“She died.”
“When?”
“About two months ago.”
“Two months! Marie, why didn’t you tell me?”
“I don’t know . . . I’m always with your father, I didn’t want him overhearing and getting upset. They were friends.”
“Well, he’s going to figure it out eventually.”
“True, I guess he might.”
“Then who is burning the drum?”
She pulls a face that looks suspiciously like a cringe. But I’m sure Marie hasn’t used that kind of expression ever in her life. “Her grandson.”
“Oh” is all I can say.
“Yes, oh.” She rolls her eyes and mine nearly fall out of their sockets. “He’s disposing of all of heroutdatedfurniture. Apparently.”
“You’ve talked to him?” I lean over the counter, mouth agape.
“Briefly. Your father was outside, without any clothes on.” She picks up a teacup not on the tray and sips it.
“Oh.” I can only imagine the encounter.
The secondhand embarrassment it brings shouldn’t be so intense. I know it’s not his fault. I know it’s just his condition... Still.
I know nothing about this person next door. Everything about our neighbor is new. And I have the overwhelming urge to protect my father from him. Regardless.
“I popped your bags in your room upstairs. Let me deliver this, then we’ll catch up.” She walks from the kitchen with the tray. I amble through the house to the central staircase. The mahogany railings still smell the same, woodsy and ancient like the house itself. Ascending the stairs, I take in the photos of our family. Mom and the three of us. And ones of just us kids.
Some of them have Marie in them. Some don’t. Which doesn’t feel right.
When I make it onto the first-floor landing, all of the doors are open, the windows closed against the cold. My room is the last door on the left.
The soft, worn carpet runner that leads the way dulls my footsteps as it always has. Sound echoes off the cream walls with brown polished wooden trim around doors, skirting boards, and windows. When I cross the threshold to my old room, I sigh. Padding across the equally worn floor rug over hardwood floors to the bay window and seat, I push back the curtain.
Next door, out in the backyard, is the new neighbor. Another burning drum and a few odd pieces of furniture are on the lawn, now sentenced to a timely death by fire also.
Despicable. If old Mrs. MacKelvie could see the fate of her precious pieces now...
Shaking my head, I turn away, unable to watch the ultimate demise of the old chairs and whatnot that she loved and cared for dearly. The generations before ours valued their possessions, realizing their hard-won value. A sentiment that is apparently lost on whoever has taken over next door.
Smoke curls outside my window.
Barbarian.
I cross to the bed and flop onto my back, letting my gaze stagnate on the ceiling. The space is a time capsule hell-bent on preserving my childhood the best way it knows how. Without change or interference.
But one thing is for sure.
This still feels like home.
Chapter
Two
