I wasn’t allowed to, because the happy memories were the best ones. He told me days before he died that when I came back to Shelton Bay, I couldn’t cry. I was too selfish to go to him when he needed me. No matter that Dad went to the hospice in Charlotte to be closer to me instead of going to Raleigh. It still smells the same-like lavender and warm towels fresh from the dryer. Only elderly women should have flowered rugs in their house. The same patterned rug I remember is running along the front hall, the corners slightly turned up from age, and, God, it’s freakin’ awful. Of me, Ste, and our parents at one of his baseball games, in the last photo we’d ever take together. Of me and Dad on my fifth birthday, me in a flouncy princess dress. Of Dad and my brother, Steven, holding up a huge salmon from the time they went fishing in Oregon.
Of my mom crouched behind me, hugging me. The same childhood pictures are hanging on the walls. Thankfully, my brain is more rational and tells me to step inside, and that I clearly need to lay off The Walking Dead.
My gut tells me to run because, holy shit, there could be all kinds of zombies and crap in here waiting for me! The door creaks as I push against it, the sound almost ominous. My hands are shaking as I shove the key in the door and turn it, and I swallow hard. I just know that I’ve put this off as long as humanly possible. I have no idea what state it’s in since Dad died eight months ago. I haven’t been to this house for two and a half years, much less been inside it. I find it hiding between the creased papers, and with another glance at Mila in the backseat, I walk to the front door. I pull the envelope the lawyer gave me out of the glove box and dig for the key. Especially not back to the place you ran from in the first place. The gravel crunches as it hits the floor, and I jump to the side. I give the offending suitcase one last tug and it flies out of the car. I breathe a sigh of relief and move back to the trunk.
If she was awake and caught me cussing there’s no doubt she’d be shouting, “Mama! Bad!” and following it up with a few excited rounds of the bad word. I suck on my finger to soothe the sting and glance through the back window of the car. If I’d stayed in Charlotte, at least all ten of my nails would still be intact. Just another reason why coming back to Shelton Bay is a mistake. My finger stings like hell-and when I look at it, I see why.īreaking a nail lifting a suitcase. I jump back from the car and flap my hand around.
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