by Lynn Moon
As I nibbled, Katrina piddled around the kitchen. Walking into the laundry room, she folded clothes while telling me about her boring day. I enjoyed the lemon cake. After placing my dish in the sink, I grabbed my clean laundry and headed for my room. Passing by my mother’s door, I glanced inside. She was still curled into a little ball on top of her bed, sniffling. Maybe I should visit her later.
Climbing the stairs, I thought about my father. I paused near his study to peep inside. A shadow moved near a far window, freezing me into place. Who could possibly be inside his room? Pushing the door with my foot, I held my breath. All quiet, the room empty. I stared at his leather chair. It always faced the fireplace and not his desk. The curtains, half-opened, allowed an eerie light to trail across the floor. From a corner, a fan rattled. Strange—why’s the fan on? I took a deeper breath. My nerves, still tied up in knots, kept me on edge these days.
Entering my bedroom, I placed my folded laundry on a chair. Kicking off my shoes, I jumped onto my bed. Resting against my pillow, I stared at the ceiling. No longer could I count the number of times I studied that one dirty spot while listening to his heavy breathing.
“Stop it, you fool!” I screamed, jumping off my bed. “He’s dead. It’s over. Forget it already, okay?”
Feeling stupid, I stood there for a moment, panting. I had to pull myself together. After all, it was just incest. Kids like me lived through it all the time. I went into my bathroom and stared into the mirror. It felt good to splash water on my now hot face. Grabbing for a towel, my hand touched nothing but air. Of course; today was Friday and Katrina washed towels on Fridays.
With another long sigh, I headed for the hall closet. Picking out several clean towels, my heart stopped. The study door was now closed. Could the fan have pushed it shut? Nudging the wooden door again, I peered inside. The fan wasn’t rattling anymore, and my father’s chair now faced the desk.
“Katrina, are you in here?”
The room remained quiet. The floor, partially covered with a dark brown carpet, shone along the edges. Knowing that Katrina cleaned this floor every Friday, I relaxed a little and felt stupid again. I plopped into my father’s chair. Cuddled inside the leather cushions, I hugged the towels against my chest. What is he doing in Hell right now? I enjoyed the thought of him hopping around from the hot soil burning his feet until a loud thump echoed through the room.
Jumping out of the chair and almost over the desk, my eyes darted around the empty space. Nothing looked out of place. The fireplace, cleaned out several weeks after the last frost, appeared cold and dark. The trashcan, empty, remained motionless near his desk. A bookcase filled with legal texts looked untouched. My imagination was running rampant.
I headed for the hallway to drop off my towels and visit my mother, but before the door closed, a light wind whipped through my hair. The odor it carried reminded me of old, stale things. Almost like stuff stored in an attic or basement. I whirled around, but everything looked as it should. The window, shut and locked, still reflected the afternoon sunlight.
“Nothing,” I said, closing the door behind me.
CHAPTER 3
MY VISIT WITH MY MOTHER that afternoon went okay. I talked and she listened and sniffled. I told her about the new kid at school, but I wasn’t sure if she heard me. Leaving her to her mourning, I ate dinner with Katrina, took a shower, and decided to turn in early.
The sounds of lawn mowers woke me. A thought slapped the side of my head. Jumping out of bed, I held back a happy scream. It was the first Friday night in over two years that my father hadn’t visited me. Sitting back on my bed, I pulled the sheet closer and giggled. The morning light, along with the most wonderful racket outside, a lawn mower, filled me with happiness. This was the first Saturday that I could remember not hurting between my legs. Before, those mowers only brought dread to my otherwise dreary existence. Is this the fresh melody of freedom?
Today was Quinton’s little get-together. For the first time, I could walk around on a Saturday morning without hurting. For the first time, I could be happy. Smiling, I hummed as I pulled on my jeans and yanked a yellow sweatshirt over my head. Giggling and singing, Quinton’s words echoed through my mind. My dad opened the pool . . . No way would I jump in. Clean or not, it was still too cold. But I’d be there.
