Rooms
Authors: Lauren Oliver
To the brilliant Lexa Hillyer,
for her support, friendship, and many glasses of wine
Rooms
Rooms I (I will not say
worked in) once heard in. Words
my mouth heard
then—be
with me. Rooms,
you open onto one
another: still house
this life, be in me
when I leave
—
FRANZ WRIGHT
CONTENTS
I
’d like to thank, first, my wonderful agent, Stephen Barbara, who has for the past four years encouraged me, pushed me, and tolerated my insanity. Enormous thanks to Lee Boudreaux, whose energy and enthusiasm for this book initially made me believe that I could pull it off, and whose perceptiveness and guidance ultimately ensured that I did. I owe a huge debt of gratitude to the whole team at Ecco, including Ryan Willard; Sara Wood and Allison Saltzman; and Michael McKenzie and Ashley Garland, who (respectively) took care of the details, made sure the book looked absolutely beautiful, and worked tirelessly to get it into the hands of readers. Thank you, too, to Jeremy and Marie, whose wonderful house, Gunthorpe, served as the original inspiration for this book.
Last, thank you to my parents, for all of the books and beautiful rooms.
T
he fire begins in the basement.
Does it hurt?
Yes and no. This is, after all, what I wanted.
And I’m beyond hurting now.
But the fear is almost like pain. It is driving, immense. This body, our last body, our final chance, will be burned to dust.
What will happen to me then?
From the kitchen, to the pantry, to the dining room and the hall; up the stairs, a choking smoke, darkness, soot, and stifling heat.
From the attic to the roof, from the roof to the basement.
We burn.
S
andra wants to place a bet on whether or not Richard Walker will die at home. I don’t know when Sandra became so crazy about gambling. She wasn’t a gambler when she was alive. I can say with authority that it was one of the only vices she didn’t have. Nowadays it’s
bet you this, bet you that.
“He’ll croak right here, you’ll see,” Sandra says. And then, “Stop crowding me.”
“I’m not crowding you.”
“You are. You’re breathing on my neck.”
“Impossible.”
“I’m telling you what it
feels
like.”
Richard Walker moans. Is it possible that now, after all these years, he can understand us?
Doubtful. Still, an interesting idea.
How do we speak?
In creaks and whispers, in groans and shudders. But you know. You’ve heard us. You simply don’t understand.
The day nurse is in the bathroom, preparing Richard’s pills, although she must know—we all do—that they can’t help him now. The bedroom smells like cough syrup, sweat, and the sharp, animal scent of urine, like an old barn. The sheets have not been changed in three days.
“So what do you think?” Sandra presses. “Home? Or in the hospital?”
I like making bets with Sandra. It breaks up the space—the long, watery hours, the soupiness of time. Day is no longer day to us, and night no longer night. Hours are different shades of hot and warm, damp and dry. We no longer pay attention to the clocks. Why should we? Noon is the taste of sawdust, and the feel of a splinter under a nail. Morning is mud and crumbling caulk. Evening is the smell of cooked tomatoes and mildew. And night is shivering, and the feel of mice sniffing around our skin.
Divisions: that’s what we need. Space and lines. Your side, my side. Otherwise, we begin to converge. That’s the greatest fear, the danger of being dead. It’s a constant struggle to stay yourself.
It’s funny, isn’t it? Alive, it’s so often the reverse. I remember feeling desperate for someone to
understand
. I remember how fiercely I longed to talk to Ed about this or that—I don’t remember what, now, some dream or opinion, something playing at the pictures.
Now it’s only the secrets that truly belong to me. And I’ve given up too many to Sandra already.
“Hospital,” I say at last.
“I’ll bet you he croaks right in that bed,” Sandra says, gleeful.
Sandra is wrong. Richard Walker does not die at home. Thank God. I’ve shared the house with him for long enough.
For a time, the house falls into quiet. It is ours again, mine and Sandra’s. Its corners are elbows, its stairways our skeleton pieces, splinters of bone and spine.
In the quietness, we drift. We reclaim the spaces that Richard colonized. We must regrow into ourselves—clumsily, the way that a body, after a long illness, still moves in fits and shivers.
We expand into all five bedrooms. We hover in the light coming through the windows, with the dust; we spin, dizzy in the silence. We slide across empty dining room chairs, skate across the well-polished table, rub ourselves against the oriental carpets, curl up in the impressions of old footprints.
It is both a relief and a loss to have our body returned to us, intact. We have, once again, successfully expelled the Other.
We are free. We are alone.
We place bets on when the young Walkers will return.
M
inna comes through the kitchen, flinging open the door as though expecting several dozen guests to jump out and yell, “Surprise!”
“Jesus Christ” is the first thing she says.
“It isn’t,” Sandra says. “It can’t be.”
But it obviously is: there is no mistaking Minna, even after so many years. Sandra claims it has been exactly a decade; I think it has been a little longer than that.
Minna is changed, but she is still Minna: the tangle of long hair, now lightened; the haughty curves of her cheekbones; the eyes, vivid, ocean colored. She is just as beautiful as ever—maybe even more so. There’s something hard and terrifying about her now, like a blade that has been sharpened to a deadly point.
“Jesus Christ,” she says again. She is standing in the open doorway, and for a moment the smell of Outside reaches me: clover, mud, and mulch; honeysuckle that must still be growing wild all over the yard.
For a brief moment, I am alive again, and kneeling in the garden: new spring sunshine; cool wind; a glistening earthworm, turned out of the earth, surprised.
