Our House

Christmas came and went, and my Cathy still hadn’t come home. I waited and waited, but the house stayed empty. Apart from me, of course. I’m always here. 

A month before the holidays, Cathy had taken a nasty fall. After a broken wrist in the spring and a heart attack in the summer, I’d been bracing for winter's tragedies. Yet still, it caught me unprepared. Her body might be 81, but in her heart, she’s still 22, headstrong and endlessly energetic. Cathy’s always been that way, but since illness had gotten the best of me seven years ago, she’d become less gentle with herself, focused more on distractions than her health. 

Although my ties to the physical world are fragile and difficult to control, I did my best to protect my wife from that side of herself— closing the back door she’d left open, brushing tripping hazards aside, putting her heart medication on her bedside table so she wouldn’t forget to take it in the morning. But Cathy is chronically scatterbrained and hopelessly unobservant. She enters a room like a tornado, leaving behind safety hazards that didn’t exist moments before. I’d stare, aghast, at an iron left face-down on a towel, pulling the plug just as it began to smoke. She wouldn’t notice the mark until a day later, raising a brow and muttering something along the lines of well, aren’t I silly!

Our daughter, Ade, also knew this quirk of her mother’s well and would stop by often to check in on her. 

“I’m your mother,” Cathy protested as Ade fussed over a palm-sized bruise on her calf (a gardening mishap, those damned rutabagas!), “I’m supposed to be taking care of you, not the other way around!” 

“Mom,” Ade said, calmly, “you almost died in the summer. Of course, I’m going to—”

“Oh, don’t be so dramatic,” Cathy sighed, waving her away,  “a small heart attack, so what! I’m still here, aren’t I?!” 

Ade sighed. “At least think more about what I said. Moving up-island might be good for you, I’d buy you any house you want. Besides,” she added, looking around the living room with a shiver, “this place gives me the creeps.” 

Cathy smiled. “Well, it doesn’t scare me.” 

On days when Cathy was feeling low, like the crisp November morning when she fell, she would ascend the rickety ladder to the sprawling attic. It was stuffed with furniture and clothes that Cathy and I had collected over 50 years of marriage, but most important to her was the box in the corner overflowing with photo albums. 

She pulled out an older album, worn faded blue, with a small gift box drawn on the corner. I was sorry she chose that one, it always made her cry. 

I met Cathy a week before Christmas, 1958. I had gone to the shopping centre just before closing to buy my mother a pink robe and slipper set she’d been eyeing, and on my way out a voice stopped me short. 

“Excuse me,” 

I looked over, and there was Cathy, standing at the gift-wrapping kiosk with a little smile on her face. 

“Yes?” 

“I can’t help but notice you’ve got something there that does not look like it’s for personal use.” 

I looked down at the set, then back at her. “You’d be right about that.”

“Christmas gift?” 

“For my Mother.”

“Well, I don’t know you, but most men are awful at gift wrapping. I, however,” she said, tapping a roll of wrapping paper next to her, “am an expert.” 

I wasn’t one to pay for something I could haphazardly put together myself, but there was something about Cathy that made me never want to turn away, even from the start. I shrugged and handed it to her. 

She grinned, clapping her hands. “Colour preference?” 

“None.” 

“Wonderful.” She stepped back and looked over all her options. In the end, she chose a gold paper with velvet green ribbons. I watched in fascination as she wrapped it flawlessly.

“Wow. It looks beautiful.” I said as she handed it back to me. 

 “My sole talent. You buy any other last-minute Christmas presents, come see me.” 

“Alright, I will. What’s your name?”

“Catherine, to strangers, and Cathy to friends.”

“Thank you, Catherine.”

She smiled. “Cathy’s just fine.” 

It didn’t matter that I’d already wrapped all the presents I needed to. I unwrapped them and went back anyway. 

After that, gift-giving between the two of us became a sacred affair. I could never match her wrapping expertise, but I got better at the gift-giving part. The best one of all was our house. 

With the help of some friends, I had wrapped the entire place, from foundation to rooftop, in sparkling gold paper. It didn’t look perfect, but Cathy loved it anyway. Word got around, and a photograph of us outside the wrapped house was featured in the local paper. 

