It’s okay, he squeezed her shoulder. Let’s see if we can find somewhere to sleep tonight. Tomorrow we’ll start cleaning. They climbed the stairs, the steps creaking under their weight. Tob’s old bedroom was at the end of the hall, untouched since he’d left for college at 18. The same posters on the walls, the same scratched desk, the same narrow bed with its faded blue comforter. You can sleep in here with me tonight, he told Emma. We’ll get you your own room soon.
She nodded and climbed onto the bed without bothering to change out of her clothes. Toby sat beside her, stroking her hair until her breathing deepened into sleep. Then he sat there in the darkness, letting the weight of everything settle on him. This house, God, this house. He’d spent his whole childhood here, but he’d never understood it. Never understood his mother’s silence, her distance. She’d fed him and clothed him and made sure he did his homework. But there had always been something else, something she held back.
Even as a boy, he’d felt it. The way she’d stare out the kitchen window for long minutes, lost in some private thought. The way she’d flinch when someone knocked on the door unexpectedly. The way she never talked about her past, never invited friends over, never seemed to connect with the other mothers in town. When Tob was a teenager, he’d thought she was just cold, unloving. He’d resented her for it, counted down the days until he could leave.
And when he finally did leave, he’d barely looked back. visited maybe twice a year, called on holidays. When she died, he’d felt guilty about that, but he’d also felt relieved in a way he didn’t like to examine too closely. Now, sitting in his childhood bedroom with his own daughter, sleeping beside him, he wondered if there was more to it, something he’d been too young or too angry to see. The next morning came too bright and too early.
Sunlight poured through the dusty windows, making the disrepair impossible to ignore. Emma woke up cranky and hungry. Toby realized he hadn’t thought to bring any food. They drove into town, Cooper’s Bend, population 3200, the same as when he was a kid. The diner was still on Main Street, looking exactly like he remembered. They sat at the counter and Emma ordered pancakes while Toby drank bitter coffee and tried to make a mental list of everything that needed doing.
First, get the electricity turned on. Second, clean enough of the house to make it livable. Third, find work, any kind of work that would keep them fed. The waitress, a woman about his age with tired eyes, refilled his coffee without being asked. You’re Helen Karn’s boy, aren’t you? Toby looked up, surprised. Yeah, Toby. I thought so. You look like her around the eyes. She wiped down the counter, not quite meeting his gaze. Sorry about your loss. She was well, she kept to herself, but she seemed like a good woman.
Thank you. The waitress nodded and moved away, but Toby noticed she’d stiffened slightly when she spoke about his mother. There was something in her tone, something careful and rehearsed. When they left the diner, Toby waved at an older man across the street. The man had been staring at them, but when Tob waved, he turned and walked quickly in the opposite direction. Back at the farmhouse, Tob called the utility company and arranged for the power to be turned back on.
Then he grabbed a trash bag and started in the kitchen, throwing out everything that had spoiled. Emma helped, though she wrinkled her nose at the smell. By midafternoon, they’d made progress. The kitchen was cleaner, the living room dusted, the refrigerator emptied and wiped down. Tobu stood in the hallway, looking up at the narrow door that led to the attic. He hadn’t been up there in 30 years. As a kid, he’d been forbidden. His mother had always kept it locked.
Said it was dangerous with all the old junk and weak floorboards. After she died, the lawyer handling the estate had asked if there was anything up there worth inventorying. Toby had said no without even checking. Now looking at that door, he thought about space. The house had three bedrooms, but one was barely bigger than a closet, filled with his mother’s sewing things. If he could clear out the attic, make it safe, Emma could have a real room, a place that was hers.
“Stay down here, okay,” he told Emma. “I’m going to check something out.” The attic door opened with a screech of protest. A set of steep wooden stairs led up into darkness. Toby found a flashlight in the kitchen drawer and climbed slowly, testing each step before trusting it with his weight. The heat hit him first. The attic was stifling, the air thick and still. Then his flashlight beam swept across the space, and he froze. Bags, hundreds of them.
