Ch. 3: Stuck Before I've Even Begun
The past won't stay buried forever.
This is chapter 3 of 8, that I’m publishing one chapter at a time every Friday. I wrote this first draft of my novel in 2022, and I’m sharing it here along with new artwork exploring what it could be like if I turned it into a graphic novel.
PREVIOUSLY: June is forced to leave the cozy safety of the diner when she makes a promise to Imogen. The Halloween dance results in bullying and dissociation--and hints at some of June's past before she came here.
You can also listen to me read this chapter—just hit play above.
The next morning, I walk like an old person. I’m absolutely exhausted, and all my muscles hurt from being clenched so hard for so long. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror as I leave my room, swaddled in pajamas and a giant sweater, and don’t recognize myself for a second—shoulders all hunched, feet shuffling. Hair all over like I just slept for a hundred years. But this is what happens, at least with the bad dissociative episodes. I try not to let my reflection remind me of my ghost self in the diner bathroom mirror last night–mirrors seem to give me a lot of trouble. But I’m too tired, I think, to let the memory of it cause a panic right now.
Baloo seems to know I need support, and follows me as I head down the stairs.
I pause on the landing to scratch his head, and he practically jumps up into my arms. It’s a bit more of a challenge, getting down the stairs this way today, with my unsteady legs and aching muscles, but I can feel him purring through my sweater, and it’s grounding.
We take it quiet and slow as the sun rises, two old ladies fumbling around in the kitchen for coffee and tea and favorite mugs. On days like this, after bad episodes, I think maybe Grandma even looks younger than me. More energetic. More full of life. But she’s worried about me, and I catch her glancing sideways at me as she pours her coffee.
I manage a weak smile to reassure her. I don’t think she’s buying it.
Just tired, I sign. She nods and comes over to kiss my cheek and gently move some of my insane hair back into place as I try to climb the Mount Everest that is one of our kitchen stools. Somehow, despite my screaming muscles, I make it to the top.
We never use the kitchen table. It’s always set with a little vase of flowers on a doily in the middle, and Grandma has about a million sets of different placemats for it in the buffet, along with a set of fantastically 60s, cream and yellow striped dishes with daisies on them,but I could easily count the number of times we’ve used them on one hand. Grandma’s a social person, but she does a lot of her socializing at the diner, and usually any people she does have over to the house are close enough friends to just sit here at the kitchen counter, too. Plus, it’s just a nicer spot.
It’s a tall counter, with mismatched stools—there’s a round, poppy red one that swivels, and a blue wicker one that’s fraying all over, and a bright green-legged one with a multicolor floral vinyl top. I love how cheerfully comfortable they look against Grandma’s faded blue kitchen cupboards. The original dark wooden floor creaks as you sit, and you have to be careful exactly how you get onto the green floral stool because it rocks a little, and the yellow countertops are chipping in places, but every inch of it feels loved–like everything in this house.
Grandma’s lived here a long, long time, and I know people have suggested she might want a smaller place all on one floor–especially since Grandpa died.
“But my whole life is here, chick,” Grandma says, “I can’t just get up and leave all these memories here without me, now can I?”
She’s shared some of these memories with me, pointing out specific places—the corner of the kitchen with the old radio, where she and Grandpa used to dance (even though it’s too small of a room and they’d bonk into everything), the tall, skinny, multicolor window by the front door where you can see out to the porch, and where little mom would watch for Grandpa to come home from one of his long work stints at sea. Sometimes I think I see Grandma remembering these kinds of moments as she moves through her day. Many of them make her smile, but some bring back that heavy veil of sadness, and I want to reach back into whatever sad memory she’s reliving and give her a hug.
Today it’s Grandma who gives me a comforting hug before sitting down next to me. We sit and sip our drinks slowly, pulling ourselves together for the day, looking out that tall window by the door at the ivy growing on the porch.
When it’s cold, we always eat here, sitting next to each other. During the summer we ate out on the porch pretty much every meal—almost all of them with lemonade, and most of them just sitting on the steps (at least for me). Sunny days where I like to sit out on those front steps and just watch life happening feel a lifetime away this morning, with the cloudy sky, and wind whipping fallen leaves around, and a smattering of raindrops tapping on the roof every so often. And me, grown suddenly so old.
It feels like I’m moving through molasses as I pour a little milk in my mint tea. I cup my hands around my go-to mug covered in colorful, painted birds, and just feel the warmth, like I have to soak up its energy in order to even take a sip. At least the aftermath of dissociative episodes usually also means I’m too tired to be anxious, or think too much. It’s more like my brain is full of cotton balls—like I thought so many thoughts so quickly last night I just ran out. Dissociating for me isn’t always that kind of mind-racing, statue affair—some other kinds are better, some worse. But it’s always utterly exhausting, and it takes me a while to recover. I stay home from school a lot.
“Don’t want to rush you, love,” Grandma starts the Aftermath conversation as she gets up and starts opening cabinets, “but we should let Gemma know—do you think you still want to go trick or treating tonight? It’s up to you.”
I was going to have gone with Gemma during Grandma’s party—another arrangement between Grandma and Mrs. Holloway (Gemma’s mom), settled in the produce section of the local supermarket a couple of weeks ago—and even though I know she’ll be disappointed, and this may have been my last year trick-or-treating anyway, I can’t summon up the energy to care much.