Katrina left out the cereal and a bowl for me on the kitchen table. I ate, cleaned up, and checked on Mom before running out. She was still asleep in the fetal position. Whatever made her happy.
Skipping down the sidewalk, I was finally free, and it felt wonderful. I stood in the middle of the road and screamed.
“Freeeeeeeeeee!”
How good that felt. So I screamed again. “Freeeeeeeee!” No real words—mostly just a loud screech.
“Musetta?” Quinton yelled at me from across the street. “You okay?”
“Never been better.”
Walking backwards across the street toward Quinton, I stared up at my beautiful house. It looked different somehow—almost clean for a change. Before his death, my father stood at his study window to drink his morning coffee. Reminded me of a proud rooster overlooking his chickens or something. Taking another couple of steps, my heart stopped. The pain radiated up my chest and down my arms. Someone—it looked like my father—was standing at the study window, drinking something—coffee?
“What’cha doing?” Quinton asked, tapping my shoulder.
Jerking around, I screamed again. And not a happy scream. “Dang it, Quinton. You scared me.”
“Why so jumpy?”
“Do you see anyone in my dad’s study?”
Quinton glanced up at the brightly lit house. Every window reflected the morning sun.
“Is this a trick question?” he asked.
“No.” I could hardly breathe. “Do you see anything?”
“Ah . . . no,” he said, still staring at the house.
Using all my courage, I glanced toward the study. The window was empty. No man drank coffee while staring into the yard. “I know I saw something,” I whispered.
“You mean, like a ghost?”
“I could have sworn I just saw my dad standing there.”
“Your dad is dead and you punched him,” Quinton said. “Remember?”
Nodding as I remembered that terrible day, a tear ran down my cheek.
“It’s okay.” Quinton put his arm around me. “It’s okay.”
***
Not wanting to think about the ghost in my father’s study, I kept busy helping Quinton’s mother. By eleven, the hamburger patties were on a plate, the condiments on the patio table, including an onion I sliced up. As I gathered the paper plates and napkins, Charlie and Hunter arrived. By eleven-thirty, Quinton’s little get-together had turned into a major backyard cookout for over eleven people our age.
“Quinton tells me you saw a ghost this morning,” Charlie said, sitting down beside me.
Quinton’s father had started cooking the burgers, and the wonderful scent was making me hungry.
“I’m not sure what I saw,” I said, wondering if the burgers were about done.
“Well, tell me what you think you saw,” she said.
“Nothing really. I thought it was my dad, drinking his coffee as he did every Saturday morning. He used to stare out that stupid window for hours. I thought I saw him, that’s all.”
“Memory residue,” Hunter said, joining our conversation.
“Memory what?” Charlie asked.
“Memory residue,” he said again. “It’s where you have something imprinted into your brain so that even when it’s not there, you still see it. If you saw your dad every Saturday morning, then your mind will continue to see him for a while. Perfectly normal.”
“Weird,” Charlie replied. “Okay, Musetta, you’re having flashbacks. Is that a good way to put it?” Charlie ducked as pool water splattered across the deck.
“Sure,” Hunter said, handing Charlie several napkins. He smiled before lowering his eyes. Glancing
over at the pool, he sighed. “Lots of people here. I only know you three.”
“These are Quinton’s friends,” I said. “I don’t know any of ‘em either.”
“Burgers are done!” Quinton’s father yelled out by the grill.
I was one of the first to grab one. With my bun dripping with ketchup and mustard, I enjoyed every juicy bite. I tossed my plate into the trash. Hunter waited for me to sit back down.
“I’m stuffed,” I said, sipping on a cherry soda.
“Me too,” he replied. “That your house across the street? The big red one?”
“That’s her mini-mansion.” Charlie glanced up at my balcony.
“It’s not a mansion,” I said.
“It has three floors and a basement, and an attic.” Charlie smiled. “It’s a mansion.”
“It looks pretty cool from the outside.” Hunter raised an eyebrow.
