by Amy Cross
Good question.
I know the house is empty. But if someone could look out one of the windows and watch as I struggle with my suitcase through the snow, what would they really think of me? That I'm a good daughter, that I'm honoring my father's memory by coming and taking a look at the place? Or that I'm trying to compensate for the fact that Dad was alone here so much toward the end, and that deep down I feel guilty? That this is too little, too late? That he's long gone, so I'm wasting my time?
I know what I'd think, if I could see myself now. I'd think that I'm fooling myself.
***
As soon as I've slammed the door shut, I open my mouth to call out and tell him I've arrived.
And then I hesitate, frozen for a moment, listening to the silence of the house and to the whistling of the snowstorm outside. Looking through to the front room, I see that the light in the house is so gloomy and dull, especially compared to the brilliant white of the snowy landscape outside. And it's cold in here. Colder than out in the yard, even.
I still want to call out.
Just one more time.
Setting my suitcase down, I head over to the doorway and flick a switch on the wall. At least the power is still on, so a light flickers to life above me. Not that a single bulb is much use right now, and the glare of the snowstorm still makes all the windows seem like they're glowing.
I take a step forward, but in doing so I cause one of the floorboards to let out a loud creak.
I stop, feeling guilty for disturbing the silence, before reminding myself yet again that there's no-one else here now. Dad might have hated whenever people made too much noise, but Dad is gone. I no longer need to worry about all his crazy rules. He's thirty miles to the west, six feet below the frozen ground, in a cold wooden box and wearing his best Sunday suit. He's not here.
Nobody's here, except me.
Dad has been dead for months now.
Wandering across the front room, I look into the kitchen and see Dad's old magnets still on the front of the fridge. People always bought him fridge magnets, whenever they wanted to give him a gift. He complained, saying that soon he'd need a second fridge just so he'd have somewhere to put them all, but deep down I think he quite liked the attention. Or the fuss. I've never been a fridge magnet kind of person, not in my busy little city apartment, but I know Dougie will just throw them all away if he gets the chance, so I guess I'll have to take them. Even if I end up putting them in a box at the bottom of my wardrobe and forgetting about them.
I open my mouth to say something.
“Hey, Dad,” maybe.
I stop myself just in time.
This is no time to get stupid. Or sentimental.
Making my way through to the dining room, I try to focus on what needs doing. The house is freezing cold, and I remember how Dad always worried about the water pipes freezing. He had a complicated system, whereby he'd only heat the rooms he used and then he'd leave certain doors open and certain doors closed, with the idea being to make sure there was just enough heat circulating through the rest of the house to keep the pipes running. All the doors have been left shut, and the heating hasn't been on for months, so I'm not expecting much when I head back to the kitchen and try the faucets.
Miracle of miracles, there's still running water.
“That's lucky,” I mutter under my breath. “At least I don't need to -”
No.
No, I'm not going to start talking to myself.
That's one of the rules I set, before I arrived here. I told myself that under no circumstances was I going to start talking out loud to myself like some kind of nutter. I guess I hadn't anticipated the overbearing silence of the house, but I figure I'm just going to have to stick to my rules. If I start talking to myself now, it might become a habit, and then I'll really be in trouble when I get back to the city.
So instead I grab the kettle, check inside to make sure that there's not too much limescale, and then I set some water on to boil.
After all, tea makes everything feel better.
Once I'm in the front room, I take a look at the wood-burning oven and find that there's still plenty of ash inside. I grab a small shovel and get down onto my knees, beginning the job of cleaning the oven out. While I'm working, the kettle is bubbling in the kitchen, and I've got to admit that I'm glad of the noise. It takes a little while to get all the ash out of the oven and into the bucket, but finally I get the job done just as the kettle clicks off. Now I don't feel so bad about making a little noise, so I lug the bucket to the back door and tip the ash out into the snow next to the steps.
Dad would hate that.