I think of all the kids in costumes, and that crowd at the dance, and the laughing. The lights. They’ll all be out there, anywhere around town, waiting for me.
I keep my eyes down on my tea, and shake my head.
No. I can’t go. There’s no way.
“Of course, love. It’s okay,” Grandma assures me, and I think she’s relieved, too. She’s pulling out her mixing bowls, and some flour. It’s a big breakfast kind of morning.
As she starts throwing ingredients into a large mixing bowl without measuring—she’s that good—I can see her choosing her next words carefully.
I know what’s coming.
“And I think we should cancel—“ She begins, but I’m already shaking my head no. She pauses and waits while I sign:
Please don’t cancel the party.
Grandma’s Halloween party is today, and we’ve been preparing for weeks. We already have almost all the decorations up—we went with a generally vintage theme, with lots of those black grinning cats, and moons with faces on them. It’s not creepy—it’s a fun retro vibe, especially mixed with Grandma’s colorful everyday house things. Cozy Halloween, like the diner. The crock pot with Grandma’s famous chili has already been on the counter, cooking dutifully away, since last night before the dance, and we know what snacks and cookies we’ll be making, and we picked out a (very cozy, jazz-heavy) playlist together. I designed and drew the invitations myself, with a pile of really old school jack-o-lanterns on them, like the ones I saw in photos from the 1900s. It’s no fancy party, and we’re not party planners—we’re prone to more spontaneously zany ideas that may or may not even work—but we’ve been having fun. Grandma was even going to dress up like Katharine Hepburn from the old movie Desk Set–we’d found the perfect silver dress at Goodwill to be like Bunny’s Christmas outfit. It needed some adjustments, so Grandma raised the hem in the evenings while we watched the movie and a slew of other Katharine Hepburn films for inspiration, letting the excitement and anticipation for the party fill us up and distract us from the looming anniversary of my arrival here, and the reason I’m here in the first place.
I wasn’t here for this last year.
Not yet.
But it’ll be a year soon.
When the hemming was done, Grandma tried on the whole outfit in front of the tall mirror in her room while I sat on her bed. She giggled like a much younger woman when she saw herself, habitual pencil in the hair and all.
“Yes, something about the way you wear that pencil in your hair spells money,” I signed, quoting Mr. Sumner from the movie while Grandma laughed her big laugh and twirled.
We need this–or really, more importantly, she needs this.
I wasn’t even that excited about trick-or-treating this year, but this party—I threw myself into it, for Grandma. It’s been nice, planning and making decorations with her. We’ve spent late nights at the diner, when it’s quiet, deciding which cookies to make, and choosing songs to play. It’s not complicated, as parties go, but it’s a big deal for us, and especially for Grandma. And I can’t take that away from her.
It’s not a big party, I continue.
The plan was to invite a small group of Grandma’s friends—the “diner family” as Grandma calls Tracy and Hank, and a couple of regulars, and a few others from town that Grandma’s known since birth, basically. She’s lived here her whole life, and most of the people here have. The group coming tonight would be mostly older folks—not nearly as scary as a dark night full of rowdy teens who already had every reason to stare and gawk and laugh at me last night. These old friends would come, and eat good food and laugh at old stories and pat each other on the shoulder, and talk about who’s using cheater glasses and who needs hearing aids and what the grandkids are up to, and go home early. Then, as planned, Grandma and I would eat candy and watch old movies until we probably fall asleep on the couch (probably only to wake up again and start another old movie a few hours later when we couldn’t get back to sleep).
I can do this. Grandma deserves this.
“Are you sure, love?” Grandma’s paused making her tried-and-true cinnamon rolls—I can tell that’s her plan from what she’s pulled out, she makes them so often—and studies me with concern. “I just know this kind of thing can be so hard on you, June, and I don’t want to push you too hard.”
I shake my head again, putting on my best “I’m okay” face. But I know I still look a wreck.
She comes to stand right in front of my little piece of counter, and puts her hand on mine around my mug. I remember, like a dream, the sight of her knobby knuckles bringing me that plate of pancakes last night, and the feel of her hand on my clenched one. It’s really not fair for Grandma, having to deal with me. I think she needs this party, especially after yesterday.
“They’ll all understand,” she says, “They won’t be upset if we cancel, and I don’t care if they are.”
I nod as if to say I know.
But I want to have the party, I sign. Grandma gives me a look—she’s not so sure. I promise.
Grandma goes back to adding ingredients, but her eyebrows are crinkled. “I don’t know, love.”
I can go upstairs if I need to, I tell her.
“But yesterday was so—“ Grandma starts again.
Can we please not talk about yesterday? I sign, fast. It feels like yelling, and I’m glad for a moment I couldn’t say it out loud.
But it doesn’t seem to matter. Grandma’s caught off guard anyway—maybe it was too fast. She looks a little confused, like she hasn’t processed what I’ve said for a second.
“Of course, love.” She’s nodding, but looking down, puzzled, at the mixing bowl and the spoon in her hand, and I’m not sure she knows what I signed.
“What…” She looks utterly confused, and then laughs. “What was I making, chick?”
I reach up and over the counter to grab one of the pencils out of her hair and draw a cinnamon roll on a paper napkin from the ceramic rooster napkin holder on the counter.
“Of course!” Grandma laughs, and she’s herself again, “Go and get me some pecans from the pantry, will you, June?”