The photo album was an homage to our gift-giving, each page chronicling a different wrapped present in a different year. Cathy could only look through a few before she slammed it shut. 

“Oh, David, why do I do this to myself?!” She muttered, stuffing the album back in the box. 

This part, I will never stop blaming myself for. I was lost in thought, reminiscing over all the gifts we’d given each other over the years, and I didn’t notice Cathy was heading back down the ladder until I heard a shout of surprise. I rushed towards her, but it was too late, and she hit the ground with a resounding thud. I cried in horror, floundering helplessly as she breathed in short, winded breaths. I noticed a little blood gathering in her white hair and stared, paralyzed with fear. 

Cathy’s brow furrowed, breath slowing a little, and I noticed with a jolt she was staring right back at me.

I can’t be sure what she was seeing. Maybe just a shifting of light or a shadow oddly placed, but it seemed to calm her. She took a deep breath, pulled her cell phone from her pocket, and called 911. 

After the paramedics came and took her from me, I flitted about the house feeling lost and directionless. Ade stopped by on occasion, picking up some of Cathy’s favourite sweaters and knit socks, but she never lingered. She’d shiver, moving anxiously through the house, and then she was gone again. 

January, and then February, faded away, and on a cool morning in early March, Ade came to the house with a woman who had keen eyes and a briefcase full of papers. 

“It just doesn’t make sense to hold onto it anymore,” Ade said, running her hands through her hair like I used to do for her when she was upset, “my mom can’t be on her own in her condition, and with no signs of things getting better, it just…” Ade looked like she might cry, and the woman put her hand over Ade’s.

“I’m sorry,” Ade said, “I just know how much my parents loved this place. But after Dad and now Mom, it’s… a place of death.”

 The woman nodded as if she understood. “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of everything.” 

The house was listed quickly and quietly, and I felt a dark anger grow inside me.  I couldn’t blame Ade for this decision, her connection to the house wasn’t the same, but this was Cathy and I’s forever home, my gift to her, and it was my job to protect it while she was gone. I had failed her so many times. I could not do it again. 

The woman, who was a realtor by the name of Liz Conners, and I, fell into a twisted routine. She’d host open houses and showings, and I did my best to ensure that those who came in never came back. 

During the first showing, a couple admired the original windows, and I flung them all open. They shrieked as a gust of cool air hit them and stumbled back, fleeing the house while Liz stared at the windows with her mouth agape. 

The next day, a young family mentioned their appreciation of the spacious rooms for their rambunctious twin girls,  and I pulled on the twins' pigtails, sending them into wailing fits. 

I won’t say I didn’t feel a little guilty after driving children to tears, but when you’ve been outside of a physical body for so long, you begin to feel a strange sort of disconnect from people. Empathy becomes harder to find. 

Not with Cathy, though. Never, with Cathy. 

I worried over her every day— how was she healing? Was she happy? I pictured her in an uncomfortable hospital bed, or tucked into the spare bedroom at Ade’s house, and felt my limitations, my inability to cross the threshold of the house, more painfully than ever.

 I took it out on everyone else. 

I expected Liz Conners to quit. I tried things with her, too. Slamming doors shut after she walked through, flinging her purse across the room, but it just seemed only to goad her more. 

“Still no takers?” Ade asked, walking in during an empty open house.  

“This place is haunted, you know,” Liz said, accusatory, like Ade had kept something from her. Which, I suppose she had. 

Ade sighed, worrying her lip. “There’s gotta be someone in this town that doesn’t believe in all that.” 

Liz snorted. “I didn’t. Then I came here.” 

Still, eventually, Liz found someone. A rich kid who had money from who-knows-where. 

“Now when I tell you this place has character!” Liz said, leading him through the house, “I mean, you’ve never seen a place like it.” 

“Really?” The guy said, skeptically. 

I flung a kitchen cabinet open as he walked by, almost hitting him in the face. He turned to Liz, eyes wide. 

“What’d I tell you? Character!” 

