since we arrived. Actually, that’s partly why I called you.”
I grip the photo, holding it out so I can see it clearly. “I found an old cellar at Foxglove I didn’t know existed. Did you know we had one?”
“A cellar?” she asks, her voice soft. “You know, now that you mention it…I do think your grandpa might’ve said something about a cellar once. I never thought too much about it. Storm cellars were common back when Foxglove was built.” She releases a soft hum.
“What did he tell you about it?”
She clicks her tongue. “I’m not sure. Maybe just that it existed. Honey, I’m sorry, I don’t remember exactly. That was right around the time he died, now that I think of it.” She lets out a soft breath. “I’d forgotten about it until now. Why do you ask?”
I start to tell her about the cellar, but something stops me.
She called it a storm cellar, but that’s not what this is.
Whatever my grandfather told her, she doesn’t know about this place.
Not really. Until I say something, this secret that would have otherwise died with Grandma might only be mine.
There’s no reason not to tell Aunt Lydia, it’s just a room of old, dusty shelves and dirt, but the words catch in my throat, and I can’t. More than that, I don’t want to.
“It’s probably nothing. I found some old jars of vegetables and a box of photos.”
She hums. “I’d love to see the photos, especially any of your grandpa Charles. It’s like a time capsule. Gosh, I miss him some days.” She laughs. “You remind me a lot of him, you know?”
She’s mentioned it before. “I can send you some if I see any. I’ll go back through them.”
“That’s sweet of you, honey. Thank you.”
“Actually, the reason I’m calling is that I found a photo of me when I was a little girl. I was maybe four or five in the photo, and I’m standing with another girl I don’t recognize. She’s much younger than I was, probably only about one, with bright, almost-white, blonde hair.”
She clicks her tongue, thinking. “Hmm. I don’t know who that would be. Maybe one of your grandma’s friends’ grandbabies or something. Your mom would probably remember better than I could.”
“Can I send you a picture of it, just in case? Maybe it’ll jog your memory.”
“Well, sure, honey. I can take a look.”
“I’m going to send it here in just a few minutes, okay? You can call me back if she looks familiar.”
“If I can figure out where my glasses are…” she mumbles, more to herself than anything. “Okay, honey. Talk soon.”
I end the call and snap a photo of the picture before sending it to Aunt Lydia.