I hesitate, but she’s already grabbing the sugar and eyeballing a teaspoon for the dough. As I shuffle on the way to the pantry, I worry. This kind of thing has been happening more lately, and I feel how much I must be stressing her out. I feel so bad, causing a scene and making her close the diner early last night, and I know how closely she watches me, worries about me, especially after I’ve had an episode like that. I don’t want to be the reason Grandma is struggling, and I’m worried I’m just making it worse.
It takes me a minute to find the pecans—I rummage around on the top shelf, through the canned tomatoes and bags of beans. I think Grandma keeps the nuts up here somewhere. But I’ve made it all the way in the back of the pantry, near the strange little door above the top shelf that’s been painted over for probably decades before I find them.
And I catch a whiff of smoke.
What?
Grandma!
I always leap to the worst conclusions. I get jumpy, and bad things pop into my head, and I can’t help it. It’s been like this since Mom. Suddenly panicky in every cell of my body, I scramble past the bags of extra flour, pecans still in my hand, and run back to the kitchen, visions of the whole place on fire in my mind. Maybe she got confused—why was she so confused just now?—and dropped the match when she was lighting the gas oven and—
But there she is, humming a Billie Holiday song, kneading cinnamon roll dough like so many Saturdays before.
No smoke.
No fire.
Grandma’s fine.
I stand there, weirdly sweaty in just my right armpit, heart beating in my ears, bag of pecans dangling at my side.
She’s fine.
I take a deep breath. Make my shoulders relax. Pry my tongue off the roof of my mouth.
I wish I didn’t always think of the worst possible thing that could happen. It always feels silly, afterwards, but so real in the moment. So possible, and terrifying.
I place the pecans on the counter, sit back down, hug my mug again and listen to Grandma’s I’ll be Seeing You for a few minutes.
It’s okay.
You’re fine.
She’s fine.
Grandma sees the pecans.
“Oh, thanks, love!”
She looks up at me, smiling, but it fades as she sees how stressed I must look still. Her hands slow down in the dough.
“Are you sure you still want to have the party, love?”
I feel like we’ve gone over this too many times already, and I’m tired of feeling like I can’t handle it. It’s getting overwhelming, and we just need to settle on something. I want us to have a good day, despite it all.
We can do that, right?
I put on my best smile, and sign:
On one condition.
Grandma’s forehead creases again, but she sees my grin and can’t help smiling a little anyway.
We start the after party with Singing in the Rain, I sign.
Grandma’s smile widens, and she plants her hands, flour and all, on either side of my face, and plants a big kiss on my forehead.
“You got it, kid.” She’s back to her old self, and with some time, I’ll be alright, too. “Now let’s get these rolls in the oven, huh?”
Late morning and afternoon is full of party prep. We’re still in our pajamas and robes, and I’m still slower than usual, but we’ve put music on, and the house smells amazing with the air full of spices from the cinnamon rolls and whiffs of Grandma’s chili bubbling away, and we’re laughing again.
I’ve just hung one of those cheesy, flattened witch-who-ran-into-something decorations on the front door, and Grandma’s giggling at it still. We got it at the dollar store, and it’s corny as anything, but she’s getting a kick out of it. Next, I’m going to cut out tons of paper bats from a pile of black construction paper—somewhere between our second and third cups of tea and coffee this morning, we got the idea to pull out the Christmas tree early and make candy corn and popcorn garlands for it, and I’m going to scatter the paper bats all over it, too.
It might be Grandma’s way of keeping me busy so I don’t worry about tonight, but I’ll take it.
For now, the party is hours away, Grandma’s humming again while she strings popcorn and candy corn across from me at the table (now we use the kitchen table), and I’m munching on my second cinnamon roll while I cut out bats. Baloo lays on his side, lazily playing with a piece of popcorn Grandma dropped on the floor. For now, it’s just us, and we have nowhere to be, just things to make, and the promise of an evening of more pajamas and movies when the party is over. I’m trying to focus on the moment, and not worry about people coming over. It’s Saturday. We had cinnamon rolls. We’re doing crafts. We’ve switched to watching I Love Lucy in the background, and it’s comforting.
Grandma already called the Holloways and told them I couldn’t come trick or treating with Gemma tonight, and Hank is coming by a little early to help finish getting food ready. It’s not strictly necessary, but Grandma’s using it as an excuse to keep us moving slowly and unpressured, this afternoon.
“No, no, don’t worry about that! Hank’ll get it later!” She keeps saying, any time I move toward the kitchen. Even she’s barely done any cooking yet today. He called earlier to offer—she didn’t even have to ask—and I could tell she was relieved. I heard her lower her voice a bit while on the phone, and I could tell he was asking about me, and how I’m doing. I don’t like thinking about what everyone saw last night, and how much people must be talking about me today, but deep down, I think there’s a part of me that doesn’t mind Hank checking on me. It’s nice to know I matter to him.
“There!” Grandma’s finished stringing the garland, and holds it up to show me like a game show model. “It’s a beaut, isn’t it?”
It’s perfect, I sign.
While I cut out the last bat my hand can handle, Grandma heads up to the attic for the tree.
I can do it! I offer, half standing up already.
“No, love, you sit down. I got this.” She waves me off, already halfway to the stairs.
Normally I might fight her more, but I know it won’t be hard to wrangle alone. It’s not a big tree, and it’s old.
