Page 12 of Cloudless
FITTING FILTER
LILA
The hallway serves as a makeshift runway. My footsteps echo my thunderous heartbeat as I pace. The cadence of my steps is only interrupted by my shoes switching between the clicking on the hardwood floors and the muffled thud on the two rugs acting like a runner down the hallway.
I maintain a vice-like grip on my phone as I make another lap.
Kam’s text notification sits uncleared on my lock screen.
His name serves as a pillar of strength for the day ahead.
A silent battle rages in my mind. My desire to text Kam is losing to my desire to not reveal how much of a mess my life truly is.
His friendship application lies on my nightstand, slightly wrinkled from the hours of use it has received over these past few days.
My fingers itch to feel the now comforting smoothness of the paper. To feel the crinkle in the corner where he bent the paper playing with the edge during our class.
I audibly gulp when a glance at the clock on my phone shows nine minutes until eight. Icy tendrils of dread slide over me as the screen fades. My reflection stares back at me through the inky blackness. The darkness is a fitting filter to my dull image.
The thud of a car door closing outside reverberates like a gong through my bones.
She’s early.
The buttery softness of my dress does nothing to calm my shaky hands as I attempt to smooth wrinkles out of the fabric.
Our red front door used to represent my mom’s rebellious and artistic nature. Now, however, it flashes in warning at the danger I could find on the other side.
Despite anticipating the soft knock, it still startles me into dropping my phone onto the plush rug under my feet.
I murmur a quiet curse as I scramble to pick it up. My shaky fingers struggle to find purchase on the smooth device against the fibrous rug. The phone slides through my fingers like sand in the wind as another knock sounds at the door.
Vertigo washes over me as I stand too quickly. A sharp clink reverberates through the aching quietness as I bump my phone into a bowl we use to put our keys in on the entryway table.
The cool metal of the doorknob seeps into my sweaty palm. A rush of warm air slides over my face as the door swings open.
The glare on Mrs. Jones’ glasses disappears to reveal kind, green eyes.
Shifting the papers she holds, her straight, white hair gets caught on her jacket's lapels as she offers a handshake. “Miss Sullivan. It’s so nice to meet you at last. I’m Evelyn Jones.”
I inwardly cringe as my sweaty palm meets her cool one. “Please, call me Lila.” I step to the side. “Come in.”
I mourn the loss of the calming balm of the morning sun as I plunge the hall into blinding darkness. The click of the door closing feels like the cock of a gun as I watch Mrs. Jones’ cunning eye take in our home.
My eyes dart over the immaculate space in search of dust like a hawk searching for a rabbit. The absence of dust doesn't soothe my racing heart or stabilize my shaking legs as I walk behind Mrs. Jones through the entryway.
Suffocating quiet descends like fog around us as we emerge into the open concept dining room, living room, and kitchen combo.
When we moved in five months ago, the open concept space was a pleasant change from the cramped older home I grew up in. Now the cavernous space is too reminiscent of an open field with no cover to protect the gazelle caught in the sights of the waiting lion.
I’m sure at first glance, one in my situation might think Mrs. Jones is the lion. But no. It’s my circumstances that haunt me every waking moment. They plague me every second I dare to close my eyes and dream of a way to escape their suffocating presence.
I wake every morning wondering if today is the day the lion finally sinks its teeth into my neck to finish me. Some days I swear I can feel its breath from a taunting graze of its teeth on my flesh.
I blink out of the snare of my mind as Mrs. Jones unloads her arms onto the dining room table. She turns to me with sincere kindness shining in her eyes. “I’d like to begin by saying how sorry I am for your loss, Lila.”
I struggle to swallow with an urgent need for water to soothe my parched throat. “Thank you. May I offer you anything to drink before we start?”
A small smile pulls at her lips before she turns to shuffle through the papers on the dining room table. “No, thank you, dear.”
My feet carry me to the refrigerator before she’s even finished talking. The rush of cool air that hits my face when I open the door thankfully clears my mind of any lingering thoughts of gazelles and lions.
The rough texture of the water cap burns my palm as I struggle to open the lid. Raw skin is a price I will happily pay for the refreshing chill of the water.
The scrape of the chair legs against the floor sends another rush of anxiety cascading through me. We each settle into our seats at the rectangular table as I wipe the condensation from the bottled water onto my dress.
The emptiness of the chairs at either end of the table settles like a weight on my chest. My knuckles turn a ghostly shade of white as I clasp my hands tightly on the table in front of me.
Mrs. Jones eyes me with a tilt of her head. “This is not meant to be a stressful visit, Lila.”
I manage a small nod. “Of course. I can’t help but to be nervous, though.”
Her kind smile slips firmly into place. “That tells me a great deal about how seriously you are taking this situation.”
I sit up straighter in my seat. “This is absolutely the most important thing to me.”
“I’m glad to hear that. Let me give you a rundown of how today will go.
” I nod my head as she glances back down at the papers in front of her.
“I would like to start with a tour of the house. Then I would like to meet with Jasper and Posey to see how they are doing with all the changes.” She looks up at me.
“I may recommend grief counseling for all three of you, but don’t be alarmed.
That almost always happens in these cases, and it is not a reflection of how well you are doing.
” I nod my understanding as she continues.
“After I talk with Jasper and Posey, I would like to ask you a few questions. That should be the extent of our visit today. Does that sound good to you?”
I actually manage a small smile. My nerves slightly dull to that of a butter knife instead of a steak knife, now that I know what to expect. “That sounds great.”
She mimics my smile. “Great. Let’s get started.”