Читать книгу A Ghost's Story - Jenna Lynn Bretz - Страница 23

Her name is Jen, short for Jennifer. I watch as she enthusiastically destroys my home. With every wall she tears down, a part of my existence goes with it. My memories brought me peace and solace before, but now, as I watch her tear them apart, I only feel rage! The entire kitchen gutted. All the warm oak cabinets removed and replaced with stainless steel. My old potbellied stove that Stanley and I worked so hard to restore, thrown out like a piece of old garbage. Now, an industrial oven sits where it once was. As for my living room! She painted my living room dark purple with orange accents! Everything that was once comforting and inviting has been changed into an assault on the eyes. I don’t even know what to call this style. If I could throw up, I would, all over her!

She converted Amber’s room into an art studio. Plastic drop sheets cover my pinewood floors. Canvasses and paint splatter everywhere. She never cleans up after herself! Try as I may, I cannot seem to make anything happen again. I follow her throughout the house, trying to concentrate my energy on objects so that I can throw them at her. But I can’t concentrate! She has me spinning in a whirlwind of emotion! I have to get her out of here before she destroys everything. I am finding it hard to recognize my own house. I feel heavy, less buoyant then before.

I do believe she is killing me! If it’s possible to kill someone who is already dead.

I hate her.

Peter just lets her do whatever she wants. I can see by the expressions on his face that he is not happy with a lot of the changes she has made. But he never objects. He just says, “Whatever makes you happy.” He doesn’t stay home much. Apparently, he works very hard trying to make his restaurant successful. I only see him after the sun goes down. He is in a band or something. He and his buddies blare their music, if you can call it that, out there in the garage. There is no place I can go to get away from them. It is only quiet when they are asleep, sleeping in the room that Stanley and I once shared…

The doorbell rings. Jen runs to the foyer to answer it. A gentleman in a white hard hat with a fluorescent green vest is standing there.

“Mrs. Gibson?”

“Yes, I am Mrs. Gibson.”

“We’re here to do the work on the porch.”

“Oh, yes. We’ve been expecting you. Is there anything you need from me before you get started?”

“No, ma’am, everything’s taken care of already.”

“Well, okay, just knock if you need something.”

I peer out the window and watch in horror as they dismantle my porch. Why would she want to take the porch down? What is wrong with this woman? Up there in her studio, flinging paint on to canvass and calling it art. If I could cry, I would. They pull the boards up, one by one, revealing the ground that has been hidden beneath the porch for all these years. One of the construction workers bends down and picks something up, then throws it in a heap of trash. It’s my shoe! My old red Converse! Stanley and I decided to leave it there, encapsulated in time. It was part of our history. We told our girls the story about the day we found this house. How I fell through the old rotting wood and got my leg stuck. “Not just stuck, girls,” Stanley would say, “your mom broke her ankle! And that shoe remains under the porch to this day.” The girls would lie on the porch, belly down, and peer between the spaces of the boards and try to find it. My beauties, right out there on the porch.

“There it is, Jenna!”

“Where?”

“Right there, straight down. Do you see it?”

“I think so. Yeah, I do! I see it! It is still there!”

They were so excited over that old shoe. Now it sits in the trash, like so many of our memories.

“That’s it! They have to go.”

I take my sadness, anger, and rage, like a tornado, with me to the art studio. I tear it apart, piece by piece. I don’t know how I am doing it, and I don’t care. I destroy everything I can. Black paint! Perfect, I use it to smear big black Xs over her canvasses. Let’s see how she likes it! I stand before the large mirror she has hung on the wall. Taking notice that I no longer have a reflection, I scream, scream as loud and hard as I can. The mirror suddenly shatters into a thousand little pieces. I use the last of the black paint on what’s left of the mirror. I turn to look at what I have done.

“This room looks how I feel.”

I hear footsteps rapidly ascending the stairs. The door flings open. There is Jen, standing there, mouth gaped open. She turns a color paler then white itself, almost green really. Slowly and cautiously, she looks around the room. She starts to tremble. She takes small steps backward toward the door, then quickly turns and runs out of the room, leaving the door open. I hear her run through the house and out the back door. I go to the window and watch as she flees to her car and speeds away.

“Good riddance.”

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