Instead I had a bed. Not a very big one but a bed just the same. The twin-sized bed remained pressed against the pine-planked wall painted a pale pink. The boy band posters were gone. I’d owned more than a few, especially of Bon Jovi, before they broke up. In my youth, I loved a man with a mane of long hair and tight jeans, yet I’d settled for the complete opposite in Martin.
The mattress was stripped of sheets, which wasn’t a big deal. I had a sleeping bag. Yet when I opened the closet, I found the faded fabric bedding I recalled with its pink roses and thorny vines. There was a pillow in there, too, along with my collection of Nancy Drew books.
“Holy cow.” I dropped to sit on the floor and tugged the box of books closer.
Nancy Drew was my hero. As a young girl, I’d admired the intrepid girl detective. What a pity her courage in the stories hadn’t rubbed off on me.
The first book made me smile. The title, Nancy Drew: The Ghost of Blackwood Hall. I always did like that, just like most Scooby Doo episodes, sometimes the mysteries that seemed supernatural had an explanation.
As I made the bed, I couldn’t help but feel as if I’d won the lottery. I couldn’t wait to get under those covers and read a book. The simple pleasure of it made me impatient for night to come.
It was too early, though, and I had more to explore. I returned to the kitchen and checked the pantry, finding more dishes, pots, pans, and an old toaster that matched the fridge. I also found a giant cannister of rice.
Was it still good? Surely it had an expiry date. I dug my hands into the grains, letting them run through my fingers. I couldn’t eat it on my diet. I sealed the lid on the cannister. I had some grocery stuff in my car.
I brought my few belongings inside and stowed them, including my letter from the lawyer that told anyone who might have a problem with my presence that I owned the place. She’d dug up the deed with my name on it.
The cottage was mine. Every bit of it, including a possibly massive hydro electric bill. I wasn’t prepared to even think of any property taxes owing. Tomorrow I’d worry. Today, I’d let myself feel relief. I had a roof over my head, a woodstove to stave off the cold of the coming winter, a toilet. Even a shower. What else did I need?
For some reason, I saw my daughter’s, my son’s, even Tricia’s face. A taunt that a house wasn’t the most important thing. How about friends and family? Perhaps with one worry out of the way, I could concentrate on fixing those bonds.
I’d gone all around the main floor a few times but hadn’t seen my cat. I pursed my lips. Glanced upstairs. The one place I’d not gone because, in my mind, that was my grandma’s space.
But she was gone, and I’d have to confront her room eventually. I’d been inside it only once after she died. When I’d come with Martin I couldn’t exactly tell him to sleep on the main floor on the tiny bed when there was a full-sized one upstairs. I’d walked up those stairs ahead of him, slowing as we neared the top. I’d taken one look at her room, smelled her, and burst into tears.
Martin didn’t argue when I ran off and slept downstairs. That was the last time I’d been here.
Which reminded me, the time I’d come before, the dustsheets hadn’t been there. Everything had been clean but left as if my grandmother had just stepped out. Someone had obviously done something to preserve the place.
My mind automatically went to Tricia. She lived closest, and while we’d drifted apart, she’d loved my grandmother and might not have wanted to see the refuge of her teenage years go to ruin.
Whoever had taken care of it deserved my thanks for preserving a place that meant so much to me. Meant so much I’d ignored it for more than half my life.
For shame. I almost heard a bell at the word.
Glancing at the stairs, I found my courage and marched up them. At first I kept my eyes closed, afraid of what I’d see. What if they were still there? The gallery of framed pictures on the wall containing images of my mom and grandma at various ages. Some of me as a little girl, my smile wide and carefree.
Not yet. I couldn’t look at those yet. The very fact I looked for an excuse not to had me opening my eyes. I faltered as the past rushed to haunt me. Everywhere I looked there was my face, my grandma, my mom and dad, young and happy, pregnant, getting married, and then there were the pics of me.
What froze me, though, were the images of my kids. Baby pictures. First birthdays. School pictures.
All images I’d thought lost forever in the fire. How did they come to be here?
I almost bolted back down those stairs to jump into my car and drive away. There was something uncanny at work here. Only a stalker would have had access to my pictures. Or someone had broken into my house before it burned down and stolen them. Except the images weren’t familiar. The events, yes, but I recalled most of my albums. I’d flipped through them often enough, sitting on the floor of my closet, hiding from my angry husband, losing myself in the memories.
Had someone been cataloguing my life? And if so, how did I not notice them? Not to mention, why? Why take pictures of me and the kids and put them on these walls?
“Meow.”
Hearing the familiar voice of my kitty, I trotted up the rest of the steps and through the open hatch in the floor before entering the attic proper. I gaped.
Whereas the main floor was unchanged, here was a different scenario. The layout itself remained the same. The attic had long ago been converted into a giant bedroom with bathroom on one end and a closet on the other.
I loved grandma’s bathroom. It featured a giant claw foot tub. A hot soak would be so nice.
Walking farther into the room, I didn’t notice any real smells. Definitely no perfume.
The bed was stripped, the mattress covered in a plastic sheet. The brass four poster I recalled was gone, replaced with a wooden frame. I’d never seen the sleigh bed before but immediately admired it.
The rocking chair by the woodstove and the stool I used to perch on? Replaced by bean bags, of all things, the fabric a patterned chenille.
The tall dresser might have been the same, but it had been stripped of its varnish and painted white then distressed for an antique look. The braided rag carpet was gone, and only the bare plank floor remained. The long dresser with the big mirror atop it had also changed into another distressed piece. The mirror inside its thick silver frame had been tilted lengthwise and hung on the bathroom door. A space that appealed to me and didn’t actually remind me much of my grandma at all.
Still, given what I’d found downstairs, it was a relief to open the closet door and see no clothes. No shoes. The drawers when checked were empty. The bathroom was clean of toiletries. It made me wonder where grandma’s things went. She didn’t have much jewelry, a few necklaces and rings mostly, but as a young girl, I’d loved the antique silver brush she used to comb my hair.
Turning away from the bathroom, I laughed to see Grisou splayed on the bed. Sly critter. He’d not been there a moment before.
“There you are, naughty boy.”
He poked his four furry legs in the air and waited for a belly rub.
I flopped onto the bed beside him and gave him one. I then proceeded to talk to him. Again. How many times a day did I have to talk to him as if he’d answer before I was officially the cat lady? Or was it the number of felines I owned that determined it?
“Who do you think took care of the place?” I asked.