He'd want me to take the ash to the tree-line, away from the house.
Next time.
I pour myself a cup of tea, using some old bags that I find in a jar in the kitchen, and then I realize that I'm only delaying the next job. There's no wood in the house, but I'm assuming that Dad must have left some in the shed over on the far side of the yard. I've never carried a bag of wood in my life, and I'm not exactly relishing the opportunity. Still, I'm no weakling, and I figure I'll just have to get on with things. Besides, I can't sleep in a freezing house, so I grab a shovel from next to the back door and then I start digging a path through the knee-high snow, heading slowly but surely to the wood-shed.
By the time I'm halfway, my legs and arms are aching and I can feel a tightening pain in my back. I pause for a moment, turning to look back at the gloomy white house, and then I get going again. Dad would be making fun of me by now, telling me that life in the city has made me soft and weak. Maybe he'd be right.
At least there's wood in the shed.
Not a huge amount, but enough for while I'm here.
The bags are big and heavy, but I force myself to stop moaning and get on with things. Lifting the nearest bag, I stumble back out and make my way along the path I just dug. I swear, I damn near collapse a couple of times, and I start worrying that I might be about to put my back out. Somehow I reach the porch, and I finally manage to drop the bag onto the kitchen floor.
“Wow,” I stammer, stepping back and feeling an aching pain spreading up my arms.
A moment later, I realize that I was wearing my favorite coat, the one I bought myself as a Christmas treat last year. Looking down, I find that the edges of the wood-sack have scratched the fabric and left loads of dirt and fiber everywhere. I try to dust myself down, but I'm pretty sure some of the damage must be permanent. This was an expensive coat, the coat I always wore whenever I had to look a little dressed-up, and now it's basically ruined. Still, lesson learned, and Dad would be laughing his ass off if he could see me now.
“There's no point wearing fancy clothes,” I imagine him telling me. “Waste of money.”
Of course, the next job is getting a fire going, and that turns out to be much harder than I'd expected. In fact, by the time I finally have a flame that looks like it might linger, the sky outside has become noticeably darker and I realize that night is starting to fall. I check my watch and see that it's only 4pm, but I guess I should have expected the light to start fading by now. I've still got some stuff to bring in from the car, and then I have to figure out where I'm going to sleep, although right now my arms are aching like crazy and I feel like I'm ready to drop. I guess I'm not so fit after all.
Figuring that I should get on with things, I head to the hallway and start getting ready to go back to the car. And then, just as I'm putting my scarf on, someone knocks at the door.
Two
“Oh, Roger and I went way back,” Greta says as I set a cup of tea on the table for her. “Are you sure he never mentioned me? Greta Sinclair, with the red hair? Well, it was red, back in the day, before I went gray.”
“I'm really sorry,” I reply, forcing a smile as I sit opposite her and start warming my hands on my cup. “Dad wasn't really the kind to talk so much about what was going on in his life.”
“That's true enough,” she replies, with a faint, knowing sm
ile. “Frankly, if I hadn't been paying attention, I wouldn't even have known he had kids. It's you and an older brother, isn't it? His name's... Bernie?”
“Dougie,” I reply, correcting her. “Bernie was Dad's dog.”
“Of course. He talked about his old dogs a lot.”
“More than he talked about his kids?” I ask with a wry smile.
“Well...”
She hesitates, before smiling.
“I suppose so,” she mutters. “Sorry.”
I nod. I can't imagine what Dad must have told her about us, although I suppose this isn't the right moment to ask.
She looks past me, toward the hallway, and for a moment it's almost as if she's waiting for someone to appear.
“I couldn't believe it when I heard what had happened,” she continues finally, with tears in her eyes. She turns back to me. “I know he was getting on in years, but he always seemed so healthy and vital. Right up until the end, I'd see him out there, chopping wood and hauling it inside. How old was he, again? Eighty-five?”
“Eighty-seven.”
