Chapter Seven
CHAPTER
Thankful for her sunglasses warding off the morning sunshine—although it had been fun, the night before had been a late one—Nyah sighed as she stepped through the sagging gate of the ageing picket fence, her gaze snagging on the unkempt garden and weather-beaten porch.
By the looks of things, her mother really had let her life go to rack and ruin.
Today was the day she’d pack up all remnants of Claire, gifting most of her goods to charity and keeping little for herself.
Concluding yet another heartbreaking chapter of her life, one without any kind of satisfying closure.
Would she ever get resolution when it came to her little sister?
She hoped so.
Nursing a lingering headache from a couple of shandys followed by way too many wines and not enough sleep, she felt her hand tremble as she reached for the tarnished brass doorknob that had welcomed her home countless times in childhood.
Unable to take another step, she drew a deep breath, willing herself to push past the flood of memories threatening to consume her.
With a little shove, the door creaked open, the sound echoing through the silent house as she stepped across the threshold and into the past. As she paused in the dimness, the sharp scent of neglect assaulted her senses—the mustiness of closed rooms mingled with the lingering stench of stale cigarettes.
Dust motes danced in the slanted sunlight that pushed through the dirty windows, casting hazy patterns on the faded carpet.
Home sweet home this certainly was not.
She scanned the outdated, cluttered living room, taking in the few familiar objects that held bittersweet memories—the faded couch where they’d often sat together as a family, although rarely closely.
The cabinet that held her mother’s fine china collection captive, for that special occasion that never eventuated.
And the stack of newspapers and magazines that had once been neatly placed by her mother, now bigger and wider and tossed about as if a cyclone had swept through the house.
What was missing were the many family photos that had lined the walls.
The only ones left were a few faded ones of her sister, and a lone one of her mother with a smouldering cigarette in one hand and her other arm tossed around Margery’s shoulder.
Two peas in their rotten pod, they were.
Hovering a fingertip over a faded framed photograph of Skye, she traced the angles of her little sister’s face. ‘Skye, sweetheart, where are you?’ she whispered, feeling closer to her in this room, more than ever, as a chill raced down her spine.
Suddenly it felt as if someone was standing behind her, breathing on her neck, making the hairs stand on end.
Spinning around, she still felt the peculiar sensation as it slowed, then softened.
Hand to heart, she held her breath, not knowing exactly what, or who, she was expecting to see.
A few drawn-out seconds passed before she allowed herself to inhale sharply.
Blinking the room back into focus, she checked in on herself.
She needed to not let her brain play such tricks.
It would do her no favours to imagine otherworldly things.
Because if Skye’s spirit was here, it would mean she was dead, and she didn’t want to acknowledge something that would bring such anguish.
Eyeing the bookcase, she moved towards it as if on autopilot.
She knelt by the shelves and traced her fingertips over the spines of tattered photo albums before she pulled them down one by one and she leant against the back of the couch.
Each book held a chapter of their lives, filled with snapshots of better times before Skye’s sudden disappearance had completely torn their family apart.
She opened each one at random, and her heart ached at the sight of her younger sister, all bright-eyed innocence frozen in time.
And the few pictures of her parents—looking at them now, she could see the divide between them.
Their body language conveyed nothing of the love a husband and wife should feel.
As for herself, she was in almost every photo, all teeth and long limbs, smiling as if life was full of bliss.
How unaware they’d all been of the horrors that lurked in their future.
Unable to bear any more of the recollections, she swallowed back tears then carefully placed the albums back on the shelf.
Straightening, then moving methodically throughout the house, room to room, memory to memory, she began packing up her mother’s personal belongings.
She remained as detached as humanly possible while working through it all.
Emotions would do her no favours right now.
There’d be time enough for that when she went home to Cairns.
So, bit by bit, item by item, she peeled away layers of Claire’s bitterness, revealing the young woman who’d sometimes hummed while she cooked before entrenching sorrow had turned her melodies into silence.