I think somehow it loses more artificial needles each year than it had in the first place, judging by the circle of green plastic left on the floor after we put it away last winter. As patchy as it is, we loved it so much we waited until almost February before we packed it up last year. I think we both really needed the comfort after… everything with Mom. We spent a lot of winter evenings (and sleepless middle-of-the-nights) just sitting in the living room with the lights twinkling and a movie on low. I don’t remember any of the movies, but I remember the feel of it. The almost desperation, clinging to the magic of this beat-up, ancient tree that was probably an environmental hazard. The fear that the wondrous and cozy and glowing feel of the lights was all that was keeping the cold, hard reality we both felt creeping its icy fingers under the door from coming in, and consuming us. That tree helped us hang on by pretending, I think, until we could hang on a little better by being. I don’t know that I feel much better at existing now, though, than I did when we finally put the tree away. I guess that’s why things like this party are important—to help you get through when you feel like you can’t. Sometimes you need other, external things to prop you up, help you pretend for awhile until you don’t have to pretend as much. Or maybe it’s less like pretending, and more like freezing an okay, more sustainable moment in time as long as possible, so you don’t have to think about how it feels to keep going after it’s gone.
Either way, that short, balding old tree with its incredibly 1960s crocheted tree skirt helped us when we needed it. Maybe that’s why we feel eager to pull it out again, now, as the days are getting shorter, and the icy fingers are coming back. We know it’ll be a hard few months, now.
Grandma comes back down, but instead of wrangling the old tree raining needles, she’s holding a cardboard box.
“I saw this up there the other day–I checked the attic when you thought you heard that squirrel again,” Grandma says, placing the box gently on the chair next to me, “and I thought it might help today.”
She gestures for me to open it, but I’m already dreading it.
There’s a name scrawled on the side, in sharpie from twenty-some years ago:
DAISY
Grandma’s leaning in like there’s an old friend inside. Her eyes are teary already as I slowly pull on the folded cardboard flaps.
I don’t feel ready for this.
As a small dust explosion settles, I see a disorderly pile of clothing, toys, and trophies. Grandma reaches in with love to pick up an old doll. She holds it carefully, looking at it with all the love she has, as if the doll is a perfect representation of its owner, here now, alive and well. Grandma sees her daughter in these artifacts.
I stare at the same contents of the box as she does, seeing nothing but a clumsy gathering of gravestones, all for the same person. A time capsule of signs announcing a lack of life.
This is Mom’s box.
Grandma pulls out a bulky, maroon sweater and holds it up to me.
“I forgot how much she loved sweaters, like you.” She looks disappointed in herself, for forgetting.
How long was it, before Mom died, that Grandma saw her last?
I know things weren’t always good between Mom and Grandma, especially once Mom got older. She left this house, this town, this box, behind when she was very young—maybe too young, and their relationship was strained my whole life. I can tell, watching Grandma lightly touch the contents of the box, how much she loved Mom, but I know Grandma carries so much regret. I don’t remember them yelling or fighting a lot, not like some people do–and as far as I know their last call with each other a few days Before was fine–but I know their relationship wasn’t all Grandma wanted it to be. Or all Mom wanted it to be. I saw it on Mom’s face when Grandma used to call, and I see it cross Grandma’s face now every time someone mentions Mom: what could have been different, and maybe even what things used to be like, back when Mom’s life was summed up by the child’s treasures in this box.
I want to tell Grandma it’s okay.
That Mom loved her so much, too.
That none of it is her fault.
That Mom kept the tin with the lock of Grandma’s hair in it, and I have it now, upstairs in my room.
That Mom loved Grandma enough to keep it all those years–until she gave it to me, with her own lock of hair added in.
But I can’t.
I can’t touch that tin now any more than I can dig through this box.
Can Grandma see my regret, too?
We should finish the tree, I sign. I don’t look up, I just stare at the scraps of black paper on the table as I say it.
Grandma hesitates. I think she’s trying to read me, but I don’t want to be read.
She carefully folds the sweater and places it tenderly back in the box.
“Tell you what,” she said, picking the box up again, “how about I put this upstairs, in your room? That way you can look at it later, if you want to.”
I want to shake my head no, but for some reason I don’t. Maybe she guessed right. Maybe I want to look. Maybe I want to feel the pain of it—at least I know what I’m feeling when it hurts that much.
I don’t say anything at all, just fiddle with the scissor handles, and Grandma disappears with the box. I’m sure she’s put it in my room, but I don’t follow her.
When she comes back a few minutes later with the tree, we don’t talk any more about the box. I throw myself into decorating the tree, and putting on Nightmare Before Christmas music way louder than it needs to be while we both get dressed.
Grandma’s brought an old black witch’s hat from storage up in the attic (another dollar store find, I think, from years ago), and we make do with that, a black sweater and jumper dress with tights as a costume for me—poor Jane Goodall is a no-go at this point. I don’t even know what happened to the wig after I collapsed, crying, in the bathroom at the diner last night.
I’m ready to go quickly—my costume is pretty simple, and I’m not sure how much I’ll even be showing it off, anyway—but Grandma has a lot more to get right. I love seeing her put on her bright red lipstick as I watch from my perch on the edge of the bathtub in her master bathroom—neither of us wears any makeup most days, but there’s something special about watching her lean in toward the mirror, above the old coral pink sink. She looks younger, and brighter this way. And seeing how she confidently sweeps the color on, I can picture her doing this every day back when she was young, wearing dresses more often, and probably some frilly little apron when waiting tables at the diner.
