The farmhouse stood there like a ghost from his childhood, its white paint grayed and peeling, the porch sagging on one side. Weeds had claimed the flower beds his mother once tended, and the barn out back leaned so far to the left it looked like a stiff wind might finally finish it off. Emma sat in the passenger seat, her face pressed to the window. She’d been quiet for the last hour of the drive, watching the landscape flatten into endless fields and scattered trees.
“Now she stared at the house with wide eyes. “This is where you grew up?” she asked. This is it, Tob said, trying to keep his voice steady. Your grandma’s house. It looks scary. He couldn’t argue with that. In the dim light from the truck, the farmhouse looked like something from a horror movie. Broken shutters hung at odd angles. The front steps had gaps where boards had rotted through. One upstairs window was cracked, held together with duct tape that had yellowed with age.
It just needs some work, he said, more to himself than to Emma. We’ll fix it up. Make it nice. She looked at him with those serious brown eyes, so much like her mother’s. Do we have to stay here? The question hit him harder than she probably meant it to. 6 months ago, they’d lived in a three-bedroom house in the suburbs. Emma had her own room painted purple, a backyard with a swing set, friends on every corner. Now they were here in the middle of nowhere because Toby had nothing left.
The divorce had stripped him clean. Sarah got the house. She’d made more money, the judge said, had better prospects for maintaining the mortgage. She got most of the savings, too. something about her contributions during the marriage, about his periods of unemployment. Tob’s lawyer had tried to fight it, but in the end, he’d signed the papers just to make it stop. For 3 months after, he and Emma had bounced between friends couches and cheap motel. He’d picked up work where he could, construction, delivery, driving, anything that paid cash.
But it wasn’t enough for rent. wasn’t enough to give Emma stability. She’d started wetting the bed again, something she hadn’t done since she was four. She’d gotten quiet at school, her teacher said, withdrawn. That’s when Toby remembered the farmhouse. His mother had died 8 months ago, and he’d inherited the property. He hadn’t wanted to come back, hadn’t wanted to face the memories or the work it would take to make the place liveable. But now he had no choice.
Yeah, sweetie,” he said gently. “We have to stay here for a while, but I promise I’ll make it good for you.” Emma nodded slowly, then reached for her backpack. It held everything she owned now, a few changes of clothes, her stuffed rabbit, the chapter book she was reading. Tob’s throat tightened looking at it. He grabbed their bags from the truck bed and led Emma up the porch steps, testing each board before putting his weight on it. The front door stuck in its frame, swollen from humidity and neglect.
He had to put his shoulder into it before it scraped open. The smell hit them first. Dust and mildew and something else. Something stale and sad. Toby found the light switch and flipped it. Nothing happened. Electricity’s off, he said. I’ll get it turned on tomorrow. He pulled out his phone and turned on the flashlight. The beam swept across the living room, catching on familiar shapes shrouded in shadow. The old floral couch where he’d watched Saturday morning cartoons.
The fireplace with its mantle full of photos. The rocking chair his mother had sat in every evening, always with a book, always alone. The kitchen was worse. Dishes still sat in the sink from whenever his mother had last used them. A half empty coffee cup sat on the counter, a ring of mold growing inside. The refrigerator door hung open and Tobia could see the dark shapes of spoiled food inside. I don’t like it here, Emma whispered. I know.
