More words sit below Alison’s epitaph, words I won’t—can’t allow myself to read.
Not yet.
FIFTY-EIGHT
HARRIET
Warren’s houseisn’t as expected. Maybe I’d allowed my brain to take liberties and imagine a tiny, run-down shack on the wrong side of town, explaining why he didn’t want me here.
It’s quite the opposite.
Marcus pulls up outside a well-kept traditional southern-style home, with white paneling and navy blue shutters. The garden is slightly overgrown, with rose bushes twisting around the picket fence. It’s the perfect family home, an image Warren and his wife probably pictured too.
We walk up the paved steps onto the front porch, where Marcus pulls out his keys, shaking them between us. “Got a spare for emergencies.”
Inside, the air is fresh, as if no one has lived here for months, which is exactly how it looks as we venture into the living space. Packing boxes were expected, but the layers of dust collecting on the cardboard and other surfaces tell me they’ve sat here for a while.
I stand awkwardly in the middle of the room, unsure what to do next. In an ideal world, Warren would give me a tour, butnothing about today is idyllic. I just want to collect what I need and return to him.
Marcus senses my trepidation and points toward the stairs. “His room is down the corridor. First door on the left.”
“I won’t be long,” I tell him before heading upstairs.
His room is easy to find, and, similar to downstairs, it’s hard to imagine Warren existing in the cold, sparse bedroom. The bed is bare, the bedding stripped and in a heap on the floor. When was the last time he stayed here? In between staying at the cottage and his shifts, it’s hard to keep track.
The dresser isn’t as meager. Underwear. Socks. Sweatpants. T-shirts. Enough clothes to last him a week. I doubt he’ll be returning to work for a while, thanks to his injuries, and perhaps I’m turning into the protective one, but imagining him going back so soon has a sense of dread sinking in my stomach.
I throw everything into an empty gym bag and leave. I almost reach the top of the stairs when a doorway catches my attention. It’s the same as the rest: silver doorknob, white paint, only this one is closed. All the rest are open.
There are two voices in my head competing to be the loudest.
One tells me to move away, get back to the hospital. It’s closed for a reason and none of my business.
The other, a decibel louder, urges me to go inside, to give myself a peek in to the life Warren keeps hidden under lock and key.
The latter comes out victorious, leading me astray from my better judgment until my hand lands on the door handle. One glance, nothing more.
Twist and push.
Musty air and pitch black hit me first. I fumble for the light switch and blink rapidly until my vision returns.
Shock quickly follows.
It’s a nursery.
I stumble inside, confusion swirling overhead as I take in the cot, changing table, and rocking chair all pushed into the corner. Protective plastic sheets crinkle under my sneakers. Everything a baby would need is in here and so similar to the nursery Warren spent the day building for me at the cottage. The only difference with this one is the blue walls.
An open paint can sits on the floor, the paint dried and congealed, a thick layer of dust and mold on top. The bristles on the brushes are rock solid, encased in long-dried paint.
We don’t know the gender of the baby, and from the decor, this room appears decorated for a boy.
I walk slowly over to the cot, where a white blanket hangs on the end. It’s soft, hand-knitted.
When I turn it over, my heart stops.
It’s embroidered.
Warren and I haven’t settled on what to call the baby, wanting to leave it until they’re here to decide.