Grandma smacks her lips together, finished, and smiles at me in the mirror.
“Oh!” Her eyes light up as she gets an idea. “Hang on a minute.” She digs around in her makeup bag and pulls out another lipstick tube with triumph. She waggles it at me, grinning.
“What do you think? Is this witchy enough?” She asks.
I pull off the cap to reveal a deep, warm purple—much too dark for anything I’ve ever seen Grandma use.
When did you ever wear this!? I don’t have to even sign it—just ask it with my facial expression, and she knows what I mean.
“I’ve dressed up for a lot of Halloweens before, you, kid.” She winks at me, and I come to stand with her at the mirror. I wonder if she and Grandpa got ready for the day together, squeezed into this little tiled bathroom, over the pedestal sink. He would probably tie his tie here while she finished her makeup and put on her clip-on earrings.
Grandma watches and gives pointers from the side as I copy her movements from before with my “witchy” lipstick.
And Mom. Did she ever come in here to get help with her makeup like this? I picture them here together, too, and it about breaks me.
But I finish, and smack my lips, too, with a smile.
Grandma laughs, and raises her arms in that way she does sometimes, like she’s on top of the hill of a roller coaster, like she’s welcoming in the whole world, with her giant laugh and open arms.
“It’s PERFECT!” She declares, and hugs me.
I smile at us in the mirror, but I can’t help but wonder what it would be like to have Mom here, too.
A while later, I’m sitting at the kitchen counter again with another cup of tea, Hank’s in the kitchen with Grandma, and they’re working around each other to finish up the food while they try to remember lines from Desk Set—Grandma doing her best Katharine Hepburn voice. It’s not very good, but it’s lovely anyhow. She’s having so much fun already.
“Is this your first Caribbean cruise?”
“Mediterrannean. It’s Mediterranean, I think—right?”
“Oh! Is it? (Laughter) Well, is it your first??”
“Yes, but don’t tell anybody.”
“Why?”
“Cause I’m the captain!”
“Oh, well, I’ll help you steer!”
“Oh! And what was that bit about the Mexican Avenue bus?”
Hank’s chopping cilantro for the chili, and Grandma’s finishing the frosting on the ghost cookies while the honey rolls bake. It’s a bustle of movement, good smells, and cooking sounds—just like in the diner except much smaller, and Hank keeps bumping into things.
People are due any minute now, but I like this mini party, too. We spend so much time at the diner with Hank, he’s almost family.
He sort of might as well be, anyway. He knew Grandpa since they were kids. They were best friends all of Grandpa’s life since, and Mom used to say Hank cried even more than she did at Grandpa’s funeral. Although I don’t remember Grandpa very well, from what I know of him now, and from knowing Hank, I can picture it. I think Grandpa was the loud one—making jokes and getting into mischief, and dragging Hank along a bit, although he has a lot of spark all on his own when he’s in the right crowd, too. He and Grandma knew of each other all their lives, too (small town), but they only actually became close friends when she and Grandpa started going steady in high school.
Grandma had her own best friend for life, too, but she died in a fire a long, long time ago. I know she used to live next door, and that she and Grandma were really close, but Grandma doesn’t talk about it much. I don’t think she likes to. I guess there are a lot of things it hurts to think about, for all of us.
But Hank’s still here.
“Heya, cozy spoons!” He greeted us with a mustache-y smile and an armful of cooking supplies when he arrived, already wearing his apron. “How are my favorite diner folk?” And he wrapped me up in the biggest, strongest hug I’ve ever gotten from anyone, I think, but didn’t force eye contact or look at me all pityingly like some people do, sometimes. It was nice.
The doorbell rings, and Tracy’s arrived. She’s the part-time waitress at the Cozy Spoon, and has been for months now, but I’m still not sure I know her very well. She always looks pretty tired, though she hides it behind some heavy eye makeup, and often sounds like she’s a little annoyed.
She looks stiff in the doorway, a little out of place. I think she’s not quite sure what to do.
She holds out a wine bottle abruptly.
“Uh. It’s white. I hope that’s okay.” She blinks her black-rimmed eyes and glances around inside.
“Oh, that’s so sweet of you, love,” Grandma exclaims, giving her a giant hug that I’m not sure Tracy was prepared or hoping for, “Would you like some now? Glasses are in the cupboard there.” Grandma waves her inside, and welcomes her into the bustling kitchen.
Tracy looks uncomfortable trying to make herself at home in someone else’s house. Or maybe she just doesn’t like parties. I get either option, and try to help. I smile and wave, and she says “Hey.” I’m not sure what else to do—I tend to feel just as out of place as Tracy looks right now.
“Am I early?,” she asks, standing in the middle of the kitchen, still holding the wine, and shuffling her heavy boots a little. “Sorry.”
“No, not at all, we’re just late!” Grandma laughs as she glances around the kitchen. Dishes are everywhere, and nothing’s quite finished yet, but she doesn’t seem bothered. Neither does Hank.
They seem to just be enjoying the process. It’s obvious to me they’re in the right profession: even on their days off, for a celebratory moment, they get a big kick out of feeding people good food.
