Page 74 of Love and Other Lost Things

“What about that high school kid down the street?” Jane propped her hands on her hips.

“I have an idea.” Mom brushed her hands together. “Come on, Scarlett, you can hold the door.” She moved down the hall into the kitchen, and Jane heard the basement door open. A moment later, Mom appeared back in the hallway, limping under the weight of the sledgehammer she was carrying. Scarlett skipped beside her in excitement.

Jane’s eyes widened as she put the pieces together. “Are you sure this is a good idea?”

“It’s a great idea.” Mom held out a palm. “Scarlett.” Scarlett slapped a pair of safety glasses into Mom’s hand, and Mom slid them on her face. “Stand back.”

Jane grabbed Scarlett around the shoulders and tugged her out of the way of Mom’s wind-up. Mom took a deep breath, wrapped both hands around the handle, reeled back, and took a swing. The hammer came crashing down into the back of the chair with a loud crack. Jane yanked Scarlett back farther, just in case, but though the wooden frame of the chair buckled, it didn’t break. With a grunt, Mom swung again, landing the hammer in the same spot, and the wood cracked a little more. She bounced on the balls of her feet, and swung again. And again, it cracked against the wood, but the frame stayed intact.

By this point, Mom’s chest was heaving, the hammer hanging by her side.

Jane took a step forward. “Let me try.”

Mom passed the sledgehammer to Jane and took her place against the wall next to Scarlett. Jane eyed that chair, picturing Dad sitting in it, yelling at Mom to get him a beer. She pictured Matteo sitting there, too. The burnt tobacco smell was stronger now, probably from the years of dust that had settled in the old cushions and was now kicked up into the air. Jane hated that chair. She wanted that chair out of this house, out of her sight. Just like Dad. Just like Matteo.

She reeled back, swinging the sledgehammer with a strength she didn’t know she possessed, letting out a guttural yell as she brought it down as hard as she could into the chair back. This time, the wood cracked, then splintered, tearing a hole in the worn brown fabric as the hammer sliced the back of the chair into two.

“Yeeees!” yelled Mom, pumping her fist in the air as Scarlett jumped up and down with her hands raised like a boxer who’d won a fight.

Jane handed the sledgehammer to Mom again, who took three or four good whacks at the side of the chair back until it entirely broke off and slumped backward toward the floor. Then Jane got to work on the seat, hammering at the frame until it collapsed inward. Mom ran to get the kitchen scissors and they cut the fabric, pulling out the cushions and tossing them onto the lawn. It took almost an hour of hammering, cutting, and tearing at the chair until all that was left in the hallway was a pile of dust, splinters, and crumbled bits of cushion filler.

“Well,” Mom said, rubbing her shoulder as they stood on the porch and surveyed the garbage on the lawn. “I can’t say I’m sorry to be rid of that.”

Jane grinned. Her whole body ached, and it had never felt so satisfying. So much more than an old chair had gone out the door.

An older woman with a small black dog on a leash made her way down the street. The woman and the dog wore matching Christmas sweaters, and as the woman came to a stop on the sidewalk in front of Mom’s house, Jane registered who she was. Mrs. Swanson. Her face displayed that same pinched, critical expression that she’d had at Ford’s General Store that first night Jane had come home. But this time, she directed her disapproval in Mom’s direction.

“My goodness, Diane. What happened here?” She wrinkled her nose at the pile of cushions, fabric, and splintered wood.

Mom shrugged. “Oh, we were just getting rid of some old furniture.”

“Was that the chief’s chair?” Of course Mrs. Swanson knew it was Dad’s chair. She liked to stop by each house to personally ask for money for the church fundraiser. It was harder to say no when someone was sitting in your living room. Plus, then she could peek around people’s houses and get her fill of gossip.

“Sure was,” Jane called over the porch railing. “But it’s garbage now.”

Mrs. Swanson sucked in an audible breath through her nose, her eyes bugging as she surveyed the mess. “I assume this was your idea, Jane? It’s disrespectful to treat your father’s favorite possessions like garbage, don’t you think?”

Jane remembered her guitar crashing down the stairs after her. The body had probably cracked, the neck snapped, the strings broken. Not that she’d ever gotten to open the case and confirm it. Dad had said he was going to burn it, and since Jane hadn’t found it anywhere in the house, she could only assume he had.

“I think this chair and my father have gotten all the respect they deserve.”

Mrs. Swanson’s mouth dropped open, but before she could say a word, Jane spun on her heel and swung open the front door.

“Well, I hope you plan to clean this up!” the older woman called as Jane ushered Scarlett inside and stepped in behind her.

Mom gave a wave toward the lawn. “Nice to see you, Mrs. Swanson.” And then she followed Jane inside and slammed the door behind her.

Jane’s phone rang, and she ran to answer it, hoping it wasn’t Matteo again.

It was an unfamiliar number with a Western New York area code. Maybe it was Kait coming through with her car. But the possibility that her ticket out might be on the other end of the phone didn’t spark the same joy Jane had expected. In fact, it filled her with a different kind of dread. So when Jane answered and found Hannah on the other end, she sighed with relief.

“I hope it’s okay I called,” her old friend said. “I texted your mom for your number.”

“Of course it is.”

“I wondered what you’re up to today. Would you and Scarlett like to come over? We’ve had so much snow lately, the girls can play outside. And we can chat some more. I’ve missed you.”

Jane looked over at Scarlett, who was sitting on the floor near where the recliner used to be, building her Lego house. Jane was tired of seeing her daughter playing all alone, tired of refusing to allow Scarlett to make friends, tired of being afraid all the time.

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