Page 5 of Standing Still

It was only my friends who got me through that dark time. Dad never tried, too caught up in his own grief to care he still hadanother child. They were friends I’d distanced myself from when I left, friends I hadn’t bothered to keep in touch with, and didn’t even know where they were or what had happened with their lives. I let myself briefly wonder what happened to Bennett, but push him out just as quickly.

“Shit,” I mutter, dropping the keys into my pocket. I put a hand on the wall to steady myself, getting my bearings. I glance up the stairs, my nose wrinkling at the thought of going up there.

He died in this house,too. It really is a mausoleum. I hate being here.

Little things creep in as I move around the house. His slippers by the fire. His favourite coffee mug was on the counter in the kitchen, a spoon inside, ready and waiting for when he got out of bed to prepare it. I try not to think about buying him that mug. The garden looks well cared for. That isn’t a surprise. Dad spent a lot of time back there. Anything to get out of this house.

He rose at three and left for work, not getting home till well after school let out, then he’d go out to the garden. He fed me, he clothed me, and made sure I had a comfortable place to sleep, but he was no longer a parent to me. No matter how I tried, I couldn’t make him see me.

Shaking out of the melancholy, I brace myself with another firm pep talk, then head upstairs. I’m surprised to see boxes in the hallway outside the bedrooms. Someone has already been in and boxed up his belongings. The enormous sense of relief I feel is overwhelming, even though I have no clue who to thank.

There is no evidence around of who might have done it. I had planned on hiring someone to clear the house. Peering into his room, I see the bed is stripped. There doesn’t appear to be anything in here.

I pass by another open door and only spare a brief glance inside. Darren’s room was emptied and left that way after he died. Mom had been clinging to it all, spending hours sitting on his bed crying. Dad tore it all out and threw it away. He never even let me keepanything, doing it on a night while I was sleeping over at a friend’s house.

Part of me always thought that was what pushed mom over the edge. He’d taken it all away from her, her place to grieve, her place where she could feel close to my brother.

I’d hated him for that. The only thing I had left of my brother was a sweatshirt I’d stolen one day when I snuck out, and it was colder than I thought. I’d stuffed it in my closet when I got home, forgetting all about it. Until everything else was gone, then I went searching for it.

My room was last, at the end of the corridor. The door closed over. I expect he did the same with my stuff. I’d taken everything I wanted when I got in my car and drove away to college.

I was stunned when I opened the door and saw things from my childhood. My bed, still made with the pale blue bedspread, the excessive number of pillows and soft toys. The cork board on the walls with my photographs, a bookshelf with more photo frames and the stones I’d collected, than actual books. My eyes close and a couple of hot tears escape. I’m not sure what to think of this, that he kept my things when he threw away all traces of my brother.

A sound downstairs has my heart galloping out of my chest and I spin around and hurry out into the hallway just as a woman’s voice calls out.

“Elle? Is that you?”

I don’t recognise the voice, but whoever it is, they know me. I come to the top of the stairs and look down to see a woman around my age. She has blonde hair piled up on her head haphazardly and is wearing an old green jacket over jeans and a red top. And she is very pregnant. Recognition suddenly hits me, and fresh tears fill my eyes.

“Dawn?” I whisper, but she hears.

Her head tilts up. My childhood best friend, the girl I did everything with, the girl I texted and called a few times before completely ghosting her after I left Mystic. I don’t know what Iam expecting, but the beautiful, huge smile that spreads across her lips is not it.

“Get your perfect ass down here, missy,” she points at the floor by her feet. I head down and her grin only widens. “You haven’t changed a bit.”

“Youhave,” I indicate her belly.

“Oh, this,” she rolls her eyes, one hand rubbing over her protruding stomach. “I’m an old hand at this now. This is our third.”

“Wow,” I reach the ground floor. “Congratulations.”

She waves a dismissive hand, then looks me over again. “You okay?”

I decide to be honest. Even though I’ve not seen this woman for years, everything about her is putting me at ease. We were so close growing up. I feel like a complete and utter asshole as sympathy fills her eyes when I shake my head.

“I’d hug you but this,” she points. “Gets in the way of everything.” Looking around, her nose wrinkles. “Saw the New York plates and knew it must be you,” she says, without me having to ask. “We live just up the block and I’m still a nosey jerk, even more of a curtain twitcher in my old age.”

A laugh bubbles out of me, but it fades. “Why are you being so nice to me?” I ask.

“You had your reasons,” she tells me. “I would never hold it against you, Elle. Now,” she claps her hands, and it makes me jump. She always was like a tornado, sucking people into her vortex whether they wanted to be there or not. “I was heading out for my hot chocolate fix because, for some insane reason, I’m not allowed caffeine. So, let’s go.”

“Dawn, I’m not-”

“Nope, no, absolutely not. You are going to face this town. What better way to do it than with me at your side,” she winks. “Grab your shit and let’s get out of here. This place is giving me the willies.”

With that, she turns and heads out of the front door. I hurry after her when she reaches for the rail to help her down the steps. She waves me off.

“Don’t you start. I’m pregnant, not an invalid. Chop, chop, I’m mid-crave and if you hold me up much longer, I’m likely to rip someone’s head off.”

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