“Ouch! Shit!”
I jump back from the car and flap my hand around. My finger stings like hell—and when I look at it, I see why.
Breaking a nail lifting a suitcase. That figures. Just another reason why coming back to Shelton Bay is a mistake. If I’d stayed in Charlotte, at least all ten of my nails would still be intact.
I suck on my finger to soothe the sting and glance through the back window of the car. Mila’s still asleep, thankfully. If she was awake and caught me cussing there’s no doubt she’d be shouting, “Mama! Bad!” and following it up with a few excited rounds of the bad word.
I breathe a sigh of relief and move back to the trunk. I give the offending suitcase one last tug and it flies out of the car. The gravel crunches as it hits the floor, and I jump to the side. Fucking shit. Mondays suck.
Never, ever move on a Monday. Especially not back to the place you ran from in the first place.
I pull the envelope the lawyer gave me out of the glove box and dig for the key. I find it hiding between the creased papers, and with another glance at Mila in the backseat, I walk to the front door.
I hesitate, taking a deep breath in. I haven’t been to this house for two and a half years, much less been inside it. I have no idea what state it’s in since Dad died eight months ago.
I just know that I’ve put this off as long as humanly possible.
My hands are shaking as I shove the key in the door and turn it, and I swallow hard. The door creaks as I push against it, the sound almost ominous. My gut tells me to run because, holy shit, there could be all kinds of zombies and crap in here waiting for me!
Thankfully, my brain is more rational and tells me to step inside, and that I clearly need to lay off The Walking Dead.
It’s exactly the same as I remember. The same childhood pictures are hanging on the walls. Of my mom crouched behind me, hugging me. Of Dad and my brother, Steven, holding up a huge salmon from the time they went fishing in Oregon. Of me and Dad on my fifth birthday, me in a flouncy princess dress. Of me, Ste, and our parents at one of his baseball games, in the last photo we’d ever take together.
The same patterned rug I remember is running along the front hall, the corners slightly turned up from age, and, God, it’s freakin’ awful. Only elderly women should have flowered rugs in their house.
It still smells the same—like lavender and warm towels fresh from the dryer. I close my eyes and breathe in. Hell. I wasn’t here enough. I should have been here more. No matter that Dad went to the hospice in Charlotte to be closer to me instead of going to Raleigh. No matter that he came to me.
I was too selfish to go to him when he needed me.
I drop my head back and blink harshly. No tears. He made that clear. He told me days before he died that when I came back to Shelton Bay, I couldn’t cry. I wasn’t allowed to, because the happy memories were the best ones.
He told me that I’m not allowed to think of him lying in the hospice bed, too weak to even lift a glass of water to his lips, his eyes sunken and his cheeks hollowed. I have to think of him healthy, smiling, cradling his newborn granddaughter in his arms. I have to think of him making homemade pizza and trying to be both mom and dad for pretty much my whole life.
It would be easier to think that way if it didn’t feel quite so empty without him in this house.
“Mama! Mamaaaaaa! Where you?”
“Crap,” I mutter, turning back outside. And here I was, hoping I could get our bags inside before she woke up. I guess that’s what I get for effing around in the hallway.
I pull open the car door and smile. “Hey, baby girl! Did you have a good nap?”
“Out! Out!” Mila raises her chubby arms.
“Okay, okay, hang on.” I unbuckle her seat belt and lift her out.
She kicks her legs, and I put her down on the drive. She points to the house, so I nod with a smile.
“Go near those stairs and you’re on the naughty step!” I warn as she runs toward the open door.
I slam the trunk down and grab the two largest suitcases. I yank them behind me, and by the time I get to the door, my fingers burn. Damn, they’re heavy.
“I said stay away from those stairs, Mila Lou!” I call, closing the door behind me. She ignores me, and I quickly let go of the bag to sweep her up and away from the staircase. “Here.” I pull her dolly from the bag and give it to her.
She follows me when I open the door to the living room. I close my eyes as I’m assaulted by childhood memories for the second time. Of my mom, of my dad, of hiding behind the sofa and jumping out at Steven and making him yell. Of tearing open presents on Christmas morning and finding hidden eggs on Easter Sunday.
I take a deep breath and move to the windows. I open one to help eliminate the faint musty smell that’s hanging around. This room is almost stale from not being lived in, a stark contrast to the last time I was here. Our next stop will be the store, to get cleaning stuff.
Automatically, my eyes flit to the little girl babbling to her dolly.
Being scared to leave this house is dumb. So. Friggin’. Dumb. Like a kid that’s too afraid to get out of bed because of the monsters they imagine are underneath. But I have to leave sooner or later.
She’ll be seen, sooner or later.
I may as well go with sooner and silence the rumor mill I know has been churning.
But . . . I don’t move. I stay standing where I am, staring at her.
I’m in awe of her innocence. I wish I could see the world as simply as she does. She’s completely unaware of my inner turmoil, of how torn I am. So many lives could be turned upside down in the blink of an eye, merely because of her existence.
I turn on the television to silence my thoughts and flick straight to a music channel. It’s a reflex now. My fingers move automatically to the buttons that will take us there.
The cable is still working despite it being eight months since Dad died. I know because I’ve paid for it ever since, waiting for the time when I’d grow big enough balls to come home.
Home. Now, it is. Mine, again.
When Dad died and the will was being read, Steven called from Afghanistan and gave his share of the house to me. He has his apartment, and he had decided, by himself, that me and Mila will get more use from this house. That we’d get more use out of living rent-free than he would—and he’s right. After all, I only have a couple hundred bucks left from my waitressing job in Charlotte. After that, I have to live off my inheritance. The one thing I definitely don’t want to do.
So the house is bigger than we need, but it has a huge yard for Mila to play in. That’s sure as hell something my tiny, two-bed, city apartment doesn’t have.