Wake the Hollow

by Gaby Triana

  Scratches mark the wooden floor where the dense dining chairs had been—my mother’s chair more than the others. The smell of dying lavender returns, a reminder of all things withered in this house, but it’s only my brain playing tricks on me, like everything else.

  “Run, like your father.”

  “No,” I say, shaking the memory. That can’t be her now. That voice is a memory. I remember her saying that. It’s connected to the dining table. The day my mother sat on one end, me at the other, and she forced me to decide. “You made me choose.”

  “Me or Dad. Who’s it going to be?”

  I couldn’t take the neglect anymore—the nights at the library, the incessant sewing and research, having to make my own meals or go to Betty Anne for food. Somehow, I had to show her the damage she’d caused me. So I chose my dad. Because that would hurt her and make her change. But it backfired—I changed.

  Balled fists at my side, I yell, “Do you hear me? I was twelve! A child should not have to choose!”

  All is still, except for my heaving chest. Slowly, a chilly breeze wafts its way in and wraps its icy tendrils around me. My own cloudy breath hangs suspended in the air. Then I hear it. The sickening sound of shoes dragging—foom-foom-foom—from somewhere upstairs.

  “Who’s there?” It’s hard to think rationally, but maybe the realtor’s been in the attic all this time? I’m not about to find out.

  When I spin around for the front door, it’s wide open, as if someone has just dashed off in a hurry without bothering to close up. I have to run through there? No. I don’t feel like trailing behind a ghost, if that’s what opened the door. But it’s the only way out. I barrel straight for it, stomach in my throat. I can’t help but feel like I’m in one of my own dreams.

  Two steps onto the porch, I slam into a live, warm body. A woman cries out and falls against the railing. “Ma-Maria?” She stands there ashen, shaking hands at her mouth.

  “What?” I pant and double over to suck in a breath.

  Betty Anne’s mouth moves as if to say something, but no sound comes out. She looks the same as the last time I saw her, except grayer, a few more crow’s feet around her eyes, horror splashed across her face. “Who are you?”

  I realize the terrible thing it was to come here and dredge up the past, scare the crap out of myself and the neighbor, too. I should’ve gone to her first. “It’s me, Micaela.” I force out my dimples. Betty Anne always loved them, said she could hide inside them, they were so deep.

  She shakes her head. Little by little, her face changes as she realizes who I am. Then, her arms stretch out. “Mica? You’re finally home. Oh, come here, honey. You scared the living shit out of me.”

  I fall into her arms, half laughing, choking back tears. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Are you okay? You didn’t go in there alone, did you?”

  I nod.

  “Lord Almighty. How could you?” She pats my back.

  I want to sob all over her shoulder. I want to tell Betty Anne everything, how I was overcome with a need to see the house, to know and understand, but all I can do is stand here in her arms, remembering. Dinners after her husband died, after Dad had already left. I was on the fence about whether to stay or go. We consoled each other, the two of us sitting in her kitchen like old ladies.

  “How did you get in? You have a key?” Her big green eyes question me. She steps into the foyer and surveys the empty house.

  “Through the basement. Through—”

  “The loose window?”

  I nod.

  She sighs. “I’ve been meaning to take care of that.” She runs a hand over her silver hair. “But this door was open. I thought you had a key.”

  “I thought you opened it,” I say.

  “I didn’t.” We look at each other. Betty Anne doesn’t seem as shocked as I expect her to be, as if she were used to doors opening all by themselves. “I found her, you know.”

  I swallow hard. “Yes. That must have sucked.”

  “I won’t tell you about it.”

  I already know. I think back to Sunday when I stood on the porch and felt the horrific vision overtake me. Betty Anne stares at me with an expression I can’t quite decipher. I guess it must be weird seeing me six years later, no longer a little girl. “I was wondering when you’d visit. I have something for you.”

  For me? Finally.

  “Yes,” she says, as though she heard my thoughts. “We need to leave. We shouldn’t be here. It’s too soon. Come.” She tugs me by the hand. I let her. It’s nice to have someone treating me like a daughter again.

