Page 5 of The Girl on Hallow's Eve

He doesn’t sound angry. More on the edge of exasperation, like he hoped I’d have something else to say about it and was waiting for whatever came out of my mouth to help him.

“It’s not really up to me to respond,” I say. “What do you think about it?”

He looks out across the dark yard through the pools from the streetlights brightening portions of the street. He stares past them as if he’s trying to see the house positioned on the other side of the neighborhood. Like his gaze can travel up the narrow sidewalk that used to be lined with daffodils every spring and giant plastic candy canes every Christmas to the porch where I have my only memories of trick-or-treating and into the house I remember almost as strongly as I remember the one we live in now.

“I haven’t thought much about it,” he finally says. “I’m not really letting myself. It’s a couple my parents knew really well. You’ve met them. The Porters. Tim and Betty.”

I nod. “That sounds familiar. I think I met them at the department Halloween fundraiser a couple years ago. And they came to one of the functions at the community center.”

“That’s right. Well, their daughter and son-in-law are moving back to Sherwood and expecting their first baby. They’re really excited to have them in town since she’s their only child and she left home to go to college and hasn’t come back. Now they’re going to be able to see them more than just a couple of times a year and they want to have them as close as possible. They live just around the corner and a couple of blocks up from my parents’ house…” He pauses and shakes his head. “I guess I should probably stop calling it that. They haven’t been there in ten years, and I lived there for years after they died.”

“You can still call it their house,” I tell him gently. “If that’s how you see it, that’s what it is. I thought of the house in DC as my father’s even after he was gone. And there are still plenty of times when I think of this as my grandparents’ house. It’s not hurting anyone by thinking that way.”

“Maybe it’s hurting me,” Sam says.

I’m surprised to hear him say that. He’s not repressed or one of those men who acts like they’re made of stone, but he’s also not the kind to delve too deep into difficult emotions. I’ve known my husband since I was a little girl, and he has always been the kind of guy people think of as upbeat and positive. He usually has a smile on his face and can see the good in just about every situation. I won’t say he hasn’t hardened during his adult years after all that he’s had to face, but that boyish smile is still there. The jokes and laughter are still there. We are different in many ways, and that’s one of them, but I’m grateful for it. It means even when I feel like I’m spiraling down, I know he’s there to buoy me back up. He says I keep him grounded and help him see reality when sometimes it might be easier to come up with something happier or less challenging to lean into.

It makes his declaration even more difficult for me to hear.

“What did you tell them?” I ask. “How did they even ask you?”

“They still live right there, so they know that the house has been empty other than me coming and going for the last few years. So when they found out about their daughter coming home, they decided they would get in touch with me to find out what I’m planning on doing with it. They think it’s the perfect place for their daughter and her family to live, and I know it is. It’s a great house. I loved growing up there. And I know their baby would, too. They could even use my old tire swing. It’s still hanging in the backyard. But I couldn’t say yes. When they asked, I told them I would have to think about it and talk to you. Then, I just... didn’t,” he admits.

“Well, you are talking to me,” I point out.

“But I’m not thinking about it. I’m just not letting myself think about it. I’ve shoved it all down and I’m just going to leave it there.”

“Did you consider that maybe that’s your problem?” I wonder. “You can’t just shove it down. You can’t pretend that the possibility isn’t there.”

“Why not? That’s all it is. A possibility. It’s not like anything is being forced on me,” he says.

“Exactly. Nothing is being forced on you. You don’t have to sell them the house. You could rent it to them. But you don’t even have to do that. You can say no.”

“So, why do I feel like this?” he asks.

I lean against him, craving the warmth of him the way I always do.

“Why don’t you tell me?”

Sam hesitates. I know the look in his eyes. He’s gathering his thoughts, making sure he has them together and can put them into words the first time. This is the way he often looks at me when he’s talking to me about my cases and wants to tell me he’s worried about me or a path I’m taking in my investigation but doesn’t want to upset me.

“I know that house is just sitting there. I know it could be a great home for a family. But it was a great home for my family. Mine. And I don’t know if I’m ready to give that up. Does that make sense?”

“If you make that choice, you can’t unmake it,” I say.

He nods. “The way it is now, there are so many things that are the same as they were when my parents still lived there. Before I moved back in after they died. There are still things there from when I was a kid. The little lines on the door frame where my mother used to measure how tall I was are still there in the same place. There are a couple of you, too. I don’t know if you remember Mom measuring you.”

I nod, feeling a flicker of nostalgia and sadness. “I remember. She said I always looked so different every time I came back to town, so she wanted to keep track.”

“It’s all still there. It’s like they’re still there. It’s memories, but it’s also the… I don’t know… potential memories? We don’t live there and it’s not like I think that we should. But I feel like there are still things that are supposed to happen there. And if I let someone else have it, it will be gone. I won’t be able to hang onto those memories or think about the future ones anymore.”

“You don’t have to have a certain physical space or tangible object available to continue holding onto your memories. Those are yours. They stay with you no matter where you are,” I tell him. “As for the ones that you could possibly make, I understand what you mean. There are times when I find myself coming to tears thinking about my mother, and it’s grief, but not the same kind as when I just think about her death. I’m longing for her, and I’m sad, but I’m not thinking about the tragedy of her murder. I’m thinking about her not being there. It took me a while to realize that when those moments happen it’s because I’m not grieving her. I’m grieving what that moment should have been. I’m thinking about who she should have been or what it would have been like to grow up with her. What my life would have been like.”

“Completely different,” Sam tells me. “Everything would be different.”

I nod. “I know.” I take a breath, feeling different emotions ebbing and flowing inside me as my mind tries to reconcile the reality of my life now with what could have been if that one event hadn’t happened. “I wouldn’t be an FBI agent right now.”

It might sound like an oversimplification to think about my mother’s murder as just an event. It was, obviously, a massive change, an indescribable shift that took everything that was and ripped it apart. After that, my father and I were broken down to the beginning, forced to start again. Nothing could ever be the same after that. Every single second for the rest of our lives was now going to be different than what it could have been. The moment she died, our lives diverged from the path we were on, forever taking us away from every single decision, action, event, and memory that could have been.

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