Chapter 10 - Air Gets Thin Down Here
The cold came up first through my shoes. It moved slow from the concrete into my ankles and then into my legs until my dark pants felt thin as paper. I pressed my back against the shelving to try to stay warm and the metal bar pushed against my shoulder blades. The fluorescent light over us buzzed and blinked. Every time it flickered, the plastic bins stacked behind Grandma went dark and bright again, and the red crate looked black for a second.
My light sweater didn't help. I pulled the sleeves down over my hands and tucked my fingers inside. My breath came out white. I watched it and then I tried not to breathe so loud because the room was so quiet it sounded too big.
Grandma was sitting now. She hadn't been sitting before. She'd stood in front of me with her shoulders square, her dark dress smoothed down, her light collar crooked from where she'd turned fast at the doorway. Now she had lowered herself onto the floor by the bottom shelf, her back against a bin, her legs bent to one side because there wasn't space to stretch out. Her apron front had a smudge on it I hadn't seen before.
"Come here," she said. Her voice was lower than usual.
I went and sat next to her. The floor hurt my tailbone right through my pants. She put her arm around me and pulled me in close. Her hand was cold. She rubbed my arm up and down, fast little strokes to make heat.
"You're shivering," she whispered.
I nodded against her shoulder. My teeth wanted to chatter and I clamped them shut. I didn't want her to worry more. The light buzzed again. I counted the buzz in my head to have something to do. One, two, three. Then a pause where it almost went out.
Grandma's breathing changed. I noticed it because my ear was near her chest. It went shallow, like she couldn't get a full breath without it hurting. She stopped rubbing for a moment and just held her hand flat on my arm. Her fingers pressed a little too hard, then eased.
"Are you okay?" I asked.
She took a breath before she answered. "I'm just resting my eyes a minute. Saving my strength. Like when we wait at the doctor's."
I knew she was lying to be kind. She always closed her eyes for a second when her knees hurt on the stairs. This was the same face, her mouth tight, her eyebrows pulled up. I put my cold hand over hers. Her skin felt papery and cool.
We sat and listened. The house above us was quiet. No steps. No voices. That scared me more than the yelling had. When Melanie was yelling, at least I knew where she was. Now the silence sat down with us in the storage room. I could hear the hum from the light and water ticking in a pipe somewhere behind the wall. My own breathing sounded fast next to Grandma's slow one.
I thought about Dad's voice in the foyer. Claire? Just that one word, worried, echoing a little off the staircase. He'd been home. He'd had his tan bag in his right hand. He was right upstairs. That should have made me feel better, but the door was still locked and the quiet kept going, and I started to wonder if Melanie had stopped him in the hallway, telling him I was a problem and needed time out.
"Grandma," I said. My voice shook.
"Hmm?"
"What if he doesn't come down?"
She opened her eyes. Her short gray hair was flat on one side from leaning against the bin. She turned her head toward the door, toward the thin line of warm light underneath it from the hallway. That line was the only warm color in the whole room.
"He will," she said. "Your dad knows this house. He'll hear."
I stared at that line of light. It didn't move. I wanted to pound on the door again, but Grandma had asked me to save my energy and stay quiet so we could listen for him. My legs were shaking now, not just from cold but from holding still too long. I curled them up under me and leaned harder into her side.
The fluorescent light flickered longer this time. For three whole seconds it dimmed, and the shelves went gray. I held my breath. When it came back, Grandma's face looked paler. I didn't like how still she was sitting. She was usually moving, fixing something, wiping something. Seeing her just sit scared me.
I lifted my head off her shoulder. "Dad," I tried, quiet at first. My throat was dry. "Dad, we're in here."
My voice hit the door and stopped. It didn't echo like upstairs. The bins and boxes swallowed it. I looked at Grandma. She nodded once, telling me it was okay to try louder.
I took a deeper breath that hurt my chest from the cold air. "Dad, we're in here," I said, louder, toward the crack under the door.
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We both went still to listen. The pipe ticked. The light buzzed. Nothing else came back. Grandma squeezed my arm. Her breathing was a little faster now from sitting up straighter to listen with me, and I could feel her heart beating through her dress.
I kept my eyes on that thin line of warm hallway light and waited for a shadow to cross it.
