Page 7 of Ward

Grace

ForallofAidan’s talk about my grandfather being a workaholic, he seems to do nothing all weekend but work.

I ask Jen what exactly Aidan does for a living, and she says he’s the co-CEO of a financial services company. That he and his business partner invented an app that lets people invest small amounts of money in the stock market for free.

He leaves for the city Monday morning. I know Jen’s only working from the house for my benefit, so I do my best not to get in her way. I drift through the week like a rowboat tethered to a dock, as snow falls around the estate in fits and spurts. It carpets the lawn and frosts the terrace and stone walls like icing on a cake.

I miss my mother so much I could die.

With nothing of hers to hold in my hands, I feel like I lose a little more of her every day. The closest I can get to something of hers is a bottle of her favorite perfume. I spritz some onto my pillow every night before I cry myself to sleep.

I’m prone to bursting into tears when I’m alone, so I try not to be alone very often. Mrs. Cline is onto me. I do my homework at the table in the downstairs study while she dusts the bookshelves, and I text my best friend in the dining room while she vacuums.

When Jasmine asks if I miss my father, I’m not sure what to say. My feelings surrounding him are muddled and complex. I never told anyone about the abuse, not even Jasmine. I couldn’t ask her to keep such an ugly secret from her parents.

I need a distraction. Dancing is my obvious go-to, but I only brought one pair of pointe shoes, and I’m already practicing three hours a day. At this rate, I’ll wear them out before the week is through.

Jen seems to do most of her work on her phone, so I turn to Mrs. Cline and Paolo to see if they have any jobs I can help with around the house. Mrs. Cline pats my head and tells me I’m sweet for asking, clearly not interested in having me step on her toes. I’m beyond thankful when Paolo puts me to work right away, peeling and chopping potatoes. The nice thing about crying in the kitchen is that I can always blame it on the onions.

“No, no, not like that,” he says, taking the knife from me. “Hold the potato like this, with your fingers pointing down.”

“Like this?” I mimic his grip, curling my fingers and bending my knuckles slightly.

“Much better.” He hands the blade back to me. “We want French fries, not severed fingers.”

While the potatoes are soaking in cold water, Paolo asks me to run down to the wine cellar for a bottle of Merlot. I follow his directions through the basement, past the home theater, to a door across from a set of washers and dryers.

My pulse jumps as I open the heavy door to reveal a windowless space not much bigger than my closet upstairs. I scan the bottles of wine lying stacked upon each other in diamond-shaped shelving units. It’s impossible to see the labels from the doorway.

Nothing bad is going to happen to you, I tell myself. Just go in and grab the wine.

I draw the door all the way back so that the handle is touching the wall. Holding my breath, I step into the cool, temperature-controlled cellar, moving quickly to the shelf where Paolo said to look. My plan is to grab the wine and get out before my brain has time to catch up with my body. But it takes longer than I thought it would to find the Merlot.

I’m just wrapping my hand around the neck of the bottle when the door slams shut.

I freeze, and then turn, my heart racketing in my chest so chaotically I can’t breathe. And then I do breathe, big, heaving breaths that seem only to deprive me of oxygen, not take in more.

The walls heave in time with my lungs, threatening to close in on me as I race to the door.

I squeeze the handle. It turns, but the mechanism won’t catch.

I’m trapped.

“Help!” I pound on the slab. “Help, somebody!”

I suck in cold air as tears roll down my face and sweat beads on my back. Fear surges through me. This can’t be happening. I can’t be stuck. I need to get out...

I’m practically sobbing when Mrs. Cline’s muffled voice filters through the door. “Grace is that you?”

“Yes, it’s me! Please, I can’t get out.”

The door handle jiggles. “Hold on, dear. The handle’s stuck. I’ll need to get a screwdriver.”

“Please hurry.”

I curl up on the floor.

An eternity later, the handle jiggles again. There’s a clink, and then the door opens.

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