  I peer back into the lonely house. Some movement, some twist of smoke catches my eye. Something is still there, but I’m not going back in again. “Wait. Please,” I tell Betty Anne, pausing to soak in the house one last time, because I will not be coming back. I’m leaving now, Mami. I wait for the voices, fragments of thoughts, anything.

  My mother doesn’t answer. I can’t tell if I’m relieved or disappointed.

  I step aside to let Betty Anne back out, and a flurry of movement from the stairs catches my eye again. I turn my head. Call it stress or lack of sleep, but right as the old woman mumbles something about finding the right key on her key chain, for one fleeting moment, I see her—gaunt and wispy on the stairs.

  In a nightdress. Blood spattered on her shoulder.

  Twirling my fallen maple leaf.

  Chapter Nine

  “All these, however, were mere terrors of the night, phantoms of the mind that walk in darkness.”

  Maybe it’s pent-up wishes or regrets forming before my very eyes, but I still reel at my first sight of my mother since the day I left. Clinging to the doorframe, I stare at her, not knowing what to do, but she dissipates as quickly as she materialized. I might not have really seen her at all.

  If Betty Anne notices my troubled expression, she doesn’t show it. “Come on.” She urges me out of the house then locks it. “You look like you could use some tea. I have chamomile, orange spice, Earl Grey…want some?”

  “Coco,” I mumble, dumbstruck. Did I imagine the whole thing?

  “Yes, I’ve been leaving food out for her, but I haven’t seen her since yesterday. Wonder where that kitty cat’s been. Mica, you all right?”

  The blood on her shoulder…it was spattered.

  ...

  Five doors down, Betty Anne’s house is filled with antique furniture, framed photos of her late husband, grown children, and seven grandkids, all boys, all with the same round face and high forehead as Betty Anne. Figurines of owls and frogs in funny poses fill the shelves. These things were a part of my life for so long, yet all it took were some palm trees and ocean views to eradicate them from my memory.

  I plop onto the couch in the back room, needing a moment to myself to think about all that happened.

  “I’ll be right back. Or would you prefer coffee?” she asks.

  “On second thought, just water, please.” My mouth is parched.

  Is that...

  “Is that what?” I whisper.

  “Is what what?” Betty Anne asks.

  “Nothing,” I say. Wonderful. She probably sees my mother in me, talking to myself.

  On a shelf behind her, dwarfing the knickknacks, is one of my mother’s dolls—a little Dutch girl with a blue and white satin dress and coif, wide blue eyes with small black pupils, and a tiny, awkward pale pink mouth. Her skin is spongy and horrible. The more I gaze at her, the more it seems like she’ll come alive at any moment. At least Betty Anne appreciated my mother’s handiwork.

  She returns with a small manila envelope in one hand and a glass of water in the other. “Here you go.”

  I take the glass and down a long chug, letting the water soothe my throat. “I see you have one of my evil stepsisters,” I say between breaths.

  She follows my gaze behind her. “Oh, don’t say that about Diana!” She lovingly caresses the hem of Diana’s dress. “She’s so pretty. They all are.”

&
nbsp; “They’re wretched.” I hear the twinge of jealousy in my voice, my ten-year-old self creeping out to say hello.

  “Well. I can see how a child might not appreciate them. They are sort of peculiar.”

  I want to retort with the fact that I’m now an adult and still not anywhere near appreciative of the dolls. She flips the manila envelope over and over in her hands. “Why did you take so long to come?”

  She was your mother… I can almost hear her say it.

  The unspoken words make me wince. It’s not like I meant to take so long. “There was a bad storm in Miami. My dad kept leaving town. I couldn’t find a moment to make him talk to me about coming here. It was like he was trying to avoid it. He’s not the easiest person to talk to about my mother.”

  “Yes, I know. Don’t forget I knew your father. Your mother still talked about him,” she says, looking away. “It’s been hard because nobody’s been able to get a hold of you.”

  My eyebrows crunch together. “What do you mean? My mom had my number. She even had my email if she’d bothered to use a computer. It’s not like I lived on another planet.”

