I found the courage to take the first step, and the heels of my sandals clacked against the wood as I moved downward over the others.
The scent of the room hit me first, just like with the pretty daisies. But it smelt so much different to before, when death and decay thrived down here.
My pace increased, knowing a nirvana of nostalgia awaited me. Hand on the stair rail, I swung around at the bottom, taking in my surroundings.
I breathed heavy, lost in wonderment. Not even distracted by Woodrow's feet moving closer. The sound of him sipping from a cup, drinking the latte I'd made, entered my ears, but it didn't echo in the room like all my pain used to, because the room was no longer empty.
I stepped forward, fingers brushing a book on the vast shelf filling the wall. I pulled out a book, then another, then another.
Cookbooks. So many cookery books, all Cuban cuisine. And so many herbs, their scent overpowering all the bad memories I had of this place. Of Woodrow's mother and father. And their abuse.
The aroma welcomed other memories. . . thoughts of my mom and dad drifted into the room, the house welcoming them into my new home.
I remembered so much happiness.The scent of a happy kitchen, pots boiling, plates laid out, a feast being prepared. My dad's hands slid around my mother's waist. The smile on her face could have advertised five-star dentistry. He danced into their embrace, whispering words of love into her ear as she stood before the oven, finishing up dinner.My lips tugged up, and my eyes filled with tears.
Happy tears.
“You did this for me?”
“Everything is for you. The house is yours. . . ours. Equally. But this was a special gift for you.”
“It's all Cuban.”
“It is.” He took another sip. “I remembered you said you liked to cook.”
“I did. I asked your mother once if I could teach her to make something Cuban. She took offense.”
“She was hateful.”
“She seemed to hate me more than she did anyone else.”
Woodrow raised an eyebrow like I'd gone mad. The past came back to bite me, its dark venom seeping into my bloodstream ferried reflections into my mind. I heard every hurtful thing Wynter ever said to her son. Every ridicule made me tense. My palms started sweating. My pretty floral dress—that I hated now, remembering Wynter saying they were all I'd squeeze into—relieved them.
As a teenager, I didn't notice every jibe she made, all her sneaky bitterness, and the darkness inside her. Not until she was happy to showcase it.
I hated her for that. Her, not my pretty dress. I hated her for being a friend, a mother. . . for the false offer of a family that she ripped away from me.
The worst kind of human wasn't the one to bring you to the ground but the one who watched and enjoyed your fall, and then kicked you while you were at your lowest.
And that was why I hated her most.
She wasn't welcome in this house.
Her ghost wouldn't haunt us; it was trapped, burning in hell where it belonged. And memories of her had no business doing so, either.
Brushing my fingers down the fabric of my dress once more, I pushed all thoughts of her away from me.
I slipped a book from the shelf. The glossy hardcover shined in the sunset, brought in by a high window—a new feature, like many others. An easy escape for all the trauma and pain that once filled this room.
I looked to the grass, to the field beyond, and then I looked around, confirming my thoughts. This room was the exact same room. Being fully concrete, it hadn't burned with the rooms above. . . but it was different now. . . free of the pain caused here. Thanks to that window.
And so was I. Thanks to Woodrow.
The realization was jovial and uplifting, and it brought a small smile to my lips.
“Do you think you'll like it here this time?”
I lookedback to Woodrow, to the depth of hope and longing he kept hidden, now suddenly exposed to me, and my smile didn't falter, it grew.
