Back in my room, I open the old jewelry box on my nightstand. Inside, every trinket is arranged like a time capsule: the chain necklace Kent bought me on my seventeenth birthday, the tiny gold charm from Jeannine (for luck, which never seemed to work), a cheap glass ring I bought at the Renaissance Festival with my high school boyfriend. I close the lid and place a palm flat against it, as if blessing the ghosts inside.
For a while, I just sit cross-legged on the bed, picking at the hem of my leggings and listening for any sign of life in the mansion. There’s nothing. No car in the driveway, no voice on the intercom, not even the distant thump of the household staff moving about.
I wonder if Jeannine will actually show up, or if I’ll have to spend my first night alone. I wonder if Kent will come home later, or if I’ll have to go to bed, seeing a glimpse of his face only in my dreams.
Finally, I give up and flop onto my back, arms flung wide, breathing in the cold linen. The ceiling is painted with glow-in-the-dark stars, painfully juvenile, come to think of it. I trace a faint crack in the wall with my finger, sensing the familiar crannies.
After a few minutes, my mind goes blank, or at least as blank as it can get. I think about Italy, about the ancient stone and the little dogs in sweaters, about getting lost in some foggy alleyway with nobody watching.
But then, always, the thought comes back to the house. To the man who occupies the master bedroom, or to the phantom of him, pacing, hands in pockets, eyes lit up with all the things he never says out loud.
I close my eyes and try to will myself to sleep, but I know it won’t work. Not with the echo of his name in my head, and the phantom ache of his thumb on my cheekbone.
Eventually, I give up, and just lie there, waiting for the next voice, the next footstep, the next sign that I’m not alone.
And all the while, the house listens, patient and hungry, swallowing my secrets and waiting for the rest.
The next voicein the house isn’t Kent’s.
It’s the sharp, familiar cadence of Jeannine, high heels ticking down the corridor, a suitcase rumbling behind her like a petulant dog. I know her rhythm before I see her, the way she pauses at the end of the hall, the precise interval she waits before rapping once on my door and breezing in.
“Mary Berry?” she calls, the old nickname flickering across her tongue. She’s already halfway through the doorway, pearl earrings glinting, hair blown out and pulled tight at the crown, as if she’s running late for a photoshoot. There’s a whiff of La Mer and travel-size Purell in her wake, clinical and expensive.
She surveys the room, taking in the half-unpacked suitcase, the open laptop, the girl on the bed curled like a question mark.
“Hi, Mom,” I say, voice hoarse from not talking. “Sorry, I fell asleep.”
She smiles the practiced, TV-ready smile—teeth flawless, corners just slightly softened by the crow’s feet she’s recently decided not to have Botoxed. The lines make her look morehuman, not less. “Look at you. You’re back, and looking wonderful.”
“Thanks,” I say, sitting up straight. “How are you?”
Jeannine sets her purse on the desk, inspects the bottle of Juicy Couture perfume as if expecting it to have changed since my high school years. Her eyes are blue like mine, only hers have a little steel at the center, a chip of something harder than glass. She glances at the window, then at the old trophies, and finally at me.
“I’m good, but is everything okay with you?” she asks. It sounds like she’s reading the words off a prompter.
I nod, even though it’s a lie. “Yeah. Just, you know—getting settled.”
Jeannine nods and perches on the edge of the desk, careful not to snag her stockings on the fake crystal knobs. Her skirt is shorter than appropriate for a woman her age, but she’s still trim and beautiful. “You look tired,” she says. “Are you not sleeping at the apartment?”
“Too noisy. Stella’s guy friend keeps coming over and yelling at Fortnite.”
Jeannine rolls her eyes, a neat gesture of solidarity. “Men,” she sighs, as if this is the opening to some larger grievance.
I want to ask about Kent, to find out what kind of illness requires a twenty-one-year-old babysitter, and not a professional nurse. I want to ask why she called me home instead of just hiring someone. But Jeannine is already moving on, already opening her purse and pretending to dig for something important. The ticket in the front pocket flutters, a little white flag.
“You going somewhere?” I ask.
My mom freezes, then lifts the ticket with a flourish. “California. San Jose, actually.” The word lands with an anticlimactic plop.
I try to find context for this. “But why? What’s in San Jose? Isn’t that where all the tech bros live?”
She glances at me, then back at the window, and the left corner of her mouth tugs upward. “I’m taking a contract. Traveling nurse, you know. It’s only for a month, maybe two. I’ll be back before summer’s here.”
The room spins a little, not because she’s leaving but because I never imagined her as someone who went anywhere without a man. “What about Kent? What about us?” I say, my voice rising. “I thought we had to take care of a sick man.”
She shrugs, and the gesture is so foreign on her body that it makes her look older, almost vulnerable. “Kent will be fine. He barely notices if I’m here or not.” A beat, then: “Besides, that’s why you’re here, right? To keep an eye on things.”
I stare at her, befuddled.
