Page 19 of Remain (one-of-a-kind)

Troubled by Oscar’s hunch, after he left I searched online for Wren’s obituary. No cause of death was listed, but I dug a little deeper and—piecing together details from a few social media pages—I discovered that Oscar had been right.

Wren Tobin, age twenty-nine, had slipped and fallen in the hallway bathroom two years ago, drowning in the tub.

· · ·

The knowledge of how she died left me strangely bereft.

It made her seem even more tragic somehow, and I thought again about that last conversation with my sister.

Had Wren remained in the house because of some undisclosed trauma or some unresolved issue?

It struck me that dying young was traumatic no matter the circumstance, but there was still too much I didn’t know.

After consuming a hastily concocted lunch in the dining room and needing to do something that would keep my mind from dwelling on the unanswerable, I dug out my sketchbook and pencils from my backpack.

I enjoyed putting pencil to paper in the early stages of the design process, and drawing usually had a soothing effect on me, dating back to my prep school days.

Until Oscar and Lorena finalized their decisions, there was no reason to create the entire front elevation, but because they were favoring shingle-style homes, I figured I could sketch parts of what I’d begun to imagine, including the porch, both floors, and part of the roofline.

Those types of homes shared certain characteristics.

I started with the front door and let my instincts take over after that, allowing ideas to surface in an organic, intuitive way.

Still, whenever I paused, my thoughts immediately drifted back to Wren, and eventually, as though I’d somehow summoned her, I heard a voice calling from the parlor.

“Is this a photo of your sister?”

The pencil froze in my hand, and I smiled, thinking, She came back. I rose and felt an inexplicable pang of self-consciousness. Quickly, I straightened my shirt and ran a hand through my hair before moving to the parlor, where I found Wren staring at the photo I’d placed on the mantel.

She was wearing a white sundress, sandals, and a faded denim jacket stenciled with the name Monkey Tears above a pair of embroidered guitars. I assumed it was the name of a band, though I’d never heard of them.

“Yes, that’s Sylvia.”

“I thought so. I can see the resemblance. She has a pretty smile.”

She turned then, her olive, sun-kissed skin complementing her windblown hair as if she’d just come from a walk on the beach. She wasn’t wearing any makeup or nail polish, and her dark lashes naturally accentuated her unusual eyes.

“What?” she asked. “Do I have crumbs on my face or something in my hair?”

The mirth in her tone was enough to break the spell, and I laughed. “Nope. No crumbs, nothing stuck in your hair. I just wasn’t sure I’d see you today.”

“Why wouldn’t you see me?”

“Sometimes I get lost in my work,” I improvised.

“Is that what you were doing in the dining room?”

“I was making a drawing for a friend. I’m an architect.”

Her eyes were almost hazel in this light. “I don’t think I’ve ever had an architect stay here before.”

“That’s surprising,” I joked. “Architects usually only patronize the finest establishments.”

“I’m honored,” she said with a smirk. “But I must say, I think you’re a little strange.”

“Why?”

I watched as she pushed a wisp of hair from her eyes before motioning to the photo. “I’m still trying to figure out why you put a photo of your sister on the mantel. It’s a little unusual to put it out here in the common area instead of your room, isn’t it?”

“I’m sorry about that. I’d be happy to bring it upstairs.”

“You don’t have to. I kind of feel like I know her now, and I doubt any of the other guests will care.”

Just then, Paulie jumped down from the chair and padded toward Wren.

“Hi, Paulie,” Wren said, lowering herself and holding out her hand. Again, Paulie sniffed it, but Wren didn’t attempt to touch her. I wondered if part of her, perhaps the part that wanted to keep the truth of her situation hidden even from herself, knew it wouldn’t be possible.

“She must have missed you,” I said. “When my friend Oscar was here earlier, she didn’t stir at all.”

“Your friend was here?”

“Just for a little while.”

“When?”

“A couple hours ago, maybe? A little less?”

“Huh,” she said, wrinkling her forehead. “That’s weird. I wonder why I didn’t hear him. Or you, for that matter.”

I could sense her growing confusion and she seemed to shimmer slightly, before becoming almost translucent. Startled by this new phenomenon, I tried to backtrack. “Now that I think about it, it might have been before that,” I said. “I wasn’t really watching the time.”

