My heart thumps harder the higher we climb, until I’m sure everyone can hear it reverberating off the walls. I’m still in shock that Gram left the apartment to me instead of Mom, although it’s true that we were very close, and I saw her a lot more than Mom did, because her condo was close to the high school; I could see it from the windows in the third-floor science lab. I would stop in to visit her all the time on my walk home; she would put out coffee and banana bread and we’d talk about whatever was on our minds, from my nonexistent love life to the latest drama in her Saturday-afternoon bridge club. And then, of course, there was that stretch of time in the first grade, back when Mom had all those doctor’s appointments, that Gram would pick me up from school and make me dinner every night. We had a special bond from the start.
I remember a cold, rainy day back in February, when I was sitting at her dining room table and tracing my finger around the rim of the polka-dot coffee mug she always reserved for me. “Gram,” I asked sullenly, “what does it mean if I still don’t have a date for the spring semiformal?”
Gram raised one of her wispy white eyebrows. “What does it mean?”
“Yeah.”
She snorted. “It means you haven’t gotten around to asking anybody yet.”
My neck and forehead are damp by the time we reach the door with the rusty number five on it. There doesn’t seem to be any air-conditioning in the building, and it’s late June. Dad comes up next, with Mom bringing up the rear. We all take a moment to catch our breath. And then it’s time.
“Do you want to do it?” I offer to Mom. I want her to feel like the apartment belongs to both of us.
“No thanks,” she says. “You go ahead.”
With trembling fingers, I take out the key. It fits into the hole and turns with a satisfying click, and I gently push open the door.
My first impression is that it smells like an old book: moldy and musty but nevertheless inviting, like it’s happy that someone has finally cracked its spine. We’re standing on the threshold of a foyer with paneled walls and high ceilings, but it’s too dark to get a sense of any of the rooms beyond.
“H-hello?”
I don’t know why I just said that. It’s clear that no one is here, and that no one has been here for quite some time. When I step into the room, the floor feels strangely soft underfoot, and I look down to find a thick layer of dust creeping up over the laces of the purple Converse sneakers I bought with my tutoring money. The dust is everywhere: on the wooden bench next to the door, on the coatrack in the corner, probably in the stale air I’m breathing.
Mom coughs into the sleeve of her cardigan.
“I think I’ll stay outside, you guys.”
“You don’t want to explore just a little bit?” I gesture brightly into the shadows.
“We can stay here while you go look around,” says Dad, taking Mom by the hand. Mom doesn’t object to this plan, so the only thing left for me to do is press deeper into the darkness.
“It’s hard to see where— Ow.”
After feeling my way through an archway, I bang my knee into something sturdy. A table. Carefully, I feel my way around it, until a thin strip of light tells me I’ve made it to a window. The curtains are stiff, but with a little effort, I manage to pull them aside, and the bright summer sunlight floods into the apartment like a tidal wave. I hear Dad gasp, and not in a fake-enthusiastic Realtor way. I turn around, and my jaw drops.
“Oh . . . my . . . god.”
There’s only one way to put it: We’ve traveled back in time. We’re standing in the middle of a fully furnished apartment that hasn’t been touched in . . . in who knows how long. I’m in the dining room, staring down the length of an elegant wooden table. To my right, there’s a buffet with silver candlesticks and serving ware on top. Large paintings in ornate gilded frames cover the walls from end to end. The place reminds me of a movie set, only it’s real—and it must have been pretty fancy back in its day, which makes me wonder how Gram could have ever lived here. She always said she was penniless when she arrived in America with Gramps, the two of them making do on one square meal a day.
Over at the door, Dad convinces Mom to venture into the apartment. On her first step, she slips on the dust and nearly falls over, but Dad steadies her just in time.
“Look at the dining room, Diane!”
“I see it, Mark.”
“This isn’t so bad, right?”
“Speak for yourself.”
I wish there were something I could say to make it better, but I know there isn’t, so I open a set of double doors and walk through to another darkened room. I follow a second strip of light to a set of curtains, drag them open, and take in the sight of a lavish living room. There’s even more expensive-looking artwork in here, and an upright wooden piano that must be extremely out of key by now. I take a lap of the room, marveling at the massive fireplace and the mirror resting on the mantel. I poke one of the upholstered armchairs by the window, and a cloud of dust dances into the air. The apartment is definitely pleased to see me.
Careful not to disturb the carpet of dust on every surface, I tiptoe from room to room, wishing my eyes could look in ten different directions at once. My parents are moving at a fraction of the pace, still peering around the foyer. I explore the kitchen and a small square room with a desk and floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. In the hallway branching off from the other side of the foyer, I open a closet door to find an eerie sight: a dozen coats still hanging neatly from the racks, like ghosts standing in single file. The back of my neck prickles. The apartment isn’t just ancient furniture anymore; now there’s something human about it. What would make a family abandon this luxurious apartment without taking any of their stuff? And could it really have been Gram’s family?
“Hey, Alice, come take a look at this!” It’s Dad.
They’re still near the door, standing by a table against the wall. There are framed photos lined up all along it, and Dad is almost done using the bottom of his T-shirt to clean the dust off them. Mom stares at the ones he’s cleaned already. Her face could be made of stone, if not for the muscle twitching in her jaw.
“D-did you guys find something cool?”
“I don’t get it,” Mom says.
The photos are all in black and white. The one farthest to the left shows a young girl sitting on a boardwalk. She’s gripping the edge of the bench and twisting slightly in her seat, like she wants you to know she’d rather be on the sand than posing in a dress for the camera. She has shiny blond hair and freckles on her nose, and she looks incredibly familiar.
“Mom, is that you?”
But it can’t be. This was taken decades before she was born. In the background of the photo, there are men in high-waisted swimsuits and women in structured one-pieces that look like dresses. People are carrying parasols, for god’s sake. So that means—
“It’s Gram,” Dad says.
It hits me out of nowhere: the tightening in my throat, the tears welling in my eyes and fogging up my glasses. I busy myself with wiping them off so Mom doesn’t see me like this. I want to be strong for her right now, but I miss Gram, too. I miss coffee and banana bread. I miss laughing at Gram’s stories about Ethel from bridge club, who always fell asleep in the middle of the game. I miss showing Gram photos of my crushes on Instagram and having her rate them without mercy. But most of all, I miss having a family member I could open up to. I talk and laugh and get along with my parents, but I never talk about feelings with them. They’re too reserved—I needed Gram for that. I swallow hard. I feel guilty every time I have those kinds of thoughts, because I know how much Mom is suffering, and I love her. I love Dad, too. By the time I put my glasses back on, the tears are gone.