Page 7 of The Witch

4

PRESENT DAY

JULIA

On the way back to the stairwell, I trip and nearly go sprawling, thanks to a loose floorboard. I have no idea how to fix a floorboard, but I’m sure I can look it up somewhere. We get back downstairs just in time to find my great-aunt Ethel entering the kitchen, struggling with two bags of groceries.

While my grandmother is willowy and fragile looking, Ethel is just the opposite. She has a sturdy frame and square face, with her gray hair pulled back into a sensible bun. She might be eighty years old, but she looks like she could run a marathon. Or maybe not a marathon but at least a 5K.

“Don’t all rush to help me at once,” Ethel comments in a voice that is still throaty from years of smoking, even though she quit at least a decade ago.

Ethel was glaring at Mick when she made the comment, so he rushes to her side. He grabs one of the grocery bags out of her arms, which nearly topples him. My parents had concerns about how the three of them were getting along, and now that I’m here, I’m shocked nobody has broken a hip.

“I’ll help you, Aunt Ethel,” I quickly volunteer.

“Thank you, Julia,” she says stiffly. “It’s good to see you.”

I grab the other bag from her arms and carry it to the kitchen counter. I lay it down and start removing the items inside: a carton of milk, several pounds of raw chicken breast, and a dozen large brown eggs. I try to remember if Ethel likes to cook. Actually, I don’t know too much about Ethel in general. She loves to travel, so she was rarely present when my family came to visit. Apparently, she had some huge falling-out with her parents many years ago and was estranged from them. When I asked Gram about it once, she said, That’s just how Ethel is. She’s stubborn.

When I open the fridge, I am shocked. The shelves are packed to the brim with food that looks decades old. There’s an orange juice container with a sticky film covering it, pieces of moldy fruit, and a drawer that appears to contain nothing but dozens of ketchup packets. The shelves have a layer of visible grime on them, and I wonder how long it’s been since someone cleaned the fridge.

Mick is unloading the grocery bag he grabbed, and when he nudges past me to place a loaf of bread inside, Ethel’s eyes widen. “Mick!” she snaps at him. “I don’t keep the bread in the refrigerator. What on earth is wrong with you?”

“Sorry, Ethel,” he mumbles.

“Honestly,” she huffs. “After so many years, you would think you’d know better!”

“Sorry,” Mick says again, and I want to give him a hug, although I’m scared I might crush his ribs.

“Did you at least show Julia her room?” Ethel asks Mick.

I can’t stand the way Ethel is berating him, so I quickly interject. “The room is absolutely wonderful,” I gush. “Thank you so much for letting me stay here.”

“Letting you?” Ethel’s steel-gray eyebrows shoot up. “I wouldn’t use that term.”

“Oh.” I try to smile, but it’s hard when her words contain such thinly veiled hostility. “Well, I appreciate it, anyway.”

Gram waves her hand. “It’s good to have you here, Celia.”

Now she’s calling me Celia, whoever that is. With every passing moment, I am more and more concerned about my grandmother’s cognitive status.

Ethel’s square jaw tightens. “Don’t think I don’t know the real reason why they sent you here, Julia.”

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

“No?” Her tone is sarcastic, but when she sees the blank expression on my face, her eyes soften. “Well, if you don’t know, maybe you should give your father a call.”

I absolutely will do that. If I can figure out how to use that weird corded phone.

“Either way,” I say, “I’m glad you’re letting me stay. And like I said, the room is great. Much nicer than the one I used to stay in when I was a kid.”

“Your old room was Ethel’s room when she was younger,” Gram says. “But now that you’re an adult, I thought you’d like to have more space.”

“That’s right.” Ethel shoves the last of the groceries into the fridge and slams the door shut. “Your new room belonged to Caroline when she lived here.”

I run through the list of my relatives in my head, trying to place the name. It’s a short list—my father is my grandmother’s only child, and Ethel herself never had children. “Caroline?”

Ethel’s lips curl into something that is almost but not quite a smile. She doesn’t answer. Instead, she cocks a finger at me and leads me back into the living room. Ethel points up at the oil painting over the mantel. The subjects of the painting are a man and woman whose hair and clothing suggest they were painted during colonial times. I’ve read about how the eyes in paintings can somehow feel like they’re watching you when you’re in a room, and I’ve never felt that so acutely as I have with this painting. Especially the woman, whose lips curl into an unreadable smile.