She woke midmorning on Thanksgiving and shivered. The garage lacked full HVAC capabilities and she didn’t like to run the space heater as she slept. The chill in the air meant she’d need to brave the second floor of the big house if she wanted to stay comfortable. She chewed the inside of her cheek as she waited for the shower in the three-quarter bath to heat up. Afterwards, she dressed in cargo pants and a t-shirt that wouldn’t suffice for the day. Her better fall and winter clothes were in her old room. It was time to go upstairs.
She unlocked the back door and started the coffee maker. The thermostat on the front room wall read 62. She moved a plastic switch from off to on and rotated the ancient dial to the blue nighttime line, 66. With a clunk the basement heater fired up. The coffee pot chimed, so she poured a cup, letting the heat pass through the ceramic mug to her fingertips. She clutched it like a grown-up’s hand as she trekked up the stairs. Dust grew thicker along the sides of each wooden plank. Months ago she had asked the cleaning service to not bother with the upstairs since no one would be there.
The upstairs suffered fewer months of neglect than the holiday display, but collected more dust. Sunlight streamed through the round window above the landing, illuminating dust motes mid-journey on the ride to the floor. Between the sun and the dust, the fabric flowers on the occasional table faded into dull reds and dirty yellows.
“I’ll relocate you to a trash bag later.” Relief swept down Claire’s spine as the flowers refused to answer.
To the right of the landing, the five-paneled door of the master bedroom waited for someone to turn the custom carved wood train door handle. Dust turned the train’s steam cloud an appropriate shade of gray. She stepped close and blew a puff of air at the handle. Debris floated up. Her eyelids didn’t respond fast enough. When they closed, they trapped irritants. Her eyes itched and watered. She fell against the door as she blinked.
“Okay, okay. I am not the right person to open the door today. I’ll wait.” A soft whistle whispered against her inner ear. “I hope that was a freight train.” Her heart thrummed against her chest. She passed the guest room-slash-train collection room and continued down the hall to her room. Each corner of her five-paneled door showed a patina of neglect, but the doorknob, a piece of repurposed track, didn’t look bad. She pushed down and then forward as the door squealed.
Light fell across the floor at a strange angle. The cheap metal blinds were half-up, half down, and only one of the pink floral curtains Grandma had made was tied back. Claire’s funeral dress lay in a crumpled heap at the foot of the bed. One shoe sat on the nightstand. The digital clock blinked red nonsense numbers. She hadn’t made the bed properly last time she was here. A couple of posters had fallen from the wall. Worse, during her absence, sunlight attacked her photo wall, fading images of her and Jo, and her with the OMC and her favorite photo of her with her mom.
She peeled the picture off the wall and traced her finger over her six year old self as she and her mom smiled in front of the faux Eifel Tower at an amusement park. Mom had often promised to take her places, or said they would do something together, but she had rarely followed through. Her mom had gotten free tickets to the park, so she splurged on this photograph. It was in the middle of their best time. Mom was sober, between boyfriends, and working a regular job. They had lived in the same apartment for most of the school year. If someone saw only this photo, they would have assumed her mom was a good mom, the kind who made sandwiches, liked to braid hair, played with toys and never yelled. It was a photo of a dream and it crumpled in her hand.
Anger bubbled inside her. “Stupid.” She fell onto the bed, closing her eyes against the anticipated dust cloud. “Stupid, stupid, stupid. You can’t manipulate the real world, and shape it no matter how much you want to. You couldn’t make her stay sober, you couldn’t keep her from killing Grandma, you couldn’t keep Clem from dying and you sure as hell can’t make James see a world that doesn’t exist life sized.”
Her tiny Belkin was an illusion. Water filled her eyes, and then spilled forth.
A ring interrupted her sob fest. Claire pulled out her cell.
“Hello.”
“Hey Claire, it’s Jo. Are you okay? Have you been crying?”
She inhaled a rumble of phlegm. “Maybe.”
“You’re still going to Walter’s right? I could get you and drop you off there. You’re breathing better.”
“Maybe a little.”
“Sandy ordered pie and I was going to ask if you could pick them up. But you got so much going on. This next month is going to be rough without Clem, if you don’t want to be alone, you can always move in with me and Kevin for a bit.”
“If I could, I’d crawl into the tiny town and stay forever. I—Don’t let me hide out or get lost like mom.”
“I’m giving you a phone hug, but I’m going to give you a real one soon. Sandy asked me to ask you to bring the pecan-pumpkin pie she ordered. Kevin and I are getting ready to head out in the next 15-20 minutes, so I wanted to make sure you could still pick it up. I could come by, I suppose.”
“No. You’re giving me the kick in the caboose I need.” She glanced at her sneakered feet. “Give me ten minutes – five to dress and five to drive.”
