by Sara Norquay
They moved here after the sons grew up. They had a difficult daughter who was, you know, special. The house was built with her in mind. No one has two doors to unlock before you can enter a house. They did. The front door was never used. They built that room with the balcony and extra side room for her so she could be outside but not on the loose. Perhaps the bars on the basement windows were also meant to be a deterrent.
Mother goes to work. Dad stays home. He likes his eggs cooked just so. I do that for him. I do lots of things for him. I am his princess. Except when he is the bad man who promised me a horse but then forgot when the mother came home. They lock me in the house most days. I sit outside on the balcony in warm weather. I guess they think I’ll jump. I never have. But I could.
She must have gone to school. Her mother was a teacher so she went to school. Maybe a special school. They didn’t “home school” then. Or maybe she couldn’t learn so they didn’t make her go to school. There was a television in her room. Did she help her dad around the house? Could she cook?
My favourite thing is organizing Mother’s sewing box. Ribbons, lace, bobbins, spools. By colour, by size, by feel, by how much I like them. Mother is trying to teach me how to crochet but it’s no use. The stitches get mixed up in my hands and the sun calls me to the window. She says I could learn if I want to. I don’t want to. But I could.
When we moved in we found a box of sewing supplies, all carefully organized, the rubber bands brittle, the velvet ribbons permanently creased. The crochet hooks still useable, though the wooden handles are worn. It would have been nice to have been able to keep the lace doilies but they were declared family heirlooms. I can’t imagine the grandchildren displaying them in their homes.
Dad is in the hospital. His brain doesn’t work anymore. He scowls now and I don’t understand what he says. Mother calls it stroke. He’s struck by stroke. Eggs just so don’t help. When he calls me I wait by the door to see what he wants. Mother says we will have to adjust. I might not want to. But I could.
It seems the neighbours didn’t like them much. Never invited over. The father’s personality changed after he had a stroke. He built that fence, you know. Solid iron. Would hate to have to take it down. It doesn’t keep anyone out and there’s an extra gate. So many things about this house are mysterious. Apparently, the old lady is a firecracker at 93. Still drives her old Studebaker.
Dad wants me to help him build the fence. He has to buy me a space ship. With my own flying saucer I could fly to the moon. The moon looks so lovely. I’m not his princess anymore. I’m his damn damaged damsel in distress. His words all start with the same sound. That’s why he drinks I guess. I won’t tell Mother. But I could.
The furnace is 40 years old. They had it checked every year by the gas company. All the receipts are stabbed into the wall with nails. We will have to replace it. It’s so inefficient. We will have to have the duct work updated as well. Someone put an empty wine bottle in one of the heating ducts. Who was hiding a drinking problem?
My lucky horseshoe doesn’t work anymore. Dad took it away from me and hid it. I know where it is. I found it when he fell asleep on the couch. I found his very sharp knife, too. I won’t stab him today. I don’t think I will ever kill him. But I could.
The house was well cared for. How she did she manage once her husband and daughter were gone? We found a 1950’s cosmetic case with her name on it, full of tools: a hammer, screw drivers, scissors, nails and screws, pliers, a small saw, a very sharp knife, wrenches and gloves. Good leather gloves. She left them in the house when she moved out.
I don’t want to go on a picnic. Mother says we have to go because Dad wants us to. He never said that. He doesn’t talk anymore. He just throws things and howls. Mother caught him holding me down. He wasn’t being nice. Not like he used to be. Now he makes me think of the very sharp knife. I think Mother is afraid of him. She says we need to go right now. If she is nice to me I won’t run away. But I could.
The curtains in the house were dirty. Just opening them caused clouds of dust to puff out of them. The curtains in the upstairs bedroom, however, were brand new. Floral pattern. Cheerful, almost tasteful. The den curtains were nice enough I thought of keeping them. In the end, I made my own and replaced them. The house seems secretive. I suppose, like everyone, they had things they didn’t want other people to know. All the windows and all the light fixtures needed to be replaced.
I have to wear black. Mother says Dad is dead. I know that. She doesn’t have to tell me. I knew when I got up this morning. I am happy. And sad. Why did he have to scare me like that? I warned him. He didn’t listen. Dad is a disappointment to me. I think also for Mother. I won’t tell her that. But I could.
The old woman lives in a senior’s residence now. She didn’t like the first offer we made on her house. She obviously loves the place. We’ve changed a lot in it but I think she would still recognize it. I haven’t invited her to see what we’ve done with it. But I could.
The end
© Sara Norquay, September, 2019
Life is interesting 