A Place to Let Go

The lock finally gives in. It feels heavy and stains my hands with rust as I take it down, break the paper seal, and carefully push against the door. Old hinges squeak, and the earthy smell of mildew welcomes me inside. It is dark, but I know the place intuitively. Its stale, cold air chills me down to my bones. To my left, I find a faded bureau, where I put down the lock. I know there is a light switch on the right, slightly above my shoulder. It crackles, but nothing happens. Just in time not to stumble upon a misplaced pair of wellingtons, I brace myself and turn on the flashlight.

Under thick layers of dust and elaborate spider webs, everything is exactly as I remember. The old coat on the rack, my childhood bike in the corner, as if nothing’s changed, only the furniture has more termite holes, and the floorboards are louder and less steady. The ceiling seems lower, I think; I hadn’t spent enough time here as a full-grown adult. The wind slams the door shut and raises dust. I sneeze, and my eyes get watery.

After all the years of avoiding this house, finally, I am here, when it’s decrepit and beset by termites. It used to be my home but no longer is, like my mother’s ashes no longer are my mother. I start remembering her, and all the love, and hurt, and stale air make me dizzy.

I leave my bag and go out and sit on the tilted, half-rotten bench and check the dead high school group chat where this morning I asked if anyone could host me for the night in case the house would prove unlivable. Not sure how many of them are still staying here; used to be over half. I guess I should be happy two people responded. One with a laughing emoji and the second— with a «Sorry, not possible.»

It’s funny. I keep forgetting that it is apparently not something people universally do but rather a quirk of my social bubble. We who frequently move and travel and don’t own houses tend to be chill about this kind of thing, understanding. Stranger danger is a hometown thing. We leave it behind.

The neighbor from the blue house next door approaches me, a tall old woman in matching jogging gear from head to toe.

«Long time no see.»

Eleven years. I wonder if she has any new dogs and whether they happen to be as nasty and angry as the last ones and the ones before them.

«And you look just the same,» I say with a half-smile.

Being here makes me sarcastic for no reason. I hope she doesn’t recognize it as sarcasm. Let it be flattery.

She scrutinizes my face, her own frozen in a disdainful grimace.

«What? I had no idea, okay?»

I recognize that I sound like a snarky teenager but can’t help it.

«Of course you didn’t.»

She stands firmly, arms akimbo, not likely to leave me be any time soon. Her gaze wanders over my whole body and focuses on my wedding ring.

«Got them kids?»

«Excuse me?» I don’t understand the question right away. My brain takes a moment to catch up. «No.»

«Good.»

And that’s enough for her. She turns away.

«Wait! My mom’s boyfriend. The guy who found her. Do you happen to have his number?»

«I do. He is a good, good man.»

By saying that, she means, «He would want nothing to do with you.» Yet she does pull out her phone and shows me the number to copy.

«I might want the land,» she says.

«What?»

«Not for free. You don’t need the house, do you? Think about it.»

«Mhm.»

And she jogs away, humming loudly to herself. I wish I had the lung capacity at half her age.

My throat feels too dry when I consider calling him, so I put it off and go to the kiosk around the corner.

«May you give me some water? The big one over there, carbonated?»

The awkward phrasing I use reveals that I haven’t spoken my native language in a while. The cashier grimaces.

«Here you go, ma’am.»

She accentuates the ‘ma’am’ as if she means to stab me with the word. As she passes me the bottle, I catch a glimpse of her wrist and recognize the tattoo. We must have known each other, but I don’t remember.

I go back, sit down on the porch, gulp the water, and take a deep breath before making the call.

«Hello?»

«Hi. I’m Nina's daughter. Could we meet?»

He clears his throat.

«I guess we could. When do you have in mind?»

«Any chance for today? I’m sorry it’s all so sudden.»

«How about getting some pizza then, two o’clock?»

«That works. Thanks.»

I checked the map; there are still two restaurants, the pizza place, now under a different logo than I remember, and local cuisine.

To spend time, driven perhaps by habit rather than conscious choice, I go to the river and crash on the grass, keeping as much distance as I can from the teenagers enjoying their summer break with a huge shared bottle of beer. I haven’t seen those in a while.

By two, I approach the pizzeria and see a man by the door already waving at me. His brown plaid flannel matches his warm tan. He seems a gentle tradie type, with graying stubble and laugh lines around his eyes.

«Paul.»

He shakes my hand.

«Laura,» I say.

I wonder if Mom ever told him my name.

He nods and gestures towards the door.

«Seems like it’s closed. Do you mind having a stroll?»

«I’m starving,» I admit. «How about we go to… Wait, what’s the name? The other place.»

He shrugs.

It is less than a block away. We walk beside each other, slowly and awkwardly.

