Chapter 2 - The Light Buzzed After the Door Shut
Her hand was still on the edge of the door. I could see her fingers pressed white against the painted wood, and behind her the hallway light made a thin yellow line on the concrete floor. It touched the toe of my shoe and then it moved as she pushed.
Grandma stepped half in front of me. Her arm came across my shoulder, not tight, just there. I could feel her breathing fast against the top of my head. The cool air from the storage room vent hit the back of my neck. It smelled like cardboard and laundry soap.
Melanie looked past me like I wasn't there anymore. She was looking at Grandma.
"No, please," Grandma said. Her voice shook on the second word. She put her other hand up, palm out, toward the door. "Melanie, don't do this."
I had never heard Grandma say Melanie's name like that. Like she was asking and scared at the same time.
Melanie didn't pull her hand back. She leaned in a little closer so her face was half in the hallway light and half in our cool light. "Maybe now you'll both learn your place."
She said it low and even. She meant it to stick.
I said, "please, I'm sorry," again even though my throat was dry. I wasn't sure who I was saying it to. The words came out small and scraped. Melanie's eyes flicked to me for a second, cold, then went back to Grandma.
"Too late," she said. It wasn't loud. That made it worse.
Then she pulled the door.
The hallway warmth cut off all at once. One second I could feel it on my face from the open crack, that warm dim air from upstairs, and the next second it was gone. The door met the frame with a soft thud that I felt in my chest more than I heard. A draft moved my sweater against my arms.
Grandma lunged forward one step and grabbed the knob. She turned it. It didn't turn all the way. It stopped hard.
"Melanie?" She knocked once with her knuckles. "Melanie, open it."
Outside there were footsteps. Not running. Slow heels on the basement floor, then on the stairs. Each one got fainter. I counted them without meaning to. I held my breath to hear the last one.
Grandma knocked again, harder this time. "Stop it. She's a child."
No answer came back. Just the house settling somewhere above us. A pipe ticked in the wall.
I looked around because I didn't want to look at the door anymore. The fluorescent tube over the shelves buzzed. It was too bright after the hallway. It made everything sharp. The metal shelving ran along the back wall, stacked with plastic bins with blue lids. Under the second shelf sat the red crate, turned sideways. An old blanket hung over the edge. My jacket from school was still bunched on top of a bin where I'd left it.
Grandma tried the knob again. She jiggled it and pressed her shoulder lightly to the door like she was testing if it would give. It didn't. She let her hand slide down and rest there.
"It's locked," she whispered. More to herself than to me.
I nodded even though she wasn't looking at me. My legs felt wobbly. I sat down on the cold floor with my back against the bottom shelf. The concrete bled right through my pants. Grandma sat down beside me, slow because of her knees. She pulled me sideways so my head rested against her side. Her dress was soft, her apron front cool to the touch.
"We stay quiet a minute," she said quietly. "Just breathe with me, Claire."
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I tried. In through my nose, out through my mouth, the way she taught me when I had a bad dream. The fluorescent light buzzed and buzzed. Somewhere upstairs a door closed. Then the whole house went quiet.
I kept staring at the thin dark line under the storage room door where the hallway light should have been. There was nothing coming through now. Just dark.
