Chapter 6 - Cold Light And Plastic Bins
The lock clicked and then the house went quiet in a way I had never heard before.
It wasn't like when Dad left for work and the floor stopped creaking. It was heavier. The fluorescent tube over our heads buzzed and made Grandma's face look pale. I could hear my own breathing too fast in my ears, and the air smelled like dust and plastic and old laundry soap.
"Claire," Grandma said. Her voice was low, not whispering, just small. "Look at me."
I looked. Her short gray hair was messed up on one side where she had leaned against the shelf. She was kneeling down so her eyes were level with mine, even though I could tell her knees hurt. Her dark dress was wrinkled and the light collar was crooked.
She put both her hands on my shoulders. They were warm. "Breathe with me. In through your nose. Like this."
She breathed in slow, and I tried to copy her, but my chest hitched halfway. I said, "I'm sorry," before I could stop it. It just came out.
She shook her head once. "Don't. You didn't do anything that needs sorry." She kept her hands where they were until my shoulders dropped. "Again," she said. "In. Out."
We did it three times. The buzzing stayed, but my hands stopped shaking so bad. She stood up slowly, holding the edge of the metal shelf, and then she sat down on the concrete floor with her back against the bins and patted the spot next to her. "Sit with me. The floor's cold but we're okay for now."
I sat. My sweater wasn't thick enough. The cold came right through my pants from the floor and up my legs. I pulled my knees up and wrapped my arms around them.
That was when I really looked around. I had been in here before to get Christmas lights with Dad, but I had never just sat in here. The shelves went all the way to the ceiling on two walls. There were clear plastic bins with blue lids, stacked two high, with masking tape labels I couldn't read from the floor. Dad's old boots were on the bottom shelf. Next to them was the red crate with the cracked handle where we kept extension cords and light bulbs. A folded lawn chair leaned against the wall. Everything was neat except for us sitting in the middle of it.
Grandma followed my eyes. "Your dad keeps it organized," she said, trying to sound normal. "He always did, even as a boy."
I nodded, but my throat felt tight. I kept thinking about the sound the door made.
Grandma pushed herself up again and went to the door. She didn't bang on it. She put her hand flat on it first, like she was checking if it was hot, then she tried the handle. She turned it slow to the right, then to the left. It moved a little but didn't open. The latch held.
She knocked twice with her knuckles, not hard. "Melanie?" she called. Her voice stayed even. "Melanie, unlock this door. This has gone far enough."
Nobody answered. I could hear the faint hum of the fridge upstairs through the vent, nothing else.
She knocked again, a little louder. "Melanie, don't do this." She paused. "The child is cold down here."
Still nothing. No footsteps. No voice. That silence was the worst part. If it had been an accident, someone would have said sorry through the door by now. Someone would have jiggled the handle from the other side.
Grandma turned and looked at me, and I could tell she was trying to keep her face calm for me. But I understood then, clear as anything. She hadn't left the key out. She wasn't going to come back in a minute and laugh. This was on purpose. Melanie wanted us in here.
My stomach dropped. "She locked us in," I said. It wasn't a question.
Grandma came back and sat down next to me. She didn't lie to me. She put her arm around my shoulders and pulled me close so I could lean into her side. Her apron smelled like flour.
"Yes," she said quietly. "But listen to me. Your dad is coming home tonight. He will hear us. He always listens for you."
I leaned harder against her. The fluorescent light made everything look too white and too cold, but her arm was warm. I thought about Dad's voice I had heard before, calling my name from far away. I wasn't sure if I had imagined it, but I held onto it.
"I want Dad," I whispered.
May you like
"I know," she said. "And when he gets here, you tell him what happened. You look him in the eye and you don't whisper. Okay?"
I nodded into her shoulder. I felt scared, but I didn't feel alone. If Melanie wanted me to cry and be quiet, I wouldn't. I would wait, and I would breathe like Grandma showed me, and when Dad opened that door I would be ready to be heard.
