Page 156 of The Story of You

“Okay. I’m sorry. But because I know you’re not likely to call me for a long time—if ever—when will you go to the house?”

I promised him June.

Everyone insisted on coming. But we left the Randall pet farm in the capable hands of our house sitter.

We waited for Oliver’s tattoo to be finished. He was so excited about it and that was a priority before any adventure “home”. But we’ve made the trip to the small town of Markstone Pennsylvania where we grew up and all of us stand on the lawn before the house.

Lakshan won’t let go of my hand. Oliver trails me as Jarvis would. Darius is the golden eagle lying wait in a tree to pounce if needed.

Our other men are steeled at the ready. Anything could happen. I could lose my mind. Ghosts from the past could snatch me away.

Hecould be waiting inside.

Walking up the porch steps is familiar. It’s nineteen eighty-four again. I’m stepping in from having retrieved Oliver from the car, his rainbow blanket wrapped securely around him—because I secured it around him—his blue eyes wide, staring at me with trust and vulnerability.

“You’re smiling, Baba,” he says.

I love that he calls me Dad now. That’s my biggest fucking oversight of all the oversights that have occurred in twenty-five years. I regret not seeing what I see now sooner. But I’m grateful he still uses that name too. It’s special.

“I was remembering the day you came home.”

“I see. So, there are some good memories here after all? Too late. You said it. Can’t take it back.”

That’s what I get for making sure he’s smarter than me.

Stepping over the threshold, I almost expect Mama to greet us in her blue dress with her white ruffled apron tied around her and the scent of blueberry muffins baking in the oven.

The scent of the house accosts my senses. It hasn’t lost its smell despite the years it’s slept alone and unoccupied. Closing my eyes, I take it in. A fit of nostalgia has my brain filling in the sounds of Mama laughing at Oliver’s baby babble, Darius playing the old rabbit-eared TV too loudly, Father rustling the newspaper, and the clatter of me rushing around to prepare breakfast on a Saturday morning. I don’t mind those memories. Things were stressful, but they weren’t bad. Not yet.

Damp and heavy energy hangs in the air. Mama’s death. It never left the place. Did she? Thinking of her spirit trapped here sends a haunted shiver through me. It wraps cold boney fingers around my wrists and ankles, trapping me in the darkness of those thoughts. I don’t want her here anymore. I want to set her free.

“Sir?” Lakshan says.

I take a breath. “I’m okay.”

He laughs. “Why you think you can fool me of all people … that’s amusing.”

“I’m willing to create new memories here, starting with your ass in the air and my hand blistering it.”

“So long as it gets the look off your face you had a moment ago, my ass is ready for your blistering, sir.”

Darius charges passed us into the house. “I don’t need to hear any more about Lak’s bare ass. Chrissake’s you two.”

He drags Wyatt and Asher with him like they’re a chain of paper dolls. He lets them go intent on picking through the place. “Fuck. When Uncle Pax said he’d kept the place up, he wasn’t kidding … well that’s fucking creepy.”

He points to the couch. The last load of laundry I dumped there—where I liked to fold it, watching TV with one eye, and Oliver with the other—is still there. My hands itch to fold it.

Other things have been cleaned away, like dust and grime, but so many items have been left, frozen in time, a museum of our lives.

“Hey, was that mine?” Oliver asks.

His playpen is still there with the toys I’d abandoned. I kept meaning to put that away in storage but never got around to it so it became a toy bin when Oliver grew too old to use it.

“That was yours.”

“It’s weird that I’ve been here but don’t remember a thing.” He heads off to investigate, twirling through the room.

“Be careful about what you touch, and where you dance!” I tell him, sending a glare to Julius, which is code for,keep an extra eye on him.