Unfortunately, Nonna didn’t remember Delilah now, either.
Looking back, she was pretty sure she shouldn’t have returned to Nonna’s house at all that summer. Her forgetfulness and moments of blankness had been worsening at an alarming rate, and though her parents might not have put too much thought or effort into what she did on a daily basis, she was fairly certain they wouldn’t have allowed her to return that summer had they known the extent of Nonna’s illness.
But Delilah had loved Nonna and would have jumped at anyone like a wildcat had they tried to separate them even a day before it was absolutely necessary. The moments when Nonna hadn’t remembered herself were terrifying, yes, but she had always been Delilah’s favorite person in the world, the one person who made her feel truly loved.
Maybe that was exactly how Gavin felt.
Back in her own room, no longer near Nonna or the quiet boarding-school town or anything familiar, Delilah dropped the pen and closed her eyes. Was she doing it again? Poking something that was now, unfortunately, facing her? Could she behave herself better and make nice with the house? Away from it she just wanted it to like her, wanted it to let her have as much of Gavin as she wanted to have. But when she was there, it was almost like she couldn’t help pushing. She couldn’t help finding out what the reality of Gavin’s life was, what it would someday be, and why the house couldn’t set him free, even a little.
Unfortunately, the idea of scary things turned out to be so much better than the reality. The prospect of a living house, the potential it had for darkness and eerie moments had seemed perfectly adventuresome. But now her skin rose in gooseflesh and she felt like she was being watched by her own eyes in the photograph, by the windows and walls and carpeting. Did she just imagine a slight rumbling of the chair beneath her? Was she imagining the way the walls seemed to hum slightly now, trapping her inside? If she tried to escape and run downstairs, would her own house let her go?
Delilah shot up from the chair, consumed by a sudden, fluttering panic, and tore down the hall, down the stairs, and burst, panting, into the oddly bright kitchen. She pulled up short at the sight of her father seated at the kitchen table, his left hand wrapped around the neck of a bottle of amber liquid.
“Delilah.” His voice came out thick, as if a balloon were lodged in his windpipe.
Her chest rose and fell as she struggled to catch her breath and take in the image in front of her. Franklin Blue, sitting drunk at his kitchen table in the middle of the night. The house faded into gray in her periphery, the idea that it was alive completely forgotten. She’d never seen her father anything but buttoned up and stern, but here he sat looking like he was almost melting into his chair.
“What are you doing up at this hour?” he asked, his voice bending the word “hour” into something that sounded more like “are.” It took Delilah several beats before she translated in her head. He looked strange, not quite himself. A little dazed.
“I couldn’t sleep,” Delilah said, leaning against the counter behind her. “Then I got scared.”
He laughed, staring at the table. “I know what you mean,” he said, nodding before taking a long pull directly from the bottle. She could hear him swallow, stared at him as he winced a little. Even at a distance, the fumes from the alcohol burned at the surface of her eyes.
“Are you okay, Dad?”
“Sure.”
“I didn’t know you drank.”