“Coming,” she said, and followed me out of the kitchen. Unsurprisingly, Dad tagged along behind her, looking studiously casual, but almost certainly making sure we didn’t make a break for it before he’d had a chance to grill us on what, exactly, we had come for.
The lights were on in the empty dining room. I stopped in the doorway, a lump forming in my throat. The dining room table was clear. The dining room table was never clear, not even when someone was coming to interview one or more of us; it was a constant bone of contention between the two generations in the household, with Mom and Dad insisting the dining room was meant for eating, and George and I insisting it was a crime to let a perfectly good table go to waste for twenty hours of any given day. We fought over it at least once a month. We…
But that was the past. I shook it off, blinking away the tears that threatened to blur my vision, and felt Georgia’s hand on my shoulder, steadying me.
The house is haunted, she said softly, but so are you, and your haunting is stronger than theirs. You can do this.
“Shaun?” asked Becks. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” I said, answering them both with a single word. I stepped into the dining room and started putting glasses down on the table. “Sorry. Just memories.”
“We have a lot of memories invested in this house—in this family,” said Dad, moving around the table to keep us in view. “It’s good to see you, son.”
“Can we not?” This time, the tears were too close to blink away. I swiped my arm across my eyes in a quick, jerky motion. “Don’t bullshit me, okay? Please. The last time we saw each other, you were threatening to take me to court over Georgia’s will, and I’m pretty sure I told you to go fuck yourselves. So can we not play happy families for Becks’s benefit? She knows better.”
Dad’s smile faded slowly. Finally, he said, “Maybe it’s not only for her benefit. Did you consider that? Maybe we missed you.”
“And maybe you’re trying to get the best footage you can before I run out of here again,” I said. Suddenly weary, I pulled out one of the dining room chairs and collapsed into it. “You missed me. Fine. I missed you, too. That doesn’t change who we are.”
“No, I suppose it doesn’t.” Dad turned to Becks, a seemingly genuine expression of apology on his face. “Would you like to wait in the kitchen while we have this conversation? I’m sure it’s not very comfortable for you.”
“I’ve come this far with your son. I think I’ll stick with him a little longer.” Becks took the seat next to mine, folding her hands in her lap as she directed a calm, level stare at my adoptive father.
He blinked, glancing between the two of us before clearly coming to the wrong conclusion. A smile crept back onto his face. “Ah. I see.”
No, you don’t, I wanted to scream. I didn’t. Instead, I said, “We’re here because we need your help. We didn’t have any place else to go.”
“That’s the sort of thing a mother always loves to hear from her only living child,” said Mom, stepping into the dining room. She was carrying a tray loaded down with quiche, slices of steaming artificial ham, and even a pile of waffles. It would have been more impressive if I hadn’t known she’d pulled every bit of it out of the freezer. But it was food, and it was hot, and it smelled like my childhood—the parts of it that happened before I knew just what the score in our happy little family really was.
“At least I’m honest.” I leaned over as soon as she put the tray on the table, driving my fork into the top waffle on the stack. She smiled indulgently, picking up the serving spoon and using it to deposit a slice of quiche on my plate. “Isn’t that a virtue around here?”
“Sometimes. Rebecca? What can I get you?”
“It all looks fantastic, Ms. Mason. I’d like some of everything, if that isn’t too much trouble.”
“Nonsense. Why would I have cooked if I didn’t want you to eat?” Mom made a flapping gesture with her free hand, indicating one of the empty seats. “Michael, sit down. Shaun’s big pronouncement can wait until you have something in you.”
“Yes, dear,” he said, and sat. He winked at me, clearly trying to look conspiratorial, like we were the same because Mom was making us both eat. I ignored it, spearing a slice of “ham” with my fork rather than trying to come up with a less violent response. Anything I said would have ended with my screaming at someone—or maybe just screaming. The room, the hour, the false domesticity, it was rubbing at my nerves even more than I’d been afraid it would.