“Need help?” Tracy offers, and I’m not sure if it’s because she feels like she should, or because she wants something to do with her hands. She’s gripping that wine bottle still, and despite her bored tone of voice, I think she’s holding on to it for safety. I’m not sure whether I should do anything, or just pretend not to notice it.
“Oh, sure, love!” I think Grandma must have noticed, too, because she’s already moving a couple of trays of ghost cookies over to the counter by me, along with a three-tiered plate, and motions Tracy over. “Over here. How about I get this open,” she gently grabs the wine bottle from Tracy, and trades it for a glass, “And you can help me get these ghosties ready to party, huh?”
“Sure.” Tracy sits next to me and starts moving cookies onto the tiered plate one by one while Grandma digs a corkscrew out of our utensil drawer and lines up some mismatched glasses on the counter.
“Want some, Hank?” Grandma asks, wine bottle hovering over a glass.
“Oh, why not?” He’s pulling the rolls out of the oven, and suddenly realizes there’s no place to put them in the kitchen. I rush to grab some hot pads from the top drawer by leaning over the counter, and throw them on the kitchen table as fast as I can before he gets there.
“Phew! Just in time! Thanks, June.” He pulls his hands out of the oven mitts, shakes them off, and accepts a glass from Grandma.
Tracy finishes plating the ghost cookies just as other people start arriving. It’s not a big crowd, but it fills up fast—especially since everybody tends to hang out around the already-bursting kitchen. Hank, Grandma, Tracy and I move plates and serving dishes of food out onto the buffet and the kitchen table, Grandma throwing (often) misremembered Desk Set quotes around. Grandma introduces old friends to Tracy, who grunts “hey” and tries to figure out how to stand while also trying to look chill. As more people arrive, Hank shifts into his diner mode–he jokes around, and greets everyone by name, but does it all from behind the kitchen counter, with a turner in his hand even though there’s not much more to do in there. He’s got his socializing strategy all worked out, Hank.
After the initial hellos, I let conversational groups close me off and find a seat on the stairs with a small plate of food. It’s the closest I can get to my corner booth here, where I can still see most of what’s going on, but people wouldn’t really know I’m here unless they’re looking for me, which pretty much no one ever does.
Most of the guests are older, and are just finishing off the ceremonial, teasing greetings they tend to do and have done for maybe decades now—old nicknames from ancient stories thrown around with a pat on the back and a “those were the days.” Then it’s on to “what’s-the-family-up-to-today” and “what’re-the-grandkids-dressing-up-as” and “when’s-that-grandkid-of-yours-due-again?” These folks have known each other their whole lives, and have full families here—their parents and many of them grandparents before them, their own kids and grandkids, and Grandma’s librarian friend Candace even has a great grandbaby already. They have full lifetimes of history to share—mistakes and tragedies and victories that all happened within twenty miles of here, that most of them saw personally, or heard about the next day at work or school. They mingle effortlessly in a room with people they’ve mingled with since before they can remember. It seems very comfortable for them, but I wonder how vulnerable it can feel, too, being so visible, all the time, for so long.
Tracy’s the youngest person here so far, besides me. As far as I know, she’s lived around here her whole life, too, just one town over, and I bet it wouldn’t matter if she lived here, anyway—they’d probably mostly only know of her as so-and-so’s daughter or granddaughter.
I think she’s probably met most of these folks before—many of them are regulars at the diner—but I’m not sure she’d much bother chatting with any of them outside work, or this party. She greets everyone as Grandma makes sure they’ve met, and tries to make conversation for a bit, but it doesn’t seem to stick.
“Are you married, Tracy? Have any kids?” Candace asked her in one conversation.
“Me? No.”
“Oh, Candace, did you hear? My Charlie just got engaged!” Mina, who runs the antique shop next to the diner joins in, bubbling with the news. Candace disappears into a crowd of oohing and ahhing neighbors, leaving Tracy alone at the counter again.
Pete, our mailman, mis-guesses her age in another conversation.
“And you go to the high school with June?” He smiles and takes a sip of wine.
“Graduated three years ago.” Tracy says, pushing a dinner roll around her plate.
“Oh, back from college then!” He’s all ready to relate to her now, with stories from his own son’s college experience. There’s one he’s been telling everyone about a prank involving goldfish in cups, following it up carefully with another about how his son did so well on an exam he was given extra credit even though there wasn’t any offered, so people don’t get the wrong idea.
“No.” Tracy says it almost too quickly, abruptly. Pete pauses with a cookie halfway to his mouth. Tracy clears her throat and tries to wave her hand conversationally. “No, I, um…I’m still saving up.”
Pete nods and continues eating his cookie in silence for a minute before wandering off to join another conversational group.
Tracy returns to her perch at the kitchen counter and picks away at that dinner roll, alone. From here, Tracy’s a silhouette against the light by the front door, and glowing, colored scenes of laughing people play out in front and behind her. She’s caught in the cracks between a conversation in the kitchen (“Oh, she’s doing great, and the baby’s due any day now!) and one around the kitchen table (“He brought her home for dinner last week, and she brought me some lovely flowers, so that’s something”). I see Tracy’s shoulders hunch a bit more, and her eyes focus down on her food, resigned to her spot.
Between worlds.
Stuck before I’ve even begun.
I think maybe I understand her a little better now.
Even though I’m probably the least equipped to do anything helpful—to say anything helpful—I feel guilty just sitting here, watching. But what can I do?
