She folded and unfolded her arms practicing postures that would be the least defensive or intrusive. The footsteps in the hall made her swallow again, her throat feeling jammed full of cotton swabs. She envisioned him coming down the steps . She hoped she could find words. The man opened the large heavy door allowing her to glimpse the marble foyer but blocked her entrance laying his hand on the knob.
”Yes?”
“Mr. Hoops? We spoke on the phone? I first wanted to thank you for this opportunity.”
She completed the introduction at her childhood home forcing her eyes to stay focused on the man’s face rather than darting around and gulping the new and different details of the decor around her. He hesitated and so she rushed on.
“I promise I won’t take long. I just need…WANT to see something. Please. It’s very important to me. I think it will help you. ” She reached out touching the glass and felt the spark. The house stirred.
He pulled back as if he’d felt it too. “I suppose no harm. It can't be worse.” and he invited her in.
The mouth gaped happily and she was swallowed by her past. For just a moment, the floor shivered as she stepped in. Her head swam, forcing her to close her eyes and spread her feet to regain balance.
“You all right?” Cautiously the stranger touched her elbow.
She smiled softly as the breeze fluffed her hair. She inhaled deeply while her memories come roaring in.
“The mural. It’s been redone. How lovely.” She pointed to her left, where now a huge mirror shined proudly in the afternoon sun. “May I?”
“Be my guest.” He bowed, stepping back and she marched on without confusion. She gave the owner a tour.
“Down here in this room – ahh still storage. I begged for this to be my room. Laundry…we kept it bare. It looks much better with the tile.” She wandered slowly giving him historical facts about the house: the marble deck and how it had almost torn the house in half, the way it was built into a hill with doors on every floor to accommodate the wheelchair bound original mistress of the house, the cemetery at the rear of the yard; sorely abused and forgotten that was home to an ancient bees nest as well as the town’s founding fathers. She entertained him with stories of the creek off to the east of the property and the ghost story about the tiny room under the stairs.
She laughed about the carpets being neutral now instead of the angry basil or murderous red she had grown up with and the painful Spanish stucco that had snagged hundreds of sweaters and torn at the flesh on her arms if she brushed against it. Absently she touched a couple of scars. The tour of the lower floor was over. It was time to head upstairs. She paused at the upper staircase, her hand becoming shaky and sweaty. The not so new owner gave her room as she mounted the steps. A wind rapped at the walls and hissed through the screens. He gazed at the visitor uneasily.
“May I? I know that the bedrooms are this way…” but she was already gone, passing her brother’s room and the sprawling bathroom they’d shared, the linen closets, stopping at her old bedroom. She closed her eyes and waited. Nothing. Only one place left. She turned slightly and stood in the doorway, touching the gouge that could never be fixed. The gurney that stole her dead mother had snapped a moment from the wall. She plucked the digital recorder from her bag.
“I’m here now.” She said.
The man left her alone in her mother’s room.
“ Do you like what they’ve done? It’s beautiful here. Can you see me?”
She paced slowly envisioning the placement of furniture and remembering details. “You’ve been angry. Why? They love this house Mom. Like you did. Like I did.” She saw the breeze lift the curtains. “You shouldn’t be mean. You don’t like them? Don’t you want to…”
“Don’t make this worse. Please. This was a mistake.”
“But..”
“Please. This was a mistake. Go now. “ He was rubbing his arms as if he were buried in ice.
The wind slammed a door down the hall. She was here.
“Hurry. Please." he said again, leaving her in the room.
Tears sprung into her eyes. Her mouth was full of sobs and despair but no words. A hot anvil filled her chest sending her crashing to her knees. Her mouth twisted in a silent sob as her breath hitched painfully in her lungs. She rocked back and forth hugging herself. Then there was a single whisper choked with recognition and sorrow.
“Momma.”
The tears ran, escaping in a rush of hot dismay. “See me!” she screamed in her head. “I don't have much time! ” She felt as if she were ending a phone call too quickly. She panicked, needing to say more; about her life, her husband, her precious bunnies who were growing up too fast. "PLEASE!" She begged, the thought so intense it seemed to shake her brain, making her exhausted. As she cried, she realized her breath was visible.
“Miss?” he urgently called from down the hall.
“Yes of course. Coming.” She looked dazed now. The room seemed to tilt and expand. She felt tiny.
“Goodbye Momma. I’m leaving. You can come with me if you want.” And she turned brushing passed the scar and picking a piece of the old door jam pocketed her morose trophy.
The room was still. The house settled around her pouting and frumpish. She thanked him and apologized.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t be more help. I had to try. I hope your home settles.” She touched his arm and clamped the splinter of wood. She pulled her coat around her and got into her car. Her breath was a pant. More tears hurt and dejected streaked her cheek. “I love you Momma”
She drove the nine hours home not remembering much of her experience.
It was a month before the digital recorder beeped full. She poured glass of wine, kissed her bunnies goodnight and spun it on the table. She clicked and erased messages and defunct personal memos. Then she reached the white noise that spoke. She drained her glass in one gulp, playing it over and over. The volume went up and she transferred the clips, cleaning them up on her program. The hair on her arms stood icily at attention.
“Don’t go.” it whispered
Her muscles tingled.
“I’m leaving. Come with me.” She remembered standing in the doorway hopeful to hear something that day.
“Wait I’m coming.”
She clicked it off and went to her pocket, pulling the old splinter.
“Silliness” she muttered but she couldn’t stop herself. “Mom? Are you here? Did you see my bunnies? Welcome to my home. To my life.”
Silence, but a breeze warm and soft comforted her. She breathed deeply. The house creaked and settled into the night. She strained her ears to listen and finally succumbed to her fatigue. As she dozed, the recorder slowly spun on the table. In the morning the first of many conversations began on that recorder.
“I love bunnies.”