  Worry lines on Betty Anne’s face tell me something’s not right. “Oh, honey, I don’t think so. I’m pretty sure she tried to get in touch with you but couldn’t.”

  Is that true? If it is, then my dad has some explaining to do. Knowing my mother, though, she probably just said that to vilify my dad or twist the story around. I glance at the envelope in Betty Anne’s hand.

  Her expression dampens. “She gave me this a couple of months ago. Said to give it to you in case there was ever an emergency. I never thought for one second I’d actually be doing it.” Her voice breaks, but she quickly recovers.

  I swallow hard and take the envelope. It feels light in my hand. MICAELA (MY DAUGHTER WHO LIVES WITH HER FATHER) is written on it, underlined twice. Ugh, guilt trip even now. I unclasp the metal brad and peek inside to find a folded piece of paper. I slide out a small, lone key.

  ...yes...

  “Originally, her attorney had it, a Riley-someone. But a couple weeks before she passed, she said she couldn’t trust him or anyone, so she gave it to me.” Betty Anne wrings her hands. “Looks like a safe deposit box key.”

  “Where’s the rest of her stuff? Furniture, her papers, all her things?” I ask. “I tried going by the police station yesterday. I even left them a message, but nobody calls back.”

  “I believe it’s all in storage.”

  “How can I get it?”

  “Honey, you’d have to call the police or the state attorney’s office. I do know that if nobody claims her stuff within a certain amount of time, the house and everything else goes to auction. So you’d better hurry.”

  “Then I have to find out where that storage is. She should’ve left the key to that, too.” I shake my head. Had I stayed with her, this would be easier to handle. I have to get out of here.

  Betty Anne takes my hand. “Mica, I know this can’t be easy.”

  I stare at the key and envelope. “No, it’s not. So is this it? Did she give you anything else?”

  “That and the house key are all I have. Your mother made me a copy when she changed the locks.”

  “She changed the locks?”

  Betty Anne shifts in her seat. “Well, yes. Someone broke in a few weeks before she died. I suppose you didn’t know that, either.”

  My heartbeat pounds in my ear. Lela, please come home. It’s urgent.

  “Did they take anything? Was she okay?”

  Betty Anne sighs. “She was at work at the time. All the drawers had been pulled out. The closet floorboards cut up. Yet they left her jewelry box full of jewelry. Strange.”

  Yes, strange. Why would they go to all that trouble and not take anything of value? Mami had some nice pieces of jewelry my father had given her. He’d tried so hard.

  I drop my head into my hands. “She could’ve called to tell me. I was available. She just wanted everyone to think it was our fault.”

  “I’m so sorry for everything, Mica. You know, even though your mother was a wonderful friend and neighbor, I always thought she was hiding something.”

  I pull out the piece of paper in the envelope. Maybe whatever she was hiding is here. “Where’s South River Bank?”

  “In White Plains. I would run over as soon as possible, see if that’s where the key fits.” She looks at her watch. “Darn, they’re already closed for the day. You might need documents from her attorney, though.” I fight back a wall of tears. Betty Anne pats my hand. “I know you two didn’t end on the best terms, but you were all she had left. I know she would’ve wanted you to have her things.”

  Betty Anne might mean well, but she didn’t see Mami’s face at the train station like I did—the anger lines, the determination to punish me for leaving.

  “A mother never stops loving her child. Ever.” Her words force me to tear up again. “I just can’t believe your father didn’t let you come to the funeral.”

  “What? What do you mean?” I stare at her. “She was cremated.”

  A long, uncomfortable pause. Then, “If she were cremated, then Ellen and I were at the wrong funeral. And I’ve been laying flowers at the grave of a different Maria Burgos all month.” She shakes her head.

  I can hardly breathe. Why would my dad lie to me?

  Big green eyes bore right through me. “I think you need to speak with your father.”

  No shit. “Where is she buried?”

  “Where else?” Tired, ironic smile. Sleepy Hollow Cemetery.

