Before shutting the door to my car, I scooped up Grisou. He scampered to my shoulder and perched. I should have probably worried about him bolting. If he did, I’d never find him. Yet he seemed content, and having him close kept me calm as I crossed the gravel driveway to the flagstone path leading to the cottage.
The front door was closed. Would it be locked? I had no key with the fire having destroyed everything, and I wasn’t even sure I should enter. While I’d not seen signs of anyone around, the upkeep suggested otherwise.
Raising my fist, I knocked. Waited.
Knocked again.
If someone did live there, they could have gone out. It was Wednesday. A workday for most people.
I chewed my lower lip as I stood caught in indecision. I couldn’t exactly leave. I had nowhere to go. This was my property. Surely that trumped any squatter rights?
The knob turned under my grip, and the door opened. Unexpected and therefore I hesitated. “Hello?”
I shuffled forward, pausing by the threshold. It wasn’t just wondering if I’d be invading someone’s home that held me back. What would I see inside?
Taking a deep breath. I walked in.
And sobbed.
6
I’d been prepared for the worse. Mouse poop all over. Walls and ceilings ripped open, exposing moldy insulation. Perhaps even rotted floorboards that might snap under my weight. Instead, I beheld a miracle.
Everything inside the cottage seemed frozen in time with the ghostly lumps of furniture covered in dustsheets dotting the room. Some shapes were familiar, some not. It also laid to rest the speculation that someone lived here. The house was stuck in limbo, waiting for its owner to come home.
Waiting for me.
Could I be so lucky? Was grandma’s stuff still intact under those covers?
I tore the tarp of a long shape that looked like a sofa. The dust cloth pulled free and revealed a familiar floral pattern. The cushions still appeared firm and the material intact. They knew how to make quality stuff back then.
My fingers trailed over the fabric of the armrest. I remembered sitting on this couch when I was a tween back when I liked to be close to my grandma, who always smelled of the perfume she kept on her dresser. That scent somehow lingered even as I recognized it was utterly impossible. It had been too long; however, as I sank onto the couch, I could have sworn her scent surrounded me, wrapping me in a hug. If I closed my eyes, I could pretend I heard her whisper.
Everything will be all right now that you’re home.
Now if only I could believe it. Would I finally outrun my bad luck and be able to have a proper do-over of my life?
Grisou wiggled from my arms, and I set him free to explore. He bounded over the cushions and then off the arm to the floor. I took a moment longer, looking around, wondering which tarp I’d tackle next.
The silence was nice. The open front door let sunlight pour in. The windows had their curtains drawn. I rose from the couch and shut the cottage door before my kitty went exploring outside.
Next, I tackled curtains, pulling them back, seeing less fluttering dust than expected. I’d almost say someone had been regularly cleaning the house.
My phone rang. A glance showed it was Winnie. I answered with a cheerful, “I made it.”
“How’s the place look?”
“I won’t need to sleep in my car.” As I spoke to her, I tugged another dustsheet. The wooden secretary still had the roll top lid that I’d opened every day after school to give myself room to do my homework.
“What kind of shape is the cottage in?”
“It’s in excellent shape. It looks just like I remember, Winnie.” I pulled off more tarps, revealing blasts from my past.
“Well, damn, that’s awesome, Mom.”
“It is.” My luck finally appeared to be changing.
“Listen, I should go. I start work in an hour. Talk to you later.”
“Yeah, later.”
Winnie hung up, and I stared at my phone. Smiled. This was turning out to be the best day ever.
I tucked my phone into my pocket as I began surveying the space. As an adult, I noticed the things I’d never paid much mind as a child, starting with the furniture.
Each piece appeared handmade, the wood sturdy, and yet the legs and even the edges were inlaid with intricate carvings, loops and swirls, almost as if embedded with some kind of fancy writing. The same pattern existed around all the door and windowsills, as if the artists wanted to etch their mark into everything they could.
I didn’t think the same person had done all the carvings. Running my fingers over the patterns, it was as if I could feel the different signatures. The writing desk by the front door had a fine filigree compared to the deep marks in the floor by the front door, etching out a circle only barely big enough to stand in. There was a shallow set of sigils in the bathroom, embedded in the tiles that formed the shower.
There was water in the toilet bowl—the same baby blue as the sink—and it flushed when I pulled the handle. I almost dropped to my knees to give thanks. I wouldn’t have to squat in the woods. Everything was just as I remembered.
Everything.
It kind of freaked me out to see just how much had survived the years, because it didn’t seem normal. The towels of pure white wrapped in paper in the linen closet should have holes in them. The fridge, an oldie with a rounded frame, green exterior, and vintage appearance, with its door propped open and immaculate shelves, shouldn’t have started working the moment I plugged it in. Dear God, I’d never paid an electric bill here. Would my reappearance result in some massive overdue account?
I almost yanked the plug back out but stopped myself. Que sera, sera. What will be will be, as my grandmother always said. If I had a debt, then I’d be a Lannister and find a way to pay it.
How I loved immersing myself into impossible stories. I used to get all my adventures from books, but as the internet took over, I found myself expanding my horizons and watching racy shows on HBO like True Blood and Game of Thrones.
If only I had something special about me that would allow me some grand experience. It would be nice for once to be the heroine I saw on television or read in a book.
Then again, everything scared me. I’d probably be the person who peed themselves as they huddled, rocking on the floor.
The kitchen cupboards, when opened, showed what you’d expect for the most part. Plates, bowls, cutlery, but no food. That might have been a little too much to expect.
I found the tiny bedroom on the main floor that used to be my mom’s and then became mine, first during visits then when I lived there full time.
Before his death, my dad—who never liked my grandmother—always chose to stay in a motel, unless I was here for a few weeks in the summer. Then he left and only returned to pick me up. I didn’t mind; I loved this cottage and my grandma.
Yet, at the same time, I couldn’t wait to leave. I’d chosen to go somewhere far away for college, so why the tears rolling hotly down my cheeks?
I wiped at my face even if no one could see me. I hated crying. I’d cried too much of late. And it didn’t help I was an ugly crier. Blotchy face, red nose, snot running, and eyes bloodshot, as if I’d been on a bender.
Crying meant I was letting despair win. I needed to stop doing that. Things in my life could be so much worse. I could have been sleeping in my car tonight and getting my ass bitten by bugs when I crouched in the bushes to pee.