Lovely Wild. Megan HartЧитать онлайн книгу.

       THIRTEEN

      HERE IS THE house where everything happened.

      This is what Mari thinks as she glides on bare feet over floors that have been covered in unfamiliar carpet, tile, even laminate wood. She seeks out the places she knew best.

      The closet beneath the stairs is painted brightly now and not hung with veils of tattered cobwebs. Inside is a bucket, mop, broom, vacuum cleaner. Cleaning supplies hang neatly on pegs and wire shelving.

      The space beneath the sink is impossibly tiny. She could fit one leg inside it, maybe. Certainly not her whole body the way she used to. She traces the glimmer of curving silver pipes with her fingertip. This, like the gleaming stainless steel sink above, is new. At least to her.

      So much is new. Looking at it is like seeing two photos, one transparent and laid atop the other so that both can be seen but neither clearly. She blinks and blinks again, shaking her head against this feeling. She clutches the sink, her head bent, eyes closed. She listens for the sound of chair legs scraping on worn linoleum and the mutter of voices speaking above and around but never to her. The clatter of the dogs’ nails and their soft woofing, begging for scraps or fighting over what fell from the table.

      She turns to see the table, also new. She can crouch beneath this one, though it’s round with a pedestal center and has no knitted afghan thrown on top of it. It’s not a cave, and the cool tile floors hurt her butt and knees when she crawls beneath. Still, Mari draws her knees to her chest and presses her forehead to the bare flesh. She listens.

      And this, she knows. She remembers. The creak of an old house settling doesn’t change, even if you paint the walls and replace the flooring. Even if you clean it, the memory of all the dirt still remains.

      Under the table, Mari draws in breath after breath. No longer small, she’s been made tiny again by this place. A little wild.

      “Mama?”

      “Yeah, honey.” She looks up to give her boy a smile.

      Ethan crawls under the table with her. “Whatcha doing?”

      “When I was a little girl in this house, I used to hide under the kitchen table. I was just remembering it, that’s all.”

      “Oh.” Ethan is silent for a moment, his pose mimicking hers. Small knees drawn up to small chest, small chin digging into the tops of them. “Why did you hide?”

      Mari opens her mouth to answer, but Kendra has entered the kitchen. She doesn’t see them immediately the way Ethan spotted his mother. Together, Mari and Ethan watch Kendra’s feet turn in a half circle. She’s wearing battered Converse sneakers just like the ones Mari had always wanted but had been denied as a teen, and something tight and tense unwinds a bit in Mari’s chest at the sight.

      “Mom?”

      Ethan clamps a hand over his mouth against a flurry of giggles. Mari knows Kendra will be angry if she looks under the table and sees them. She’ll think they’re hiding from her. But Mari can’t help laughing, either.

      “What—” Kendra bends to look under the table. “Oh, God. What are you guys doing? Weirdos!”

      “Come in, Kiki, there’s room.” Mari holds out a hand.

      And maybe because it’s late and they’re in a new place or because Kendra’s in a good mood or for some reason Mari can’t figure, her daughter takes her hand and crawls beneath the table. There’s not enough room under there for all of them, but they scootch in close enough to make it work. Their knees bump. They grip each other’s hands and make a circle.

      “Mama used to hide under the table when she was a little girl,” Ethan explains.

      Kendra’s eyes are wide and blue. Her father’s eyes, though, not Mari’s. But they look at Mari with an awareness Ryan hasn’t had in a while, if ever. “How come?”

      “Oh...” Mari shrugs. “My grandmother had a long old wooden table. A trestle table, I think they call it. With benches along the sides instead of chairs. Instead of tablecloths, she always had it covered with a few afghans she’d knitted herself. Orange, green, yellow.”

      She can remember the stripes, the zigzag pattern of holes in the yarn that let in the light. If there’s one thing she could’ve taken with her from this house, it might have been one of those blankets.

      “Like a fort,” Ethan offers.

      “Yes. Something like that.”

      Kendra looks upward, then around this table’s center leg at her mother. “But why did you hide?”

      There is so much to be said, if only Mari could find the words, but they don’t come easily. They never have for her, and here in this house they seem to be slipping from her brain even faster. She doesn’t lie to her kids, but they’ve spent a lifetime not knowing everything there is to know about her. How can that be changed in a few minutes beneath a kitchen table in the house of her childhood, especially when she’s so uncertain of what really happened here, herself?

      “Sometimes, people came,” Mari manages to say without fumbling. She breathes, remembering how Leon taught her to think the sounds of the words before saying them, so they wouldn’t stick in her throat. “My grandmother thought they’d take me away from her if they knew I was there. So, I hid.”

      Kendra’s brow furrows. There are days she looks far older than her age, but now is not one of those times. “Would they have? Taken you from her?”

      “Yes.”

      Before anyone can ask her another question, a heavier tread sounds in the hall outside. They all look and go silent together. Ryan’s feet appear in the kitchen. His are bare, his ankles covered by the hems of his favorite pajama bottoms. His feet move toward the fridge, which opens.