Madeleine.â My mother flipped her hands into the air, her balletic fingers waving me away. âIâm right here.â
âIâm not yelling,â I said, even though I was.
âSharon is here to go through the house with me, and Iâd appreciate it if youâd stop with your hysterics long enough for us to do that.â
âIâm hardly hysterical,â I said, and that, at least, was true.
On cue, Sharon reappeared at the doorway and my mother turned to her as though she were an enormous relief, which she probably was, for all kinds of reasons. The two of them walked into the front room and I followed, mostly because I didnât have anything better to do. As my mother guided Sharon around as though they were on the Parade of Homes tour, and Sharon took pictures and made notes to herself, I looked around, trying to see the house through someone elseâs eyes. I could hear Sharonâs tone, and I knew she was making a colossal list of things my mother was going to have to fix or change or update. I couldnât wait to hear that conversation.
My parentsâ house had always been a showplace, more museum and shrine to family heritage than home. As a child, I had longed to touch everything, largely because it was off-limits, but also because everything was so beautiful. There were delicate bone china teacups to use for tea parties, tiny porcelain figurines I could pose and shift around to tell thestories that were always running wild through my mind (I was an only child of older parents, and often dreadfully lonely), antique furniture to climb, silver to smudge, and perfectly ironed, handmade table linens to drape myself in for costumesâbride, sheik, Greek goddess, attendant at the queenâs ball.
When I was a child, my parents had maintained a few employeesâa cook, a housekeeper as well as a maid, a gardener, and the occasional backup dancer, a handyman or a builder, usually. Having âhelpâ had always seemed old-fashioned and indulgent, but looking at the house now, I understood. It had been built for a large family and lots of guests. The furnishings were from another time, when there had been a full staff to take care of the endless dust, the silver that oxidized without any attention, the linens in need of ironing. And my mother was busy. You could make fun of ladies who lunched all you wantedâreally, it was my favorite hobbyâbut my motherâs work mattered. She had raised and contributed literally millions of dollars to charities. And that, even I had to admit, was more important than vacuuming.
I carried my suitcase upstairs and tossed it into my old bedroom, watching Sharon making another note as I did. Probably âMadeleine should put her suitcase away instead of throwing it on the floor.â Duly noted.
âCan I see the attic?â Sharon asked.
âItâs a little chaotic,â my mother said. She pulled at the door, but it had swollen slightly in the heat and wouldnât budge.
âLet me,â I said. I gave it a firm tug and it popped open, groaning to express its displeasure. The trapped air rushed out at me, stale and musty. âWeâre in,â I said, like I was engineering a bank heist.
The stairs were so narrow I had to walk with my feet sideways so they would fit on the treads. When I was little, the attic had been one of my favorite parts of the house, a place to find a hundred mysteries and compose a hundred stories. A dress rack with plastic bags holding my motherâs old clothes, including her wedding gown, yellowing delicately in thesilence, and enough vintage clothing to provide me with hours of dress-up entertainment. Boxes and trunks filled with the detritus of family shipwrecks, inscrutable objects from times gone byâshrimp forks, salt cellars, rolling ink blotters, monogrammed wax sealsâpiles of photographs of unidentified ancestors, and the occasional piece of broken
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