I’m gearing myself up to walk over and sit by her, at least, when the door opens and Rhoda walks in, her family crowding in behind her. She’s one of those larger-than-life ladies who’s always bringing food everywhere and making people eat it because they’re too skinny, and true to form I see a basket of (probably) her incredible homemade pumpkin whoopie pies on her arm.
“Imogen!” She yells, arms open wide, ready for a hug already even though she doesn’t even see Grandma right away, “I have to get this one on her way trick or treating, so I can’t stay long, but I wouldn’t miss it for the world!” Grandma laughs her way in for a hug, takes Rhoda’s basket from her and pulls her into the kitchen to get her a drink.
Behind her, Rhoda’s family crowds in through the door. There are a whole bunch of them, and they’re all really tall people. I’m too distracted watching how they all have to duck a little coming in to realize what’s coming.
Then all of a sudden, I see the tutu.
It’s Stacy the ballerina.
Of course.
Stacy is Rhoda’s granddaughter.
A ballerina was the perfect choice for her—she did an incredible dance at the talent show last spring, and she’s graceful as a swan despite her height ducking through the door.
She was also there last night at the dance, and as she straightens up, her eyes meet mine.
And I know we both see it.
The lights, the kids crowded around. Stacy nudging her friend as she noticed me. Louis, gesturing dramatically.
Me running, punch flying everywhere.
It’s right there between us.
I panic, and when Stacy breaks eye contact for a split second to get out of the way for her brother, Ivan, to come inside, I bolt.
Two seconds later, I’m in the pantry with the door closed behind me, still clutching a last of a ghost cookie in my hand. I think I left my plate on the stairs.
But the pantry, painted a happy sort of pink a long time ago, and smelling like spices, hugs me like a comforting friend who also doesn’t like parties. The sounds of the music and laughter and chatter are muffled in here, and I’m grateful. I sag my way down to sit on the floor with my back to the door and breathe.
By keeping myself so busy today, I’ve mostly been able to stop myself from thinking about how I’ll have to go through a whole bunch of moments like this one back at school next week—the torture of reliving last night a hundred times over, as it crosses the minds of everyone who sees me for the first time since it happened. The stares in the school hallway coming on Monday. The feeling across my shoulders and down my spine, knowing what they’re saying about me, about us, repeating Louis’ words.
“It runs in the family, doesn’t it, June? It’s a family trait—being a murderer.”
I’ve guessed that they talk about me behind my back before. Obviously. I knew they did. But about my family like that… And now they’ll all be talking about it more.
About my parents.
About what happened.
It’ll be even harder to get away from it.
I feel it all swirling around me like a dark cloud, inescapable and loud, ready to swallow me—
And then I hear it again—the tapping.
Tap, tap. Scritch. Scratch.
I jump, and then freeze, listening.
Tap, tap.
It’s definitely coming from in here. I stand, slowly, quietly. If there’s an animal in here, I don’t want to spook it and have it suddenly running around by my feet.
Tap, tap.
Toward the back! I tiptoe as carefully as I can to the rear of the pantry, working my way around the haphazard piles.
Nothing. I see nothing but sacks of sugar and jars of preserved vegetables.
Tap. Tap scratch tap.
It’s right by my ear! I look to the right, expecting to come face to face with a mouse on the shelf…and see the door instead.
That strange little door, perched partway up the wall, up on the top shelf, hidden from view, and too small for more than a child. That happy pink paint on its surface is chipping away in many places, like it couldn’t get comfortable there. Like it didn’t belong. Underneath the chipping paint is a dark, murky wood, almost black. But the most curious, even disturbing thing about this door is the angular bouquet of deep scratches over its edges, and in the wall surrounding it, every which way.
The scratches have been painted over, too, possibly many times, but they feel desperate somehow. Raw, despite their obvious age. I inch closer silently, to stare at them. I’m not sure I’ve ever paid this much attention before. Somehow, I think the pink makes it worse, not better. Like a bandaid over a gaping wound.
What happened here? My face is inches from the door, searching.
Tap.
I jump again, and I know.
It’s definitely coming from behind the door.
I barely sleep that night. Lying in bed, I retrace it all in my mind–whether any of it was real or not.
I spent the whole rest of the party in the pantry, hiding from people, yes, but also trying to figure out the puzzle of the door.
Believe me, I checked. I went around the entire pantry, listening, waiting for the next sound, and making sure I wasn’t imagining it. I looked behind and under every box of crackers and every tin of tomatoes and every bag of the many strange types of flours Grandma keeps on hand to try for baking—no mice. No droppings. No bugs. No animals. Nothing. There was absolutely nothing moving, making any noise in that pantry, except for me, and whatever was tapping.
And the tapping kept going.
It was intermittent. There would be lots of tapping for a minute, then nothing for ten or fifteen minutes, or it would keep going slow and solid for another ten. It didn’t seem to go at any particular pace or rhythm that way.
For another maybe half hour I staked myself out right outside that door, ear almost touching it, to listen, and it was unmistakeable: the tapping absolutely came from behind it.
Still in the pantry, sitting on one of those old tall stools with steps for kids (did Mom used to use this?), scratching my scalp under my witch hat, I wracked my brain for answers. It was something to focus on, to take my mind off my parents and school coming on Monday and Stacy the beautiful ballerina waiting outside, enjoying the party and eating Grandma’s cookies and maybe thinking too much about me and what happened last night. I wished I’d remembered to grab my plate, still outside on the stairs with a honey roll and some cherry tomatoes and a pile of uneaten cookies on it, but I didn’t dare leave and risk either being seen by Stacy or missing another tap, each one of which sounded like some secret clue I had to figure out.
