My instinct is to run, but my feet are firmly planted as if they’re glued to these white-painted wooden planks.
A voice inside my head is assuring me that she won’t be the one to answer the door. Surely she has a person for that type of thing. It would be too low of her to open the door for—
“Can I help you?”
I take a step back under her scrutiny. She’s smaller than I imagined, as I’ve built her up to be a larger-than-life evil villain in my head. We’re about the same height, give or take the three inches of silver hair she has elegantly piled atop her head. She’s dressed formally like she’s about to attend an early dinner.
My voice is gone.
Her eyes narrow, and she takes a step back, her slipper-covered feet not making a sound as the floral skirt of her dress sways around her ankles. All I see is a bunch of green.
“Ruth Dewitt?” It’s all I can manage before she shuts the door in my face.
It cracks back open again, and she purses her lips. “Yes. Again, can I help you?”
“I’m sorry. I’m so overwhelmed. I can’t remember the last time I saw you. It’s me. Audrey.” There’s a strange ringing in my ears, and the tips of them have gone red hot. I can’t feel the ends of my fingertips.
Her posture goes rigid, and her face pales as she takes me in with one long look. “Please leave my property.”
“Grandma—“
“Don’t.”
“I’m sorry. I apologize. Look, I know you don’t want anything to do with me, and I can live with that. Really. But I’m twenty one now, and I just want to know about my mom. Patrick doesn’t ever talk about her, and I don’t know anything. You’re the only person who I thought could possibly give me any information on her. What she was like. Who she was.” My voice cracks and I try to tuck away the bit of desperation I’m starting to show.
“She was a wonderful daughter until she met your father. And then she died.”
I close my eyes when she says it, because I know what she’s implying. “I’m sorry. Would you please just give me five minutes of your time?”
Ruth’s eyes flick to a huge grandfather clock standing in the hallway to my right, just in my line of vision. “I have a dinner. Today is not a good day.”
I nod. “I understand. I did come a very long way, though. Would you mind if I used your powder room?”
The look of distrust in her eyes would destroy anyone else, but I’ve experienced much worse. And I’m simply putting on a show to gain entry into this house. Stooping to conquer, if you will. She only nods the slightest bit and then moves out of the way to let me pass.
“You’ll have to use the one upstairs. The one down here is being renovated.”
I take the stairs two at a time and locate the one she has mentioned, turn on the light and fan, close the door, and step back out into the hallway. There are multiple doors on each side of the hall, and I tentatively open each one, hoping not to make a sound as I try to figure out which room used to be my mother’s. It’s nerve wracking trying to be quiet, keeping my footsteps light, listening out for her to come barreling down the hallway, calling me a heathen and throwing holy water at me.
I’m disheartened each time a door reveals another room that is nothing more than a guest room, an office, or storage. And then I see it—the last room at the very end of the hallway. Opening it is like stepping back in time. The walls are a faded yellow wallpaper with little embossed canaries all over it. The bedspread has massive flowers embroidered everywhere, and a crocheted blanket of contrasting colors hangs off the side of four-poster bed. Framed concert posters adorn the wall, and pictures are tacked up on corkboard that’s aging and missing chunks.
There’s a suede fringed purse hanging from the back of her closet, a flower wreath sticking out of its pocket. I reach out to pull it down, and the closet door eases open enough for me to see plastic containers stacked inside the closet, arranged one on top of the other. All of them labeled: Wendy.
Wendy’s pictures.
Wendy’s drawings.
Wendy’s school papers.
Wendy’s books.
Wendy’s medical records.
I have no idea how long I’ve been in here. There’s no telling how much longer Ruth will buy me being in that bathroom. But I’ve just been handed a key to my mother’s entire existence, and I’m not about pass it up. I quickly open the one with the pictures first and grab a stack blindly, shoving them down into the purse I’ve now claimed as my own. I bypass the drawings and papers, and I’m about to move beyond the books to the medical records when I notice that the books in question aren’t reading books they’re journals. They’re diaries. With speed I can only assume is fueled by adrenaline, I jerk that drawer open and grab all of them, shoving them into the purse as well.