Joe and I drove past after our first inspection of the house. We stopped at the gate, staring uneasily at the massive gums blocking out the sun, and made half-hearted plans to picnic here. Joe idled the engine, peered at the droopy sign, and listed off the plant species. “Drosera rotundifolia…”He sounded out the word carefully. “A carnivorous plant.”
The first thing I’d thought was, God, even the flowers are hungry there. My second thought was of my sister. We grew up in walking distance of a bushland reserve, home to a muddy creek, bellbirds, and carnivorous sundews. I’d crouch over a flytrap, force its mouth open, and stare in fascination at a half-digested black ant, its legs still moving. My sister would inch back, clutch her stomach, and urge me to stop.
We spent every weekend at that reserve, ordered outside while my dad roamed the house, looking for something to blame, and my mum lay on the spare bed, staring at nothing.
My parents gave me nightmares. I dreamed constantly that my dad was trying to set the house on fire. He’d stomp around, lighting matches, hate in his eyes, and I’d flee to the spare room and scream for Mum to make him stop. She never heard me. Never even blinked. She’d lie on that damn bed as the house started to burn, and I’d bolt awake, sweating.
The older I got, the worse I felt. Sometimes I’d sit alone for hours on end while my sister kissed the neighborhood boys and made excuses for my strangeness. Sometimes I’d hold my breath and pretend I was dead. Sometimes I’d climb to the top of a tree, ease out onto the highest branch, and feel it wobble under my feet. Then I’d tell myself to jump.If I hurt myself, maybe I’d finally have an excuse to feel the way I was feeling.
My mother was distracted by her own misery, but one time, she noticed and dragged me to a doctor who clicked his tongue and announced, “It’s unnatural for a child to be so still.” She’d let me stay home from school that day and made me a cup of hot milky tea. Then she snatched the cup away before I could take a sip and scolded me for embarrassing her in front of the doctor. I was always embarrassing her in front of someone without meaning to. My sister, however, was the daughter she shoved forward on the rare occasion my mum brought a friend over. Everyone was charmed by my sister. Especially me.
I’m nearly past a three-story Greek Revival house, when a voice calls out, “Amanda?”
It’s the way she says it that makes my head snap in her direction. Makes me stumble to a confused halt that jolts my spine. My lungs and ankles burn with the cold, but I forget it all.
The woman is at her mailbox, loosely clutching a stack of envelopes in her right hand. She has a salt-and-pepper bowl cut and lilac sneakers, and she’s so still, I wonder if she’s even breathing. Her left forearm is slung across her face as she shields her eyes from the morning sun. I breathe noisily, resting my hands on my sweaty hips, and for a long moment neither of us speaks.
“Amanda?” Her breath catches in her throat, and she makes a choking noise. The woman takes a small step toward me. Slowly, she lowers her forearm, her eyes wide and alarmed. I take a step back and wonder if it’s too late to run away.
“My God,” she breathes, placing a hand over her heart. “You look so much like her.”
I stand there stupidly, not sure what to say. I wipe my forehead with the back of my wrist and tighten my sweaty ponytail with a useless tug. I’m a bit too conscious of the sweat stains under my arms.
“My name’s not Amanda,” I tell her.
She steps forward tentatively. I have the strangest feeling she’s aboutto reach out and brush my cheek like I’m a frightened horse or something. I step back again.
“My name’s Sarah,” I tell her. “Sarah Slade.” I motion behind me, but she never takes her eyes from my face. “We bought the Black Wood House.”
I wait for her to react. Wait for her to narrow her eyes in disgust, fold her tiny arms across her chest, and silently judge me. She doesn’t. Her eyes are watery and sad. You’d think I just told her about my terminal liver cancer.
“Nice to—” Swiftly, she turns and scurries up her sloping driveway. “Meet you,” I mutter.
A cool wind tunnels down the back of my T-shirt, making me shiver. I wrap my arms around myself and watch her leave.
Amanda? You look so much like her…
“I’m not Amanda,” I say again.
I’m not Sarah. I’m not anyone.
I shiver in the empty street, wrapping my arms tighter around my body, afraid I’ll disappear. I stand there until she vanishes inside her house and the tree shadows swallow me up.
—
By the time I return from my errands, the sun is setting in a brilliant smear of orange, and the wind stings my face when I hop out of the car. The builders’ trucks are gone. Joe’s still not at Black Wood. I sling the grocery bag over my shoulder and unlock the house.
It’s empty and ear-splittingly silent. And the kitchen! I drop the bag at the door. My knees nearly give out. Nausea roars up my throat until it burns. The builders have started laying the black and white ceramic tiles. The wooden floor is gone, and I feel the loss physically, violently. I rush to the kitchen sink, grip it, and vomit until I see stars. Over and over in my head, the words pour out: The house doesn’t want to be fixed. The house doesn’t want to be fixed.
I finally finish and swipe my mouth with the back of my hand. Myhands are hot and my legs numb. Get a grip. Please. You’re just overwhelmed right now. You’re not getting any sleep, and the fucking house doesn’t havefeelings.
I walk slowly, my stomach still churning. Shakily, I put the milk in the fridge and empty the fancy cat food into a red plastic bowl for Reaper. I make myself a strong coffee and carry it upstairs, taking small sips. I pause at the top stair.
My bedroom door is open. I freeze there, shocked. I locked the door this morning. I know I did. Maybe the builders went upstairs? But then, why the hell did they go into my room?
Slowly, I move forward and peer inside. Nothing seems out of place. My bathrobe is still piled in a pink ball on the floor, and my bed is unmade, just like I left it.
But then I see it. I cry out, dropping the mug to the floor. Hot coffee splashes up my leggings and burns into my ankle. But I barely notice. Attached to my laptop screen is another yellow sticky note. And Idid notput it there. I scurry forward, heart in my mouth. I squint at the note, careful not to touch it.
