Even after crying, the weight of hopelessness remained ever present, better at casting a shadow than even the sun itself. She blew her nose on the sheet, using the underside to avoid the layer of dust.
“It’s not how you start, it’s how you finish,” Lizzie said to the empty room. In response, the beaded curtain with its lotus flower pattern rustled. She listened to her cousins as they opened doors and called out to each other. In the time she’d sat, the house had become familiar to her again. She groped underneath the sink until her hands touched the gas lantern that her grandmother had kept there. Memphis was prone to storms and full of aging trees set too close to power lines. Moving cautiously to the stove, she found the long-tipped lighter and then after a few minutes of fumbling, the lantern illuminated the house.
Walking through the curtain, Lizzie embarked on her own exploration of the house. The hallway narrowed as she walked along it so that by the time she reached the stairwell and the open space by the front door, her shoulders almost touched each opposing wall. She started at the front door in the constricted space her grandmother had often called the receiving room. Two slivers of stained glass framed the front doors. Lizzie stood at length in the warm entryway, soothed by the proximity of the horizontally laid poplar walls before allowing their seamlessness to pull her deeper into the house, past the pocket door that opened onto a tiny closet and up the stairs.
The stairs divided the narrow portion of the house from the large trapezoid-like rear rooms. The second and third floors were identical to each other. At the landing of the stairs were three doors: one opened to the front bedroom, the other to the back bedroom and the third to the bathroom. The front rooms were barely five feet wide, but they had French doors that exited onto the balconies above the porch. The bathrooms were as long as the front bedrooms and only three feet wide—they shared a wall with the front rooms. The trapezoid rooms had the same floor plan as the kitchen and featured the same tall windows running nearly the height and length of the walls that faced the river. On the third floor, the entryway to the cupola took up most of the landing.
Each door she opened made her a little angrier with her mother, who had assured her that she’d taken good care of the house before leaving nearly two years ago for Yekaterinburg. Clearly her mother had a skewed perception of caretaking. At the door to her grandmother’s room, Lizzie picked up the overnight bag she’d left on the landing and entered. Her phone buzzed a warning of a low battery as Lizzie opened the wardrobe in her grandmother’s room and searched it for linens. It seemed as if every spare sheet in the house had been used to cover furniture. There were several wool blankets and what appeared to be a wedding dress sealed inside a cloth covering. Behind her, the pewter urn on the mantle reflected the moonlight streaming into the room at eye level above the plywood boards.
Picking up her phone, she started to search out the nearest hotel, but she didn’t even get to the point where she could call before the battery died. What she ought to do is find her cousins and work out a plan. But the thought of all that would have to be done with the house overwhelmed her. It was too much to take in. At least they had a place to sleep. Count your many blessings, Lizzie thought, bouncing on the bed and listening to its springs groan in protest. Her leg throbbed. She didn’t plan on being in Memphis long enough to find a permanent therapist, but the doctor and the trainer had insisted she follow a demanding schedule of therapy and rehabilitation. One day into her travel, and she’d already let the exercises slide.
Life had a way of being a son of a bitch. The dampness of the room left her with clammy skin and again the earthy smell tickled her nose. At least it was warm, especially
“It’s not how you start, it’s how you finish,” Lizzie said to the empty room. In response, the beaded curtain with its lotus flower pattern rustled. She listened to her cousins as they opened doors and called out to each other. In the time she’d sat, the house had become familiar to her again. She groped underneath the sink until her hands touched the gas lantern that her grandmother had kept there. Memphis was prone to storms and full of aging trees set too close to power lines. Moving cautiously to the stove, she found the long-tipped lighter and then after a few minutes of fumbling, the lantern illuminated the house.
Walking through the curtain, Lizzie embarked on her own exploration of the house. The hallway narrowed as she walked along it so that by the time she reached the stairwell and the open space by the front door, her shoulders almost touched each opposing wall. She started at the front door in the constricted space her grandmother had often called the receiving room. Two slivers of stained glass framed the front doors. Lizzie stood at length in the warm entryway, soothed by the proximity of the horizontally laid poplar walls before allowing their seamlessness to pull her deeper into the house, past the pocket door that opened onto a tiny closet and up the stairs.
The stairs divided the narrow portion of the house from the large trapezoid-like rear rooms. The second and third floors were identical to each other. At the landing of the stairs were three doors: one opened to the front bedroom, the other to the back bedroom and the third to the bathroom. The front rooms were barely five feet wide, but they had French doors that exited onto the balconies above the porch. The bathrooms were as long as the front bedrooms and only three feet wide—they shared a wall with the front rooms. The trapezoid rooms had the same floor plan as the kitchen and featured the same tall windows running nearly the height and length of the walls that faced the river. On the third floor, the entryway to the cupola took up most of the landing.
Each door she opened made her a little angrier with her mother, who had assured her that she’d taken good care of the house before leaving nearly two years ago for Yekaterinburg. Clearly her mother had a skewed perception of caretaking. At the door to her grandmother’s room, Lizzie picked up the overnight bag she’d left on the landing and entered. Her phone buzzed a warning of a low battery as Lizzie opened the wardrobe in her grandmother’s room and searched it for linens. It seemed as if every spare sheet in the house had been used to cover furniture. There were several wool blankets and what appeared to be a wedding dress sealed inside a cloth covering. Behind her, the pewter urn on the mantle reflected the moonlight streaming into the room at eye level above the plywood boards.
Picking up her phone, she started to search out the nearest hotel, but she didn’t even get to the point where she could call before the battery died. What she ought to do is find her cousins and work out a plan. But the thought of all that would have to be done with the house overwhelmed her. It was too much to take in. At least they had a place to sleep. Count your many blessings, Lizzie thought, bouncing on the bed and listening to its springs groan in protest. Her leg throbbed. She didn’t plan on being in Memphis long enough to find a permanent therapist, but the doctor and the trainer had insisted she follow a demanding schedule of therapy and rehabilitation. One day into her travel, and she’d already let the exercises slide.
Life had a way of being a son of a bitch. The dampness of the room left her with clammy skin and again the earthy smell tickled her nose. At least it was warm, especially
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