The Move

In the early morning haze, birds chirp and whistle, swooping from tree to tree in search of food. My eyes track them through the water-stained window as they fly, longing to join them. A loud crash startles me from my thoughts, and I almost lose my perch on the windowsill. Raised voices follow the sound, joining the flurry of activity that is happening a floor below me.

My stomach growls, hungry. My nose twitches in distaste. I don’t want to venture down to the chaos that is the first floor, where big strange men are bringing in boxes from a van parked outside. But my stomach protests, louder this time, and I stand, relenting.

I stretch, muscles stiff from lack of movement. The bedroom that stands before me is fine, elegant in a way with its lacy wallpaper and four-poster bed. But it is not my bedroom, the one I had grown up in. It does not have the small bed that I used to take frequent naps in or the colourful curtains I had accidently ripped while playing one afternoon. Seemingly, my parents had decided they had outgrown that house, and decided that I had too. I wrinkle my nose. At least our old house hadn’t smelled so musty.

Wandering out of the bedroom, I start down the long, winding staircase. The old boards creak when I step in the middle, so I stick to the outside of the stairs.

I sit down on the bottom step and poke my head around the bannister, peering towards the kitchen. I can see Mother stooped over a dust bin, sweeping up shattered glass fragments. Small light curls have escaped her messy bun and are beginning to frizz in the late Autumn humidity. Her brow is furrowed in harsh lines.

No one else seems to be in the room, so I slip through the doorway. Mother doesn’t notice me as she stands and empties the dust bin into the garbage can. I sidle up and lean against her tall frame, looking up questioningly. She looks down and her lips spread into small but strained smile.

“Hi, Daisy, darling. Are you hungry? I know you haven’t had breakfast yet. We are just unpacking the dishes now; the moving van broke down halfway here, so they didn’t arrive until this ungodly hour. Here,” She reaches over to grab something off the counter and turns back to hand me one of my old stuffed animals, “Can you go play for a couple minutes until we finish? I’ll get you some food as soon as I can.”

I pick up the toy and start out of the room. I pause to look back, but Mother is already opening another box. The squeak of the screen door sends me scurrying from the kitchen, unwilling to meet any of the strange moving men.

As I run through the hallway, I lose my hold on my stuffed animal, sending it sliding across the hardwood floors before vanishing into the living room. I skid to a halt. When I had gone exploring last night the living room had given me the creeps, with its dark drapes and dusty furniture. I stand there, frozen, staring into the dim doorway. Then I shake my head, breaking me out of my paralysis. There’s nothing to be scared of in there.

I tiptoe forward and scan the room. Empty. I snort at my foolishness and look around until I find my toy. There, by the television. I saunter over, pick it up and turn…

A cold, prickling sensation rushes through me and every hair on my body stands on end. I drop my toy. A hissing sound escapes through my teeth as my brain tries to make sense of what is in front of me.

A woman sits in the rocking chair by the fireplace. Her white hair is pulled back in a tight bun and she wears a frilly pink night gown. She is knitting, a pair of purple glasses balanced at the end of her nose and a ball of red yarn at her feet. She looks up in surprise at the sound.

“Oh my, well, hello,” She smiles, “No need to get all riled up and puffy. It’s just me. I know I’m not supposed to be here, but—oh you must be Daisy. Annabeth told me all about you. It’s a shame I didn’t meet you before, but I was quite ill for some time. You’re as cute as a button just like she said.”

I stare, tilting my head to one side.

“I think my time here is short. I managed to slip away for a minute, but it won’t be long before I have to return. This isn’t my place anymore. I just want to see Annabeth one last time. It was just her and I for a long while, did you know that? Yes, her father was a kind man but not one for responsibility, so it was just Annabeth and me,” Her eyes glisten, and she looks back down at her knitting, quiet for a moment.

I inch forward and touch her foot tentatively. She smiles down at me sadly.

On the other side of the house I hear Mother call, “Daisy! Daisy, where are you?”

The woman gazes down the hallway wistfully, “I think my time is up, my dear.” She starts to fade, ebbing away into the darkness around her.

Panic clangs through me. I strike out at the ball of yarn. It tumbles down the hallway, unraveling a trail of red. I hear Mother cry out in surprise and then footsteps sound. “Daisy?”

Mother steps into the room, the remaining ball of yarn in hand. The woman in the rocking chair utters an “Oh” and a tear slips down her cheek. She reaches out and rests her hand on Mother’s. “Thank you,” She whispers to me as she vanishes into the darkness.

Mother stares at the ball of yarn in her hand, a bittersweet expression on her face. Tears well in her eyes and she swallows. She turns to me, “What were you looking at in that rocking chair, huh? Were you seeing ghosts?” She lets out a choked laugh, “Did you know this used to be my mother’s house?”

I trill.

She wipes away her tears, “I think it’s about time we open these curtains.”

She gently places the yarn on the rocking chair and crosses the floor to pull back the dark drapes, letting the sunlight pour in. It gives the room a glow that reveals traits I hadn’t noticed before; the glint of a swinging pendulum in the grandfather clock, the vibrant colours in the patchwork rug, the gleam off the framed photographs decorating the walls.

Mother points at an armchair in the corner, “Did you know I used to do my homework there every night when I was in high school? And I would practice for the music festival every year on that piano,” She gazes at it fondly, “Even won once.”

Mother wanders out of the room, picking up my toy mouse along the way. I follow close on her heels. She goes upstairs to the bedroom, “This was my room growing up. I didn’t pick the décor though.” She gestures at the lacy walls, “I used to hate this wallpaper. My high school boyfriend and I even carved our initials into it in rebellion,” She crouches and smooths her fingers over the worn letters in the wall behind the bed, “Don’t tell your father.”

I meow, flicking my tail. She smiles, reaching over to scratch behind my ear.

“Beth? Where are you? The movers are done, and the kids have arrived to help!” Father yells from somewhere in the house.

“I’ll be right there!” Mother calls back. She looks at me and sighs, “Suppose I should stop yammering away to my cat. You want some food, Daisy? Let’s go get some breakfast.” She heads back down the stairs.

I look around the room, at the water-stained window, the four-poster bed, the wallpaper. I suppose this will do. I turn and follow Mother down to the kitchen.