Chapter 3 - Footsteps Up The Stairs
I counted Grandma's breaths after the lock clicked.
She was trying to keep them even for me. I could feel her hand on the back of my sweater, light and steady, even though her thumb kept shaking against the knit. The fluorescent tube over the shelves buzzed once and then went dimmer, like it couldn't decide if it wanted to stay on. The red crate in the corner looked black now.
I didn't cry. I thought if I cried Melanie would hear it through the door and win.
Then I heard the other door.
It was far away and up high. The front door with the little glass squares. It made that soft sucking sound it always made in winter when Dad pulled it open, and then the thump of wood against the frame when it shut.
Grandma's hand stopped moving.
We both went still. My knees hurt from the concrete. I was crouching half behind a plastic bin because Melanie had pushed me back in so fast. Dust got in my nose.
Footsteps crossed the foyer. Heavy shoes. Slow. I knew those steps.
Dad dropped something. I heard the low, dull hit of canvas on hardwood, and I knew it was his tan bag. He always carried it in his right hand and set it down just inside, by the wall under the light switch. He'd been gone three nights. He'd said he'd be back after dinner.
For a second I forgot to be scared. My chest got big and hot.
"Dad," I whispered.
Grandma squeezed my shoulder. Hard. A warning to wait.
Upstairs, his keys jingled and then stopped. That was wrong. Usually he'd call out right away, loud, "I'm home," and Melanie would answer from the kitchen. The house would fill up again. This time there was nothing. Just the heater clicking on in the vents.
Then he said it.
"Claire?"
One word. Worried. Like he'd walked into a room and the lights were off when they should have been on.
I opened my mouth. Grandma shook her head fast in the dim light. Her eyes were wide. She put her finger to her lips, and gray hair stuck to her forehead with sweat. I didn't understand. I wanted to scream. Dad was home. That was supposed to fix it.
But Grandma leaned down so close I felt her breath on my ear.
"Wait," she mouthed, no sound at all. "Listen."
Upstairs, Dad didn't move. I could picture him exactly. Standing by his bag in the warm dim foyer, looking at the staircase going up, then toward the back hall that went down to us. His coat still on. His hand still half in the air from setting the bag down.
He took two steps. The floor creaked near the bottom of the stairs. That spot always creaked. Then he stopped again.
I held my breath until my ears rang. The storage room felt smaller. The shelves pressed in with their bins and old blankets. The cool air from the fluorescent light felt cold on my legs through my dark pants.
"Claire?" he said again, quieter this time. Not calling to the upstairs. Calling to the house itself.
May you like
Grandma closed her eyes. A tear ran down and got caught in the lines by her mouth. She nodded once, just a tiny nod, giving me permission.
I pressed my hands against the cold concrete and got ready to yell.
