Page 19 of When Sparks Fly

“The items in this house have been accumulating for half a century. You knew what you were doing. Not to mention, probate hasn’t even begun. This is why people have wills.”

Her mask slips for a millisecond, perturbed, before she secures it in place again. “I was only trying to help.” Finished addressing me, she turns to the hutch.

“What are you planning to do with it all? There’s nowhere to sort it here.” Stephanie doesn’t respond. She hasn’t thought of that part. I sigh andset my mug on a side table, pretending not to notice a small vase of already wilting flowers.

The coffee table in the living room is the easiest thing to move. I promptly push it across the floor toward the hutch.

“Thank you,” she says stiffly. Her face betrays no emotion.

The light coming through the wooden blinds is brightening quickly.

Stephanie turns to the hutch. “Despite what you might think, I’m not trying to steal from my sister. I may not be as sentimental as the rest of you,” she waves a hand behind her head dismissively, “but I do have a heart.”

There isn’t a time in my life when my mother hasn't consumed herself with appearances and emotional control. Anything of emotional value has been diminished at every turn for as long as I can remember. Still, I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a little surprised at the requirement of the will.

Stephanie eyes the contents of the cabinet. A set of white appetizer plates fills the space front and center. She reaches behind them, gingerly removing two small rabbit figurines. Her fingers trace over the knickknacks. The silence is heavy with tension.

It’s as if we’ve taken a collective breath that neither of us is ready to relinquish. Her lips are pursed. A sixth sense whispers that she is on the verge of speaking, of sharing in a way I’m unfamiliar with.

“There was a time when you trusted me.” Her voice is soft, careful. “When you talked to me.”

My eyes set on the rabbits, rolling back and forth between Stephanie’s fingers.

She continues, as transfixed by the rabbits as I am. “I wasn’t surprised when Alan started coming around that you were slow to warm up.”

“The word you’re looking for is permafrost.” I can’t help myself. Stephanie shoots a warning look over her shoulder, but I don’t cower.

“Alan was never meant to replace your father. He may not have been the father he should have been, but that was never the goal.”

I hardly remember my father, and not in the way she's hinting at, either. The vague memories I have of him include a tall, well-built man with dark hair and a scruffy beard. Though Stephanie always said he was dangerous, she hasn’t been an open book about him. I was too young to pick up anything when he was around. My memories are halted in that foggy, preschool haze.

She finally sets the two rabbits onto the coffee table behind her before reaching back into the hutch and slowly removing items.

It’s an effort not to move from where I stand, but Stephanie’s movements hint at being tied to her words so I plant my feet intent to listen. The Thanksgiving platter is unloaded near the rabbits with a gravy boat on either side.

“I wasn’t surprised at Mother’s instructions in the will. She never liked him.” I can’t tell if she’s suppressing a scoff. “Alan liked to play cards. He would go to these men’s club events once or twice a week. It was never a concern of mine. We needed time apart.”

Her methodical movements continue. She avoids eye contact. An ominous tingle starts at the base of my skull.

“The second year we were together, he got into some trouble.” She swallows and is quiet for a long minute, the silence encouraging me to calculate the timeline. Why is she telling me this?

“He had borrowed from the house—that’s what they call the club—but he had a bad spell and wasn’t able to pay it back. The interest was stacking up.” Another long pause.

“He started to get threats from the club.” Stephanie removes a butter dish and two ceramic pie plates, then begins pulling plates out of the hutch one-by-one. “We thought it might be a good idea to move.”

The morning light fills the room now. Stephanie finally looks at me.

“Alan came up with the money.” The words come faster now. “He paid the club. They stopped allowing him to play cards, but even if they hadn’t, he had decided to quit. He was done.” She shakes her head at the memories.

“They wanted an extra fee. Like some sort of exit deal. It was so absurd!” Her usual condescending tone returns briefly. “He got it, though. Alan got it all. We didn’t think there was a reason to move. But then…”

Goosebumps break out over my skin.

She doesn’t need to go on. We both know what she’s alluding to.

I can almost feel the scalding heat of that August day again. Almost recall the gloved hand squeezing my chin when we were accosted in broad daylight in a grocery store parking lot. My jaw locks.

A tall man in a ski mask shouting at us. Gripping my face and calling me a “spoiled princess” who “needed to learn a lesson”. Though it was never clear what he wanted, his overwhelming presence as he basically shoved me into the back of our open SUV, and the way he seemed disgusted with me, is forever etched into my memory.

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