In the kitchen, her movements were automatic as she reached for bubble wrap to protect her mother’s china.
She’d be leaving that for Margery to collect, as per her mother’s instructions.
Finally, she faced her mother’s bedroom.
She’d deliberately left it to last, worried it may be the one place that would break her resilience.
With creaking floorboards beneath her bare feet, she grasped the doorknob at the end of the hall and pulled open the door.
The hinges groaned softly, reflecting the reluctance in her heart.
She made her way to the closet, her hands hovering over the fabrics that hung within—cotton, linen, silk, a tangible history of her mother’s existence.
As she sifted through the clothes, the scent of lavender and the faintest hint of her mother’s perfume wafted, enveloping her in an embrace that was suffocating.
Each garment held its own story, from the floral dresses Claire used to wear on her Sunday church outings to the rugged jeans and shirts she’d donned for work in the garden—which she clearly hadn’t done for many months, maybe even years.
As she turned away from the painful insight and knelt to peer beneath the bed, a dusty box caught her attention, its lid askew, revealing the edges of worn letters and a leather-bound journal.
Crawling along the floor, she stretched beneath the slatted base and slid the box towards her.
With reverent fingers, she traced the spine of the journal, the cover crackling slightly under her touch.
Straightening then sitting on the edge of the bed, she flipped through the pages.
Her heart ached at the sight of her mother’s familiar looping handwriting—a script that seemed to oscillate between controlled precision and frantic scrawls.
She would read this in depth another time, but from what she could see at first glance, each entry was filled with raw emotion and pain, detailing years of unresolved anger and a deep-rooted resentment towards the world that had taken her beloved Skye away, leaving her with nothing but shadows and suspicion.
She placed the closed journal in her lap, with one hand resting upon it and the other resting over her heart, as a lump formed in her throat.
This diary might help her to understand the complex puzzle that had been her mother—a woman hardened by tragedy and her love tangled within a thorny cage of bitterness.
She longed to find proof that her mother’s harshness had come not out of disdain for her, but rather from a broken heart, even if it had led to her pushing away her remaining daughter.
‘Mum,’ she whispered softly, the word a mixture of empathy and heartache. ‘I wish I’d got to tell you that despite everything, I really did love you.’
The house sat in an eerie silent response, filled with echoes of the past.
She couldn’t sit here, adding torture to her already tormented heart.
Get up, Love, and finish this.
Some time later, with the clothing folded and placed into boxes, she felt a bittersweet mix of emotions.
There was sadness for the loss of her family, but also anger that her mother had done such a horrible thing to her father, without an ounce of regret, and had never tried to make amends with her.
For their tattered relationship, tomorrow would never come.
And that hurt like hell. She paused as she held the final item, a delicate scarf, its fabric soft—too soft for the way her mother had lived her life.
Another wave of unresolved grief washed over her, but she forcibly pushed it aside and continued with her task, determined to get the job done and get the hell out of the house.
Finally, with each item packed away, and only a few escaped tears shed, she sat on the edge of the couch, hands clasped as tightly as her heart, and waited for the charity truck to arrive so they could take almost everything away.
Beside her were the two boxes she’d kept for herself, filled with the photo albums, her mother’s antique hairbrush and silk scarf, the journal from beneath the bed, and a few of Skye’s toys and story books.
Losing herself in her thoughts, she heard heavy footfalls on the patio, drawing her attention to where the front door swung open.
The scowling face was not one she’d expected to see.
The elderly woman’s sudden appearance was unwelcome and jarring. ‘Back to clean up your mess, are you?’ Her voice was locked and loaded with as much scorn and malice as her crumpled face.
Nyah shot to her feet. ‘Margery.’ She greeted her evenly, despite the surge of adrenaline that had just shot through her veins.
‘Nice of you to show up now, especially after everything you’ve done. Or should I say…haven’t done.’ Margery’s eyes were sharp as flint, and her words barbed with anger and resentment.