Paulie turned away from her hand, and Wren stood, seemingly still uneasy. “I guess that must be it. But still…”

When she trailed off, I cleared my throat and changed the subject. “I’m glad to see you, though. I wanted to thank you again for letting me keep Paulie here.”

It took a moment before she responded. “I’ve always loved animals,” she finally said, regaining her usual form. “When I was little, I wanted to be a veterinarian. And I probably would have been, except I hated science and math. Oh, and I tend to faint at the sight of blood.”

“That would have made it tough.”

“My high school guidance counselor told me the same thing,” she said with a crooked grin.

“If you’re not a vet, what do you do now? Aside from renting rooms to architects, I mean?”

“This and that,” she answered. “I could tell you, of course, but I read somewhere that women should cultivate an air of mystery.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. And I’m not even sure if it’s true. But I am curious about your work. Will you show me your drawing?”

“Of course,” I said.

As she edged past me, I caught a distinct floral scent—jasmine, maybe, or gardenia. I was mesmerized by the sway of her figure as she moved ahead of me to the dining room. She was now drinking from a glass of ice water that had appeared in her hand.

I shook my head, thinking, Wow. Wow, wow, wow.

Was that how it worked? I wondered. Had she imagined she was thirsty and then unconsciously conjured a glass of water?

Or did she think now that she’d had it all along?

I didn’t know, but it raised further questions about her level of awareness about all sorts of things.

Did she believe that she’d come downstairs from her room and was about to leave, for instance, or that she’d just arrived back home after being somewhere else?

I watched as she sipped her water and leaned over the table before glancing up at me. “This is stunning,” she said. “You’re an artist.”

“I’ve been drawing for a while,” I said, trying to silence the commentary in my head and follow her lead for now. “It’s been my hobby since I was a teenager.”

“I wish I could draw, but I can’t remember the last time I even tried. It was probably back when I was in third grade.”

“If you’d like to try again, I have plenty of paper and pencils.” I gestured at the supplies littering the table.

At my words, her expression began to shift again, as though the idea was troubling to her. “Maybe later,” she said. “But I might like to watch you draw.”

Because you know, somehow, that you can’t?

“Anytime,” I said, instead.

“And is this what you’ve been doing since your friend left?”

“Pretty much.”

“You should try to get outside. It’s a beautiful day.”

“I was outside earlier,” I said. “I went to the site with Oscar. He’s building a summer house.”

“Where’s the site?”

“Off Old Mill Road,” I answered. “There’s a dirt road leading to a bluff that overlooks the ocean.”

“You’re kidding,” she said, her surprise evident. “I know that spot.”

“Seriously?”

“When I was in high school, my friends and I used to go there all the time. We’d listen to music and party and fantasize about our glorious futures once we escaped this little backwater. We were trespassing, of course, but it never stopped us.”

I smiled. “Your parents never found out?”

“My grandma did,” she said. “My mom died in a car accident when I was little, so my Grandma Joyce raised me.”

“And your dad?”

“Great question,” she answered with a shrug, “and I never did find out the answer. My grandma didn’t talk about him much except to say ‘good riddance,’ so I’m guessing he wasn’t in the picture for long.”

“Can I ask what happened to your grandma?”

“She died of Covid three years ago, right after it started.”

In my mind, I reconstructed the time line, wondering if it was still 2023 for her, the year of her own death.

“I’m sorry.”

“Me, too,” she said. “You would have liked her. She had this crusty exterior, but inside, she was as softhearted as they come, and I miss her like crazy. I think that’s why I feel like I know a little about what you were going through after you lost your sister.”

When I said nothing, she tipped her head toward the parlor.

“Do you want to go sit down? Or am I interrupting your work?”

“We can sit,” I answered. “I was thinking about taking the rest of the day off anyway. Just let me get a glass of water first.”

“If you’re taking the day off, you should pour yourself a glass of wine.”

Thinking that a glass of wine might be just what I needed, I found the glasses and opened the wine from the gift basket.

When I returned from the kitchen, she was no longer wearing a sundress and a denim jacket.

Instead, she was sitting on the sofa in black stretch pants and a red crop top, the other outfit nowhere to be seen.

As she’d done the other day, she had one leg tucked up beneath her and was staring out the window.

Her fingernails and toenails were painted red, matching her shirt.

And in what I supposed might be regarded as a faux biblical miracle, her glass of ice water was now a glass of white wine.

I tried to disguise my amazement as I took a seat in the overstuffed chair opposite her.