She rolls her eyes.
“How he kept going, I'll never understand,” she says with a smile. “Such a fit, vibrant, vital man. I thought he'd bury the rest of us, you know?”
I can't help smiling. I know exactly what she means.
“And now you're here,” she continues, eyeing me with a hint of concern. “I hope you don't mind if I'm a little nosy. What brought you to the house after all these months?”
I open my mouth to reply, but I'm not quite sure what to say.
“I'm sorry,” she continues, forcing a smile. “I just happened to be going past on my sled, coming back from the store, and I saw your car turning off from the main road. I thought that was odd, seeing as how there's only one house up this way, so I decided to come and check it out. I've often seen the house from a distance and wondered if anyone'd ever do anything with it. I'm sure it could be quite lovely, if a family moved in and really took it on as a project.”
“I'm sure,” I reply.
“Do you have a family?”
“Me?” I shake my head. “No.”
“No children?”
I shake my head again.
“A nice husband, tucked away at home?”
“No.”
“Or a wife? I know you modern kids get up to all sorts.”
“I'm single,” I tell her. “It's just me.”
“Oh.”
She falls silent for a moment. God, I think she pities me.
“So you're here to check the place out, are you?” she asks finally. “See what needs doing?”
“I just came to take a look at it,” I tell her. “Dad moved here after he and my mother divorced, so I never came and visited very often. It was complicated. But with winter coming on, I kept thinking about the place standing empty and dark in all the bad weather, and finally I told my brother I was going to come up and take a look around. I don't really know what I'm going to do, or how long I'll be here. A week, maybe.”
“And then back to your life in the city?”
I nod.
“That sounds nice,” she continues. “You don't want to spend too much time knocking about in this old place. You'll never meet a nice young man here. I mean, there's nothing in this house but...”
Again, her voice trails off, and again she looks toward the hallway. Her smile fades a little, and I swear she still seems to be waiting for something.
“We haven't decided whether we're going to sell it yet,” I tell her finally, hoping to steer the conversation back on course. “My brother and I, I mean. I guess that's another reason why I'm here. To see what our options are.”
“You should sell it,” she replies, turning back to me. “Some houses thrive if they stay in the same family for generations, but others are best handed on. Roger bought the house from the Fox family, and now I think the place would definitely want to have new owners all over again.”
“Sure, but -”
“And they can worry about fixing it up,” she adds, interrupting me. Reaching across the table, she takes my hands in hers. “You don't want to stay here, honey. Not even for one night. How about you go into town and stay at the motel? They have real good rooms, and they're real cheap too.”
“I think I'll be fine here,” I tell her. “Like I said, it's only for a few nights.”
“Are you sure? I hate to think of you all alone out here, miles from anyone else.”
“That's exactly what I came for. I want to just spend some time in my father's house and go through his things, and generally...”
Hesitating for a moment, I suddenly realize the real reason I came here.
“I want some closure,” I add finally. “My father could be a little difficult at times. He and my brother didn't talk at all over the last few years, and I never called as often as I meant to. This is probably the last time I'll ever come up here, and I want to get a feel for the place, and for how Dad lived. I know that might sound dumb, but I feel like it's my last chance and...”
My voice trails off.
Greta continues to hold my hands for a moment, before letting them slip away. She still seems concerned, and she keeps glancing toward the door that leads into the hallway.
“I'm sure a few days won't hurt,” she says finally, almost as if she's trying to convince herself. She pauses, and then she takes a business card from her pocket and slides it toward me. “Just promise you'll call, if anything comes up,” she continues, forcing a smile. “Anything at all. Day or night, rain or shine, don't hesitate to get in touch. I don't live too far away, and I can be here in a couple of hours if... Well, you get the idea. I don't want to put ideas in your head, but I want you to know that I'm available to help.”
Looking down at the card, I see that her full name is Greta Q. Sinclair, and that apparently she's a psychic, medium, fortune-teller and paranormal investigator all rolled into one.
