Read Online The Start of Everything by Emily Winslow - Free Book Online
Authors: Emily Winslow
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what the break-in had put wrong. I bagged rotting celery and leftover rice and grey meat from the refrigerator. As Dad’s shirts and underwear and socks came out of the dryer, I bagged them separately, for the charity shops. I carried my skirts and shirtsback upstairs, hanging or folding them, then filled my arms with Dad’s shampoo and soap and toothbrush and razor. All of that came with me downstairs into the dustbin bag with the rotten food.
I’d have to sort through the household paperwork later. I refiled it all and slid the boxes back under Dad’s bed, which I’d righted and stripped. I boxed up the work papers from Dad’s study for George, and reshelved all the books. I sorted the mail. Most of it was for Dad and would never get to him.
That was the first moment I twigged that Katja might be dead.
My shoulders waggled in a shiver. I hadn’t yet had the shower I’d come for. I made it as hot as it would go.
It was when I was under the wet rush that the notes of the doorbell pealed. When we first moved here, the doorbell that came with the house upset me. I’d cover my ears and stomp, and not even hear when it stopped. Dad let me pick out a new one. We went to the shop and I pressed the button for each one twice. This one made a sound pattern, down-up-down-up, as if it were tracing the constellation Cassiopeia.
I padded wet footprints while pulling a knot into the belt of my dressing gown. My hair was clean but dripped. I opened the door and pushed my head out into the cool evening.
“Hello?” I ventured. No one was there. There were no new parcels on the step. No coupons through the mail slot.
I retracted my head back into my shell and shut the door. The knocking felt like it came instantly. I hadn’t stepped back into the hall yet. It rattled the door.
I turned the bolt to keep it shut. Then I stood on my toes to fix my eye at the peephole.
A man looked back. I reared from the lens.
“Mathilde?” he said, muffled by the door.
He knew who I was, so I squinted, and stretched again to reach the peephole.
It was Luke.
Not the Luke from the Bridge of Sighs, and not the Luke from Maths. This Luke was a little smaller, and with shorter hair and glasses. This was the real Luke, who’d come through this door six years ago with Amy Banning. He was right here. “Mathilde?” he said again. “I’m Luke. I’m Amy’s son. I don’t know if you remember me.…”
I unbolted the door and pulled it towards me. Then his smile fell askew and he looked away.
“Oh!” I said. I pulled my dressing gown together around my neck. “I’m going to get dressed. You can come in.”
I padded up the stairs, in the still-wet footprints on the carpet. I put on an outfit that was still somewhat damp from our underpowered tumble dryer. It was a skirt and a blouse, over knickers and a bra. I held my wet hair back with a clip. I listened for him downstairs, but he wasn’t doing anything I could hear. The soft spring of the old couch, the couch we’d sat on all those years ago in front of the television, wouldn’t travel upstairs.
I put slippers on my feet. “Luke?” I said, to warn him I was coming back.
He was still standing by the door.
I looked back and forth between him and the television. “I thought you’d sit on the couch,” I said.
“Oh, I—”
“I didn’t mean you have to. I only thought you would.” No. Dad and Amy weren’t in the kitchen. He was nineteen years old. We weren’t watching a rental video. “What do you want?”
“I heard about your father. Mum’s come back with me, for the memorial.” Of course the others hadn’t been Luke. Of course. Students go home for Easter. Stupid of me, stupid … “I’m so sorry. I should have come sooner, to see him, but—” He swallowed, and leaned his head over his shoulder. “I didn’t know for sure if you still lived here,” he said. “And university’s tougher than I thought, and I—”
“What do you
I’d have to sort through the household paperwork later. I refiled it all and slid the boxes back under Dad’s bed, which I’d righted and stripped. I boxed up the work papers from Dad’s study for George, and reshelved all the books. I sorted the mail. Most of it was for Dad and would never get to him.
That was the first moment I twigged that Katja might be dead.
My shoulders waggled in a shiver. I hadn’t yet had the shower I’d come for. I made it as hot as it would go.
It was when I was under the wet rush that the notes of the doorbell pealed. When we first moved here, the doorbell that came with the house upset me. I’d cover my ears and stomp, and not even hear when it stopped. Dad let me pick out a new one. We went to the shop and I pressed the button for each one twice. This one made a sound pattern, down-up-down-up, as if it were tracing the constellation Cassiopeia.
I padded wet footprints while pulling a knot into the belt of my dressing gown. My hair was clean but dripped. I opened the door and pushed my head out into the cool evening.
“Hello?” I ventured. No one was there. There were no new parcels on the step. No coupons through the mail slot.
I retracted my head back into my shell and shut the door. The knocking felt like it came instantly. I hadn’t stepped back into the hall yet. It rattled the door.
I turned the bolt to keep it shut. Then I stood on my toes to fix my eye at the peephole.
A man looked back. I reared from the lens.
“Mathilde?” he said, muffled by the door.
He knew who I was, so I squinted, and stretched again to reach the peephole.
It was Luke.
Not the Luke from the Bridge of Sighs, and not the Luke from Maths. This Luke was a little smaller, and with shorter hair and glasses. This was the real Luke, who’d come through this door six years ago with Amy Banning. He was right here. “Mathilde?” he said again. “I’m Luke. I’m Amy’s son. I don’t know if you remember me.…”
I unbolted the door and pulled it towards me. Then his smile fell askew and he looked away.
“Oh!” I said. I pulled my dressing gown together around my neck. “I’m going to get dressed. You can come in.”
I padded up the stairs, in the still-wet footprints on the carpet. I put on an outfit that was still somewhat damp from our underpowered tumble dryer. It was a skirt and a blouse, over knickers and a bra. I held my wet hair back with a clip. I listened for him downstairs, but he wasn’t doing anything I could hear. The soft spring of the old couch, the couch we’d sat on all those years ago in front of the television, wouldn’t travel upstairs.
I put slippers on my feet. “Luke?” I said, to warn him I was coming back.
He was still standing by the door.
I looked back and forth between him and the television. “I thought you’d sit on the couch,” I said.
“Oh, I—”
“I didn’t mean you have to. I only thought you would.” No. Dad and Amy weren’t in the kitchen. He was nineteen years old. We weren’t watching a rental video. “What do you want?”
“I heard about your father. Mum’s come back with me, for the memorial.” Of course the others hadn’t been Luke. Of course. Students go home for Easter. Stupid of me, stupid … “I’m so sorry. I should have come sooner, to see him, but—” He swallowed, and leaned his head over his shoulder. “I didn’t know for sure if you still lived here,” he said. “And university’s tougher than I thought, and I—”
“What do you
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