Mila
As Decker turned off the highway and onto the dirt road, memories came flooding back to me. I remembered our mother driving Sybil and me home from school every day and how I’d hold my breath, hoping I’d see my father’s car in the yard. I never did; not in the middle of the afternoon. Most nights, I was in bed before he got home.
I remembered a table in the kitchen where Sybil and I would do our homework while our mother fixed dinner. I could count on one hand the number of times my father ate with us. He was even gone on the weekends.
When Decker pulled up to the white clapboard house, it took my breath away. How had I forgotten how much I’d loved living here?
It looked pretty rough; the lawn near the house hadn’t been mowed in years. The bushes were overgrown, and the back porch looked like it was collapsing. The windows on the first level were boarded up, but the upstairs ones in the dormers, weren’t. The front of the house didn’t look like it was in as bad shape as the back, and the black shutters looked as though all they’d need was a fresh coat of paint.
“Do you want to go inside?” Decker asked.
“Can we?”
“It’s your house, sweetheart.”
“Yes. I’d like to.”
“Let’s go.”
I waited for Decker to come around to my side of the truck. “I’m nervous,” I admitted.
“One thing to keep in mind is critters may have taken up residence.”
“Right,” I said as we walked up to the front door.
Decker reached out to open it, but it was locked. I picked up the partially broken pot sitting on the front porch, brushed away the dry dirt, and found the key I remembered had always been hidden there.
Decker stomped his way inside, I guessed to scare away any of those critters he’d mentioned. It was dark with the boards over the windows, but when I, like Decker, shined the light from my phone in the front room, I gasped. It all looked the same as I remembered it on the day my mother, my sister, and I had left. Maybe it was because it was dark, but it didn’t look as dilapidated as the outside had.
I took a few more steps and peeked around the corner, holding my breath. “Oh my God, it’s still here,” I gasped, shining the light on the baby grand piano where I’d taken my first lesson.
“Let’s get some light in here,” Decker said, going back out the front door. Moments later, I heard the wood crack as he pulled the thin boards from the three front windows. The room was immediately flooded with light. I lifted the keylid, and sat down on the bench, tentatively pressing my fingers to the keys.
I’d expected it to be out of tune, but it wasn’t as far gone as I thought it would be.
Bringing both hands to the keys, I began to play. I played and played and played, pounding out every piece of music I knew by heart. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I could hear Decker moving about the house, removing boards, opening windows, perhaps to air it out. I should probably stop and help, but as soon as I finished one piece, I told myself I’d just play one more.
Only when I felt Decker standing behind me did I move my hands from the keys.
“Don’t stop,” he murmured.
“I know it needs a good tuning, but I love this piano. I couldn’t resist.”
“It sounded beautiful.”
I turned on the bench and looked around the room. “It’s like it was frozen in time.”
“Would you like to take a look around?”
I stood and took Decker’s extended hand, so anxious to see the other rooms of the house.
We walked through the formal dining room that was only used for holiday meals, and into the farmhouse kitchen. There was a wooden ladder in the corner that neither I nor Sybil had ever been allowed to climb. Our mother used it to reach things in the row of cabinets that butted up against the ceiling.
The oversized sink looked out on the orchard where peaches, plums, pomegranates, figs, pears, and apples grew. Beyond it, were rows and rows of blackberries, all horribly overgrown.
“I thought I’d check out the barn,” said Decker from behind me. “I’ve been in all the rooms. I didn’t see any sign of wildlife.”
I nodded as I ran my hands over the kitchen counters. Being here made me miss my mother so much more than the last time I’d visited my grandfather’s house. Maybe because I always thought of it as his, whereas this was my mother’s house. Not my father’s; he was never here. That he’d made us leave it, was heartbreaking. Especially considering it didn’t appear that anyone had lived here after we left.