Page 5 of The Embers That Remain

Three

Cali

The back door stuck as I attempted to open it. I braced my shoulder against the frame and pushed, the wood groaning as if it resented me for coming back. For a moment, nothing happened. The door gave with a sharp whine, the sound echoing through the kitchen like an accusation, and I mentally began building a list of things I would need to get this place in better shape. Dust motes floated in the air, catching the light in slow, lazy spirals as if it had been undisturbed for far too long. The thick, stale smell engulfed me first. Old coffee. Sour milk. Something faintly metallic, maybe chemicals or paint left open on a shelf. Under it all, the ghost of my grandmother’s bacon grease used for cooking and homemade wheat yeast rolls and Sunday mornings that didn’t exist anymore. The money I would spend to relive just one Sunday morning breakfast with them while my grandpa read the weekly farm journal and my grandma finished up a batch of cookies so she and grandpa could “go visit the old people” at the nursing home, which always made me wonder what was old if people existed who were older than them.

I stood there longer than I should have, keys still clenched in my hand, heart pounding as if I’d broken into my past, like I wasn’t supposed to be here anymore. The kitchen appeared smaller than I remembered, or maybe I was just bigger now. The table sat crooked, one leg shimmed to level with a piece of folded cardboard. A stack of mail fanned out across the counter—utility bills, old newspapers, envelopes stamped FINAL NOTICE in red that made my stomach clench in anxiety because I wasn’t the only person getting notifications like this, and now I’d be responsible for these too.

I set my purse down slowly, afraid the house might spook if I moved too fast.

“Okay,” I whispered to no one. “You’re okay.”

I moved through the house the way I was trained to assess a medical condition: methodical, detached, cataloging things as if they didn’t belong to me. As if I weren’t standing in the place that had shaped me. The first place that made me feel truly loved.

The living room couch sagged deep in the middle, cushions worn smooth. A blanket lay bunched on the floor, needing a wash. The television was paused on a local news station, the screen frozen on a weather alert from days ago. The walls were bare where Grandma’s cross-stitch used to hang, the nails still there like they were waiting, with a dusty outline of what used to be there.

The bathroom was worse. I added item after item to my mental list. Bleach. Rubber gloves. Air freshener. Scrub brushes. Toilet bowl cleaner. Pill bottles crowded the sink. Some were empty, some half full. A rusty razor on the counter. Towels crusted stiff, folded and refolded in different styles, as if someone had tried to make order out of chaos. I turned away before the ache behind my eyes could turn into something messier. My chest caved in on itself because I hadn’t been here when he’d needed me.

Upstairs, Grandpa’s bedroom smelled of sweat and vacancy. His bed was unmade, sheets tangled as if he’d fought them and lost. A walker leaned against the dresser, dust-free, as if it were used often. I sat on the edge of the mattress and pressed my fingers into it, breathing through the pressure in my chest. I should have been here. Why had I let the fear of coming back stop me from being here for two of the people I loved most? I should have swallowed my pride, my fear, the weight of the memories that waited in this town like land mines. I should have noticed sooner. Should have called more, visited, done anything other than pretending distance made things safer. The selfishness of my choices burned like acid in my stomach.

Laughter drifted in through the open back door, Jace’s low and surprised, Grandpa’s high and unfiltered. It grounded me enough to stand again. This place would not clean itself, and right now I needed something to do besides think of all the times I’d failed the people I’d loved most. Walking back outside, I began hauling boxes to the porch because I had clean sheets that would get us through tonight; then I could tackle the house after a night of sleep, because the exhaustion from the drive was seeping into my muscles.

Jace jumped up the moment he saw me struggling with the first box.

“Hey. I got it.”

“I’ve got it,” I said automatically, but he took it anyway. We moved in quiet tandem, box by box, sweat streaking down our backs, dust clinging to our skin as we stirred it up with the movement. Grandpa—Jimmy—followed us around like a tour guide, narrating everything we did with unfiltered enthusiasm, as if every thought that popped into his head needed to come out of his mouth.

“That’s the kitchen. That’s where snacks live.”

“That room’s boring. Don’t go in there.”

“I built the farm myself.”

“I know,” I said softly, meeting his cloudy blue eyes. “It’s incredible.”

He grinned as if I’d handed him a medal. I cataloged his condition, and I became more concerned as the list grew.

By the time the car was empty, the sun had dipped low enough to stretch shadows across the yard. My arms shook from exhaustion, but there was no relief in it, just the dull understanding that this was the simple part.

“Do you have food here?” I asked, crouching in front of Grandpa as he chowed down on the burger we’d brought from the diner. I kept my voice light, the way I did with patients who were scared but didn’t want to admit it.

His forehead wrinkled. “Sometimes.” Not good. Jace hovered nearby, pretending not to listen while absolutely listening. I caught his eye and canted my head toward the car.

“I need to run to the store and get some basics and cleaning supplies,” I said. “Text me if you need anything specific.”

He hesitated, eyes flicking from me to Grandpa. “You sure?”

“I’m sure. I won’t be long, and we’re going to need some fuel if we’re going to tackle this place tomorrow.”

He nodded once. I grabbed my keys and jogged across the yard after telling Grandpa what the plan was, because sometimes he paid rapt attention and other times he seemed to drift between the present and his childhood. I knew I only had a short time before the local grocery store closed, because everything closed early in Kennedy, and the next grocery store was almost an hour away.

The town hadn’t changed much . . . same brick storefronts, the same faded banners advertising festivals that hadn’t meant anything to me even when I lived here. The same weight pressing down on my chest, the unspoken awareness of eyes that would recognize my face. I tugged the vintage Kennedy Mustangs baseball cap I’d rummaged around for lower on my brow as if it would somehow hide the bright auburn braid down my back.

Word would spread fast:

“Cali’s back.”

“With a kid.”