Page 40 of Play Nice

Hello hello.

“Hello.”

The entrance to the attic was in Cici’s closet. A small rectangular opening covered by a plank of painted wood. You needed a ladder to get up there, and I didn’t have a ladder.

One rainy Saturday, when the girls were at their father’s house, I dragged a dining chair downstairs to Cici’s room, stacked some books on top of it, and climbed up to the attic.

The attic was essentially a crawl space over the garage. Not enough room for me to stand up, not even hunched over. There was old insulation, white like snow. Cobwebs hung from the rafters. It was cold, so much colder than the rest of the house. There was no explanation, no reason for it, because even outside, it was warm and pleasant—mid-May. But in the attic, it was winter. Desolate and freezing.

I could tolerate being up there for only a few minutes at most. I shuddered and lowered myself through the opening. My feet found the stack of books. They came out from under me, and I fell.

When your father dropped you off the next day, I was incoherent, still bleeding. He assumed I had fallen because I was drunk. He called his lawyers as soon as he left. The truth is I had been drinking. I needed the liquid courage to look up in the attic, to confront what I suspected was there. But that’s not why I fell. And I had only done it to keep you girls safe. That was my reason for everything.

My head hit the wall and my knee smashed against the doorframe.

I lay there in shock. I reached up to my head and my hand came away bloody.

That’s when I knew with certainty. Crystal clarity.

That’s where it lives.

It lives up there.

There’s something living in my house.

Then I heard it again, like I did that first night. It’s awful, evil laughter.

But it wasn’t trying to hide this time. It made no attempt to conceal itself, to sneak. It was glad that I knew. It wanted me to know it was there.

Because it understood something, something that I did not.

No one would believe me.

14

I wake up facing the opposite direction in bed. My head is where my feet were, my feet are where my head was. The blankets are piled up on the floor.

This has never happened to me before. It’s disorienting. Unpleasant.

I rub my forehead. I’m hungover even though I didn’t drink that much. I don’t think.

“Straight vodka,” I say, shaking a loose fist at the sky.

I turn off the city sounds. I forgot to set an alarm, and it’s almost eleven a.m. Such meager sunlight comes through these windows. The cursed wedding dress curtains certainly don’t help.

New window treatments, a fresh coat of light paint, some strategically placed lamps, mirrors. A crystal chandelier, maybe. The ceilings aren’t quite high enough.

I start a list in my Notes app of all the things I want to buy today. I text Dad and ask him if he can come pick me up now and we can get lunch.

He’s at the house twenty minutes later, Amy in the passenger seat. The three of us go to our favorite deli for sandwiches, then spend far too much time and money at Home Depot, then to Benjamin Moore because I want bougie paint, then to my favorite antique store in Chester for inspiration. I buy some tin ceiling panels, a few mirrors, a pair of art deco wall sconces, and a beautiful brass banker’s desk lamp.

“I would never know what to do with any of this stuff. I’m so amazed by your creativity,” Amy says, popping a stick of gum into her mouth. She offers me the pack. “You have vision.”

“Thank you, Amy. For the gum and the compliment.”

I have her take photos of me in the antiques store. She’s better at it than Dad.

“What about me?” Dad says as we head out to the car. “Where’s my thanks? Sacrificing my Sunday.”