A couple of days later, Liz was wandering the house on her phone, talking excitedly to Ade. “He wants it! I know, I know. He’s just sending a home inspector here before he signs. Yes, yes, everything’s in excellent condition! You’ve got nothing to worry about.” 

I hadn’t considered the home inspection, thinking Cathy would be better before there was a chance for it to get to this point, and I knew with a sinking feeling that in order to displease the inspector I would have to do some damage to our house. 

Forgive me, Cathy. Minor, I promise. 

The home inspector arrived with the rich kid and they made idle chit-chat as he inspected the place. The realtor trailed anxiously behind, eyeing the house suspiciously as if waiting for it to betray her. Patience, Liz. 

Cathy and I never went into the basement. It was ancient and musty and unneeded, so there was nothing much down there. Apart from the water heater. 

The home inspector opened the basement door, flicked on the light, and sucked in a sharp breath. “Oh, dear…”

“What!” Liz cried, hurrying over. “What’s wrong?!” 

Liz stood beside the home inspector and the rich kid, and they all stared down at the ankle-deep water that covered the basement. Water heaters were surprisingly easy to burst. 

Somehow, someway, this did not deter the rich kid. Dear Ade replaced the water heater, and because the inspection was naturally never finished, it was rescheduled for the following week. 

Clearly, I would have to be more straightforward. 

I knew I was causing Ade plenty of trouble. She was already dealing with the weight of a sick mother and a father who had withered away until nearly invisible and then stayed that way after he passed, but I also knew that she didn’t need to sell this place. She and her husband, Russ, made enough money to last their lifetimes. She was acting on a feeling she didn’t understand, and I had to make her understand. 

When the home inspector came with the rich kid and Liz for the second time, they could not get the lights to work. 

“I just don’t understand it,” Liz said, looking on the verge of a nervous breakdown, “I was here just yesterday and the lights were working fine!” 

“Well, let’s check the breakers.” The inspector said, and they headed towards the garage. I followed eagerly. 

The inspector opened the door to the garage and frowned when he saw a small light coming from the corner of the room. 

“Aw, man. What now?” The rich kid said, looking at the light nervously. 

The inspector ignored him and walked towards it, the rich kid following behind. Liz stood in the doorway wringing her hands. 

On the floor was a lamp, unplugged but emitting light anyway, with a photo beside it. The rich kid picked it up, staring. 

“You know these people?” He asked Liz. 

Liz hurried over, squinting before her eyes widened in recognition. I’d chosen the news clip photo of Cathy and me outside our gift-wrapped house. “Ah, yes. The owners.” 

The rich kid frowned. The inspector craned his neck, brow raised. “What’s that on the back?” 

It was a spur-of-the-moment touch. Two words that took a great deal of effort to write. 

Our house.

The rich kid did not end up buying. Not only was the electricity shot through, a fortune to fix but there was also something that felt deeply wrong about buying a place from owners who did not want you there. 

Liz quit the next day. 

I waited for Ade. I knew she’d come, eventually, and a week later, she did. 

She walked into the dark house nervously. I watched her as she leaned against the kitchen island, working up the courage to say something. 

“Is it—is it you, Dad?” 

I reached out and brushed my hand through her hair. It swayed, gently, and she gasped, eyes watering, before I wrapped my arms around her. 

She stood there and cried for some time. I held her tight and wondered if she could feel it, or if she just felt comfort and couldn’t understand how. 

Eventually, she stepped away, her face twisted in a melancholy smile. “Okay, Dad. Okay.” 

I was alone in the house for a long time. I kept it dusted, free of bugs and mold, but otherwise, I floated, listless and waiting. Sometimes Ade would come by and talk. She said she felt silly doing it, but I think it was therapeutic for her, too. She told me about Cathy. How her concussion had altered her, made her spacey and weak. How she asked for me. 

I’m waiting, I promised, I’ll always be waiting. 

One day, years after that promise, Cathy fell asleep for the last time. 

Beings like me never sleep. Not really. But when you’re alone for so long, time lapses in days rather than seconds. One of those days, time slowed again, and I knew Cathy was home. 

To anyone walking by, the house would look empty. It wasn’t, of course. We would always be here.