Page 39 of Bitter House

“No way,” I say firmly, shoving one of my trembling hands into my pocket. “I’m going.”

He nods. “Fine. I’m right behind you.”

The wooden steps groan under our weight, and I have to wonder when someone might’ve been down here last. From the way it smells, I’d say it’s been a long time since anyone opened that door, but then again, maybe basements just smell that way. We didn’t have one in my parents’ house, and I don’t have one in my apartment, so I wouldn’t honestly know.

The darkness surrounds us as we descend into it. Cole stays close behind me, a hand on my shoulder as we make our way down the stairs. When we reach the bottom, I scan the space, my heart pounding in my ears as I wait for someone to jump out and grab us.

Finally, my eyes land on a metal string in the center of the room, and I bolt for it. The sharp zzzzzing of the cord fills my ears, and the room illuminates suddenly. The single bulb doesn’t do much for the large space and everything is still cloaked in shadows, but it’s better than nothing.

For the most part, the concrete room is empty. There’s a stack of chairs leaning against a wall next to what looks like an old card table. A sofa sits against a different wall with a cream-colored canvas drop cloth over it.

The floor has a few wet spots on it, and there are plastic containers stacked around the room in random places with Vera’s familiar, large, loopy handwriting on them: Christmas. Fall. Home movies. Harold.

The ‘home movies’ container catches my eyes first, and I open it, but I find that everything inside is on VHS. I pick up a few tapes and read the descriptions, her handwriting hitting me with a pang of nostalgia.

Christmas 1988

Jenn’s 16th

Summer of 1972

Beach Trip 1978

Bitter Corp Christmas Party #32

Chrissy’s Graduation

Senior Prom

Jenn’s Wedding

Chrissy’s Wedding

I sort through a few more, sad that we have no way to watch them anymore. The memories have nearly been lost to time and technology. It makes my heart ache just a bit to think that my mom exists within them, and I make a mental note to find a VHS player on eBay so I can watch them soon.

I shove those containers out of the way, searching the floor until I spot one with my name on it. A golf ball lodges in my throat, unmoving no matter how hard I try to swallow it down.

I lift the lid and look down inside, my eyes welling with tears.

Patricia. My baby doll with the wonky eye that would never quite open right. I’d nearly forgotten about her. I smooth the dusty, blue dress and her wild, dark hair, holding the plastic form to my chest as I continue to search. There are drawings and letters I wrote to my parents, my handwriting getting progressively better over the years. I find stacks of photographs of me throughout the years—years before I came to Bitter House, when I was still with Mom and Dad. There’s a bit of extra light in my eyes then. Even if I didn’t know how old I was, I could tell you it was before they’d passed with a single look.

A stuffed rabbit sits near the bottom of the bin. Bun Bun.

Why did Vera keep all of this? Why didn’t she tell me it existed? How could she keep things that had once belonged to my mom if she knew she was the one who had killed her? I want to take this as a sign that the letter writer is wrong. That my instincts about Vera, about how she could never actually hurt my mom, are right. Maybe the person writing the letters wanted to prove they were right about one thing so I’d believe them about everything else without questioning them too much.

Or…maybe not.

Or maybe it’s all true.

Vera should’ve given me these things when I turned eighteen. She should’ve sent it with me when I left, so I had pieces of my parents. Whatever remained of them.

Still, I have to be at least somewhat grateful that she kept them and left me the house. If she’d left it to Aunt Jenn, I have to believe it all would’ve been tossed out.

One good deed to make up for all the bad.

“I found something.” Cole’s voice draws my attention from the corner of the room where he’s been moving stuff, noisily sliding the plastic containers across the concrete floor.

I jerk my head around to look at him, and by the worried expression on his face, I know what he’s found: the door in the floor, just like the letter said.

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