“That's very kind of you,” I say cautiously, not wanting to get into any of that stuff, but still feeling the need to be polite. “I'm sure I'll be fine, but I'll definitely hang onto this. Just in case.”
***
The storm is really building now, sending howling gusts of wind across the yard. My car is almost buried, and I might actually have to dig it out tomorrow, but for now at least I've managed to get the house warmed up thanks to the wood-burning oven. I've got just about enough wood for the night, but tomorrow I'll have to struggle out to the shed again. I'm sure that'll be fun.
Standing at the window, I take a sip of tea as I watch the vast swirling vortexes of snow and wind. There are no lights in the distance, not in any direction as far as I can see, and I honestly don't think I've ever been so completely isolated from the rest of human civilization. I can't imagine how Dad managed to live here without going totally bonkers, although then again...
I can't help smiling as I remember how tetchy he used to sound on the phone, and how he always acted as if I'd caught him at the worst possible moment.
“I can't talk for long,” he told me once, at the start of one of our last calls. “I'm in the middle of -”
Suddenly there's a knocking sound in the distance, bringing me out of that memory.
Turning, I look across the living room and toward the darkened hallway. I hesitate for a moment, and then I carry my cup of tea through and peer out through the glass in the front door. The knock was very clear, as if someone was right outside, but I can't imagine who would be coming to the house this late. Still, I need to double-check that there's no-one around, so I cautiously unlock the door and pull it open. To my immense relief, I see that not only is there no-one out there, but there aren't even any foot-prints in the snow. Greta's prints have been covered by fresh snowfall, and the yard looks serene and undisturbed.
Actually, it's quite beautiful.
Shutting the door and sliding the bolt across, I can't help smiling as I realize that I allowed myself to get a little jumpy. After all
, with such bad weather outside, it's totally possible that some loose board or tile caused that knocking sound. I hesitate for a moment, staring out through the window and enjoying the sight of such unrelenting bad weather. I wouldn't want to live in a place like this, but it's nice to spend a little time away from the city. I can't help wondering whether Dad – a man who had no TV, no computer, barely even any books – used to stare out at the wilderness in the same way.
Damn it, there are tears in my eyes. I miss him so much.
Three
There are no drapes in the bedroom, so I'm woken around 9am by light streaming through the window. Sitting up, I see that snow is falling, albeit not with the same intensity as before. I woke a few times in the night and heard the wind still howling outside, but evidently the storm petered out in the early hours.
I feel so awake!
In New York, I usually end up drinking in the evenings. Sometimes out in a bar with work colleagues, sometimes at home alone. It's so rare to go an evening without a glass of wine or two, but last night I didn't even think to touch a drop of alcohol.
So this is what it's like to wake up without a hangover, huh? I approve.
Once I'm downstairs, I can't help noticing that the house has remained pretty warm during the night. I check the wood-burning oven and find that there are a couple of logs still in there, which seems odd since I assumed they'd have burned to ash several hours ago. To my surprise, there are also several fresh logs on the floor, waiting to be loaded into the oven. I swear, I thought I'd used the last few logs last night, right before I went to bed, but I guess I must have been mistaken.
Still, I know I'm going to have to carry more wood inside soon, and first I'll have to dig another path to the shed. I'm not really looking forward to any of that, but at the same time I tell myself that I'll just have to step up to the challenge. Heading to the kitchen, I start sorting through the various items I brought for breakfast, and then I glance out the window.
Stopping suddenly, I see that despite the massive amount of snow that fell during the night, there's already a fresh path running to the wood-shed. There's no way that can be right, so I wander to the back-door and pull it open, only to find that half a dozen extra bags of wood have appeared at the bottom of the steps. I know for a fact that they weren't there last night, and I feel a faint flutter of concern in my chest as I stop for a moment and look out at the vast, snow-covered scene.