“Would you like a tour?” I asked.
He nodded. “Yes, I would. My grandma used to have a big farmhouse. My dad sold it when she died. I miss that place.”
“Come on,” I said, standing up. “How about now?”
“Can I come too?” Charlie asked.
“Charlie, you don’t have to ask. You practically live with me.”
“Don’t want to intrude,” she said, jumping to her feet.
“Intrude?” I repeated.
We crossed the street, the afternoon sun warm and inviting against my face. After the long cold winter, we had all cheered when the last frost finally melted. Now that May was only a week away, I cherished the thought of a hot summer and Quinton’s pool.
The sound of our feet hitting the two-lane road echoed through our small valley.
“It’s so peaceful up here,” Hunter said.
“I like it, too,” Charlie said. “Hardly any cars come up here.”
I rolled my eyes. Although this was home, my comfort level for the place still wasn’t where I wanted it to be. Maybe just a few more weeks and I could push those terrible memories of my father out of my head. Yes, my dad was dead and buried and gone, but I still felt anxious and jittery all the time. And now, I was seeing his ghost.
Standing by the iron front gate, we stared up at the huge house. As soon as my eyes locked onto the windows of the study, my stomach tightened. Memories surged through me like a scouring pad rubbing against my bare skin.
“You okay, Musetta?” Hunter asked as he opened the gate for us.
“Residue memories,” I replied, walking up the first five steps.
“I want to be an architect someday,” Hunter said. The gate swung shut behind him. “I just love exploring older buildings.”
“This house isn’t that old. Her parents built it just before they were married. It’s, what, about fifteen years or so?” Charlie asked.
“Or so,” I replied. “The first floor is the kitchen and my parents’ bedroom. Follow me. I’ll take you through the grand entrance.” Running up the stairs that arched over the cellar steps, I almost tripped.
“You hurt?” Hunter asked, grabbing my arm.
“I do that all the time,” I replied, my face flushed.
“Do what?” he asked.
“Trip as I run up stairs.”
“Then you shouldn’t run up stairs,” he said, letting go of my arm and laughing.
We stood in front of the two large, oak doors, which had to be at least fifteen feet high. Even though I’d lived here my whole life, they never ceased to amaze me.
“Wow,” Hunter said, examining the intricate carvings. “What are these?”
“Two boys?” I said, but more as if I were asking than stating.
“Why two boys?” Hunter asked.
“Haven’t a clue,” I replied. “When I was younger, I used to talk to them as if they were alive.”
“Do twins run in your family?”
“Only on my mom’s side. Not my dad’s. Her father was a twin.”
“It’s just strange that the boys on this door don’t mean something,” he said.
“They do.” I pushed a lever and the front doors swung effortlessly open. “They say to come on in.”
“Impressive,” Hunter said.
I waved my arms through the air. “Here we have the grand entrance. To our right is the library, and to my left is the fireplace. Straight ahead are several bedrooms. And the staircase leads to the third floor.”
“Beautiful,” Hunter said, examining everything. “I love to look at the different layouts of old buildings.”
“This place isn’t that old,” Charlie repeated.
“See this archway here?” Hunter stood between the living room and the hallway. “These pillars are used as structural supports. And over here . . .” Hunter darted past the grand staircase, only pausing when he reached the library. “Are more supports.”
“Well, if I ever want tear the place down, I’ll remember to attack these supports first,” I said.
As I talked about my house, Hunter disappeared into the library. Charlie and I followed. When we passed through the French doors, Hunter was running his hand along a far wall.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“Something isn’t right here,” he said.
“What do you mean?” Charlie asked.
“The layout’s all wrong,” he replied. “See this wall? It’s too far this way. It should run along the same line as the living room. When the wall meets the staircase, it’s off by several feet.”
“So?” I asked. “Besides, how would you know?”
“My father’s an architect. He’s teaching me to read prints and floor plans.”
“Oh,” I replied.
“Just odd, that’s all.”