«So. You’d just found out?»

I’m so, so thankful his first thought is that and not that I hadn’t bothered to come.

I nod.

«Insurance,» I admit. «Took them a while to find me and reach out. I’d been moving around, my address situation was kinda messy, and then there’s the surname change, privacy laws…»

«I see.»

He doesn’t need the details, nor excuses. We are strangers, and it seems like neither of us knows why we are actually meeting.

The restaurant is empty when we enter, save for a middle-aged waitress — who’s probably the owner as well — leaning on the counter and watching something like The Bachelor on the wall-mounted TV. It is loud.

We sit down, and I look at the menu to find most of the items crossed out with a pen, old prices covered with stickers. Almost immediately, the waitress approaches our table and leans in to kiss Paul on the cheek. Somehow it stings.

«Decided?»

She doesn’t hide her contempt for me. I get potato pancakes and juice. Paul doesn’t ask for anything; probably, she knows his order.

«Have you visited her yet?»

The grave, he means. I haven’t. I don’t know if I should tell him I don’t know where it is. I’ll check the map and go to the office if I have to. Hopefully, though, they have it online.

«No, I arrived this morning.»

The silence is uncomfortable. I tap my fingers on the table and try my best to focus and ask the right questions.

«Has she… Was she sick before?»

«No.»

«Is there anything… I owe you?»

I haven’t got any information on how the funeral was paid for. It was probably him.

«Forget it. It wasn’t just me. People loved her, you know.»

I find it hard to believe. Have you even loved her, I wonder, if you moved on so fast? Maybe when you are that age, it’s different. They hadn’t really grown old together, after all.

Our food arrives. He got a schnitzel with fries on the side and a coke. My pancakes taste like the freezer, still cold on the inside.

When we are finished eating, he says calmly, «You are a piece of shit.»

There is no malice in his voice or expression. He’s just stating a fact, in a manner one comments on the unpleasant weather. It doesn’t really wake any emotions in me. Old news. I’d been practicing what they call radical acceptance for years now.

«Guess I am my mother’s daughter,» I say.

He shakes his head.

«One piece of advice. Fix the roof.»

I won’t. Tomorrow, I will take a bus back to the city and speak to the notary, deal with the paperwork, and then I will take the bus again, then another bus, then a plane, and finally a train — and I’ll be at home. I don’t want to waste another day away from there. It’s been the greatest project of my life. The memory of my hometown will fade again, morphing together with all the shithole towns I’ve visited and passed. I will lock my bitterness away in my childhood house and laugh at the irony of how my recent ambition to own some real estate came to be in such a twisted manner. Let it rot, get squatted, taken over.

I leave before Paul does, put a bill on the table to cover for both of us. He probably sees it as an insult but doesn’t comment; our conversation is done. The last thing I have to do today is visit the cemetery.

My knowledge about death is almost academic. Every time I’ve faced it, I intellectualized it despite encouragement to give in to emotions, rage a bit, cry it out. I had learned to control my emotions too well over the years. This caused delayed, prolonged grief.

Stray dogs around the cemetery bark at me aggressively but don’t dare approach close enough to actually harm me, staying confined to their claimed territory. I take my time wandering around. Of course there is no useful map online, only a division of sectors. I assume it has to be number six, the highest one there is and thus presumably the most recent one.

I stumble upon her accidentally in sector three. There isn’t a correlation between a date of death and the sector number. Her grave is tidy, with a not yet dulled by the sun small plastic wreath and two lanterns around it; the small headstone is made out of shiny red granite. It must have been installed pretty recently, but weeds are already sprouting from the sides. In the grass nearby I find candles and a lighter, wrapped tightly in multiple layers of plastic, so I put one in the lantern and light it.

«What am I supposed to do?» I say to the grave. It doesn’t answer. That’s something that hasn’t changed about my mother. In life and in death, she’s so detached.

The rest of the conversation goes on in my head. I don’t want to be dramatic.

I stay there for a while until the worker, a feeble old woman, shouts from a distance:

«We are closing! Wrap it up.»

She makes a rushing gesture with her hand and keeps on staring until I get up from the grass where I sat and pick up my backpack. It is still hours until sunset, and I would expect one visiting a grave to be treated with more empathy, but fuck me if my expectations are ever met.

So I head back with her following me and watch as she closes the gate. I know I will most likely never come here again, harsh truth as it is. To make up for not burying my mother, I will bury the memory. It means letting go of all the bad things too. I will pay the price by forgetting the good moments as well, small childhood and teenage joys that used to bring me comfort; they have not stood the test of time. The sight of my mother’s house ahead of me is melting into shadows and silhouettes and flashes of light, and screams.