If it was coming from behind the door—which it had to be, I was sure of it—was it just someone on the other side, messing with me?
The house next door, on the other side of this wall—does anyone live there? It was up for sale awhile back. Had someone bought it? I didn’t think so—we probably would have brought them a tray of lasagna or a pot of soup and a plate full of cookies if they had. Grandma is the neighborliest of neighbors and never misses a chance to cook for people, and she would have wanted me to come, to be introduced—if nothing else, so she could explain the whole not talking thing. And as much as I would dread walking over there, I would be grateful for it later, too, if I saw them again when I was alone.
But no. No, I didn’t think anyone lives there right now.
Is it some local kids sneaking in and messing around? But why?
And wouldn’t I hear laughing, too? Voices, or something?
I kept trying to make sense of it in real, normal life terms, but the whole time it felt off. I tried to ignore it for quite awhile, but eventually, after I’d been there long enough and mentally explored all the options, I couldn’t hide from it anymore—that deep, gut feeling that although I was alone, there was someone present on the other side of the door, and that the tapping was meant to communicate in some way.
I felt crazy even thinking it, but I know myself. I know I’m good at gut feelings, and seeing things, and sensing things. And no matter how much I tried to rationalize it away, it was still sitting there, patiently—the sense that someone was there, on purpose, reaching out.
It was intermittent—almost like the flicker of a light switch with faulty wiring. I could feel it when I could hear the tapping, and then other times it would disappear for minutes at a time. After another fifteen minute lapse I had almost convinced myself I’d imagined the whole thing as a result of all the stress I’ve been under, but suddenly it was back, tapping and scratching away.
I even tried tapping back, although it took some doing to make myself touch the door. The… …presence? (It felt bizarre to even think it) didn’t feel threatening, exactly. More desperate, maybe, if anything. But the strangeness of the feeling combined with the disconcerting scratches all around the door made me hesitant to… make contact… in that way.
But I did, eventually.
During a long string of their taps and scratches, I tapped back a few times, and their tapping stopped. It felt like they were listening.
And then they were gone, and there was nothing again for a long time.
By the time the party was over, and Grandma found me in there, worried about me, I must have looked a bit odd and intense, sitting on that tall stool with my ear to the door, witch hat askew.
“Junebug! What are you doing in here?” Grandma exclaimed, rushing in to do a physical check on me, confused, and looking frustrated once she realized there was no blood or obvious signs of distress. “You scared me when I realized you weren’t upstairs, love!”
Sorry, Grandma, I just…. I… I started to sign, but didn’t know how to continue. Should I tell her? Would that scare her—that I was seeing and hearing things?
She already knew I’d been hearing tapping somewhere around here, but this felt different. And I still felt crazy for thinking what I did.
I settled on a halfway question.
Grandma, where does this door go?
She looked over at it slowly, like it took great effort to remember that it was there. Her confusion seemed odd to me, but so did the whole situation. I waited for a few breaths, watching her face. The lines on it seemed suddenly deeper.
“It… Nowhere, now. It’s bricked up behind there, after a fire next door.” She spoke slowly, like she was recalling a dream, and I remembered the moment that morning when she forgot she was making cinnamon rolls. But she snapped out of it quickly. “I think it used to be some kind of utility connection between the houses, I don’t know.” She gestured toward it, but wasn’t looking at it anymore. She seemed to be studying me, probably worried about how crazy I seemed just then.
“Are you alright? You seem…” She trailed off, and at first I was worried she’d lost her place again, but her eyes were clear, and maybe she just didn’t want to say I seemed odd.
I’m always a little odd, soon after a dissociative episode like that. But usually it’s more weak and sore and dizzy odd, not listening-to-a-door-to-nowhere odd.
I didn’t want to worry her more, so I left it alone.
I’m fine. Just too much party for me. I signed as convincingly as I could, and it wasn’t exactly a lie. That is why I went into the pantry.
Grandma’s brow furrows softened and she put a hand on my shoulder.
“I saw Stacy, love, and I’m sorry. I forgot Rhoda was going to bring her on their way downtown. I should have thought of that.”
It’s okay. I shook my head, got down off the bucket, and brushed some errant flour off my sweater.
We left the party mess for tomorrow, and settled in for our pajama movie night, but I couldn’t focus even on Singing in the Rain and chocolate, and we ended up going to bed earlier than I’d planned ages ago before the party started. Watching Donald O’Connor in the Make ‘Em Laugh number or lying in my bed watching the moon through my window, all I can think about is what I can no longer ignore in my head:
The strangely certain, entirely serious conviction that there is a ghost behind that door.
Graphic Novel Development:
We’re smack dab in the middle of multiple family visits this week, and as much as I tried to prepare for it, all the socializing and extra walking (as we play tour guides in our new area) has really drained my batteries and flared up my chronic illness. I’m giving myself permission to go a bit easier on myself this week, with some basic sketches to explore Tracy’s character design and to flesh out some of June’s environment. I’ll rest up more this weekend, and next week I’m planning to dig deep into some of the trickier visuals in this story as we experience more of June’s struggles with PTSD.
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