  “I appreciate all your help,” I tell her. And now, I’m dying to get out of here. When the sky begins darkening, Betty Anne offers me a ride home, and I’m too mentally drained to decline. I poke my head back through her car window as she’s dropping me off. “If Coco comes back, please call me. I’d like to keep her.”

  “I’ll do that.” She smiles warmly then drives into the darkness.

  ...

  In the chilly night, I lean against the railing of our back porch, overhearing Nina in the upstairs bedroom talking to her boyfriend on Skype. She sounds upset, though I can’t pick up exactly what she’s saying. Then it all goes quiet, and I’m left with the sounds of crickets.

  They cut up the floor. What were they looking for? And could Dad and Nina both have forgotten to give me my mother’s messages when she supposedly called? I can understand once, twice maybe, but for years? How could my father not know she’d had a funeral?

  I breathe deeply to calm my nerves before popping in my ear buds. You can do this. Just ask him straight out. I call Dad three times, but the call drops every time. Finally, on the fourth try, his phone starts ringing.

  He picks up immediately. “How’s my beautiful girl?” The usual, bubbly voice.

  “Good.” I can’t show him I’m pissed, or he’ll shut down. “Dad, when are you coming up? Nina sounds worried.”

  “Ah, that. I’ve had some trouble, had to wait for a big deal to come through before sending money for the rent and the car. But it’s coming in the next couple of weeks. Any minute now.”

  “A couple of weeks? Is everything okay? You’ve been going to Bogotá a lot.”

  “Damage control, baby. Things you needn’t worry about. Just get your mother’s things. Tell them who you are. Come home, okay?”

  “But you said you’d be here soon.” Living with Nina is like living on my own. I know my father is doing his best for me, and traveling is the sacrifice he pays to be able to do so. “I went to the old house today…”

  Long pause on his end. “That must have been something.”

  “It was.” I don’t mention the vision on the stairs. “And, Dad?” I have to know the truth about the cremation…

  “Mica?” His slow drawl comes out a warning. Yes, I may be in Sleepy Hollow, but that doesn’t mean I’m free to excavate the past and drag it out into the open. Coming here was my idea, not his, so he doesn’t want to talk about it. When he left, he left for good.
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  I know he wouldn’t lie to me. Maybe they buried her ashes. Still, I would’ve liked to know about it. “I just wanted to say…” Say it. Ask. “Did Mom have a funeral? You told me she was cremated.”

  “That’s what they told me, Mica.”

  “It is?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay.” I sigh. “I love you.” I hate sounding like I’m accusing him of lying. The last thing I want is to ruin another relationship.

  “Love you, too. Call me if you need anything.” I hear him zipping up his suitcase in the background.

  I need a lot, actually. I need all these problems solved, preferably by him instead of me, but I can do it. I’ll figure this out. “I will. Bye, Daddy.”

  Chapter Ten

  “I profess not to know how women’s hearts

  are woo’d and won.”

  On Thursday morning, I open Nina’s door and shuffle up to her bedside, determined. She’s sleeping with one arm over her face. “Can you rent me a car?” I ask. “I have to get to a bank far from here.”

  She mumbles then stirs and rolls over onto her other side. “If I could…would’ve gotten car…ready…to get the hell away from here…” Two seconds later, she’s snoring again into the tangled sheets.

  Okay. So much for that. I close her door, grab a banana off the counter, and take off for another enlightening day at Tarrytown High. After school, I call Bram, begging if he can please take me to the bank in White Plains.

  “I work, Mica, but I can go with you on Friday. You can wait ’til Friday, can’t you?”

  “Not really. What about tomorrow?”

  “Come on, dude. Your dad wouldn’t have set you up in a townhouse if he expected you to settle everything in one week. Stay a while. Chill. Come by the apartment. I have something for you.”

  “What is it?” My stomach tightens at the thought of what it might be.

  “Just come. I’m here now.”

  I don’t argue, hoping that when I reach his place, he’ll let me use his car anyway. I could always drop him off at work and borrow it. I’m surprised to find the door unlocked. Gently, I push it open, tiptoeing in. A hodgepodge of things invaded since I was last here. Vampire masks, cauldrons, chandeliers, and giant metal chains.