“Okay, so I live in an odd house,” I said, continuing my tour. “Now outside these doors is a small patio that overlooks the driveway.” I pushed open the French doors and stepped outside. “To my left is a guest room, and to my right and around the corner is the grand entrance, again.”
“Yes, see here,” Hunter said, now examining the window and side door. “The layout is wrong.”
“Nothing I can do about it,” I replied. “Upstairs?”
Charlie smiled.
Walking back into the library, I paused as I stared at the “off” wall. Nothing seemed strange to me about it. Maybe my spatial vision wasn’t as acute as Hunter’s. Up the grand staircase, we reached the landing. I stared at my father’s study door. It was closed.
“Where do these go?” Hunter asked, standing by the back stairs.
“The ones going down, back to the main floor and then down again to the kitchen,” I replied. “The ones going up . . . to the attic.” Allowing my hand to follow the railing, I inched the few steps to my father’s study. “This is my dad’s office.”
Hunter pushed the door open. An eerie creak filled the hallway. I peeked in; everything looked as it should. The drapes, pulled shut, kept the room dark.
“Weird,” I said, yanking on the curtains to allow in the sunlight. “These are supposed to remain open. Otherwise, it gets too dark in here.”
“Looks a lot like my mom’s office. Tons of legal stuff,” Hunter said, examining the bookcases.
“Well, enough of this,” I said, heading toward my room. “Here are more guest rooms and here at the end is my bedroom. I overlook the front of the house, and I have my own balcony.”
“Very nice,” Hunter said, again carefully studying the layout.
“She has a private bathroom,” Charlie added with a smile.
“Almost all of the rooms have a private bathroom,” I said, hopping onto my bed. “So, what do you think?”
“How do you get into the basement?” Hunter asked.
“Under the front steps,” I replied, pointing toward my balcony. “It’s nothing special. Just the furnace and storage.”
“I love the woodwork,” he said. He ran his hands along the walls. “It reminds me of an old castle or something.”
“My dad was big into Ita
lian stuff. Obsessed with it,” I explained. “The first floor is tile—imported from Italy, as he would say. Come on, I’ll show you.”
After introducing them to Katrina, we eventually rejoined Quinton and his friends by the pool. Once everyone left, we spent the rest of the afternoon gossiping about the kids at our school. It felt wonderful to be happy again. Happy and free. However, for some reason, every time I glanced at my house, I kept seeing someone at the windows of my father’s study.
CHAPTER 4
SUNDAY MORNING, I WOKE feeling refreshed. Bouncing down the stairs toward the kitchen, I froze as my father’s study door suddenly slammed shut. I took in a deep breath and let it out slowly.
Get a hold of yourself. It’s probably just Katrina.
Stepping back up the stairs, I glanced under the study door. Someone was walking back and forth, as if pacing. It had to be Katrina. How odd, though; normally she cleaned that room on Fridays, not Sundays.
Shrugging it off, I hopped down the stairs, swung around the banister, and then hopped down again to the bottom floor. In the kitchen, I froze again. Katrina was at the stove stirring something. Maybe it was my mom. Walking into Mom’s bedroom, my heart pounded. My mother, curled into a ball on her bed, was sleeping. Then who was in my father’s study? I ran back to the kitchen, my heart refusing to ease.
“Katrina, someone’s in Dad’s study!”
“Really?” Katrina pushed the pot off the fire and followed me up the stairs.
When we reached the top landing, my heart exploded. My father’s study door was now wide open.
“But the door was closed when I came down stairs,” I said. “What’s going on around here?”
Katrina boldly walked into the study. As I glanced inside from behind her, everything looked normal.
“All seems fine to me,” she said. “Maybe it’s your nerves, or maybe it’s your guilt for punching him in the face.”
“Will you ever let me live that one down?”
“Nope,” she said, leaving me alone in the room.
Uncomfortable, I followed her, but when I pulled on the door, a thump boomed. I paused as, again, a cool breeze surrounded me. A strong, musky odor filled the room, and my skin burst into goosebumps. I ran for the kitchen.