A girl, probably six, barrels past Minna and into the house.
“Is this Grandpa’s house?” she asks, and reaches out toward the kitchen table, where a coffee mug—one of the nurse’s mugs, half full, which has begun to stink of sour milk—has been left.
Minna grabs the girl’s arm, pulls her back. “Don’t touch anything, Amy,” she says. “This whole place is crawling with germs.” The girl, Amy, hangs back obediently, while Minna takes several tentative steps into the kitchen, keeping one hand in front of her, as though she’s walking in the dark. When she is within reach of the kitchen table, she makes a sudden grab for it, letting out a noise somewhere between a gasp and a laugh.
“
This
thing,” she says. “It’s even uglier than I remembered. Christ, he couldn’t get rid of
anything
.”
“Well, that settles that,” Sandra says gleefully. “Minna’s grown into a hopeless bitch. I always knew she would.”
“Be quiet, Sandra.” In the many, many years I have been here, in this house, in the new body, my faith in the Christian conception of the afterlife has been considerably taxed. But there is no doubt about one thing: having Sandra with me is hell.
“Any girl that pretty . . .”
“I said be quiet.” Poor Minna. I can’t say she was my favorite. But I felt sorry for her all the same.
Amy starts to come out of the doorway, but Minna puts up a hand to stop her. “Honey, stay there, okay? Just hang on a second.” Then she calls out, a little louder, “Trenton! You’ve got to come see this.”
I no longer have a heart, so to say my heart speeds up is inaccurate. But there is a quickening, a drawing together of whatever pieces of me remain. For years, I’ve longed to see Trenton. He was the most beautiful child, with feather-blond hair and eyes the electric blue of a summer sky. Even at four or five he had a slightly tragic look, as though he had come into the world expecting beauty and elegance and had suffered such tremendous initial disappointment that he had never recovered.
But it’s not Trenton who comes into the house, practically doubled under the weight of two duffel bags, and lugging an additional rolling suitcase behind him. It is an absurdly tall, skinny adolescent, with a sullen look and dingy-dark hair, wearing a black sweatshirt and long jeans with filthy cuffs.
“What did you
pack
?” he mutters, as he steps into the kitchen, straightens up, and unslings both duffel bags, piling them on the kitchen floor. He bumps the suitcase through the doorway. “Did you put rocks in here or something?”
Sandra begins to laugh.
“It isn’t him. It can’t be,” I say, unconsciously parroting her remark about Minna.
“It’s him,” she says. “Look at his eyes.”
She’s right: under that jutting, unattractive forehead, covered with a smattering of pimples, his eyes are still the same startling electric blue and fringed with a girlish quantity of lashes.
“God, what a piece of shit,” Minna says. She leans over and places both hands on the kitchen table, as though to verify that it’s real. “We used to call it the Spider. Do you remember?”
Trenton says nothing.
The table is white and plastic—
Lucite,
Sandra informed me, when it was first delivered—and has jointed, twisted legs that do, in fact, make it look like a spider crouching in the corner. It cost $15,000, as Richard Walker was always fond of telling his guests. I used to find it hideously ugly. Sandra informs me that that is just because I have no modern sensibility.
“Modernity is ugly,” she always says. On at least that one point, we agree.
Over the years, the table has grown on me. I guess you could say, actually, it has grown
into
me, the way objects do. The table is my memories of the table, and my memories of the table are: Minna hiding, brown knees drawn to her chest, sucking on a scab; Trenton trimming paper for a Valentine’s Day card, holding blunt-edged plastic scissors, his fingers sticky with glue; Richard Walker sitting in his usual place at the head of the table the day after Caroline had left him for good, newspaper folded neatly in front of him, a mug of coffee cooling, cooling, as the light grew and swelled and then began to narrow over the course of the afternoon, until at last it was no more than a golden finger, cutting across the room on a diagonal, dividing him from shoulder to hip.
Other memories—from different times and places, from my old life—have weaseled their way in alongside these. It’s transfiguration, the slippery nature of thought. Wine turns to blood and wafer to body, and table legs to church spires white and stark against the summer sky—and the spiderwebs in the old blueberry bushes behind my childhood home in Newport, draped across the branches like fine gray lace—the spare pleasure of a boiled egg and bread, eaten alone for dinner. All of that is the table, too.
“It smells,” Trenton says.
Minna takes the coffee cup from the table and moves it to the sink. She turns on the faucet, letting the flow of water break up the surface of mold and run it down the drain. She moves in electric bursts, like miniature explosions. When she was little, it was the same way. She was on the floor. Then, suddenly, she was kneeling on the countertop; then she was striking her palm—bang!—against the window.
Now she leans over and strikes the window, hard, with her palm, just the way she used to. The catch releases; the window shoots upward. The smell of Outside comes sweeping into the room. It is like a shiver, or the touch of someone’s hand.
“Did you see that?” she asks Trenton. “The trick still works.”
Trenton shrugs and puts his hands in the pocket of his sweatshirt. I can’t believe that this awkward, gummy, sullen thing is beautiful, tragic Trenton, who liked to lie in the sunshine on the wooden floor of the dining room, like a cat—curled against me, cheek to cheek, the closest I have come to an embrace since I was alive.
I used to imagine, sometimes, that he could feel me hugging him back.
“Mommy.” Amy has been straining onto her tiptoes, exploring the countertop with her fingers. Now she tugs on the hem of Minna’s shirt. “Is Grandpa here?”
Minna kneels so she is eye level with her daughter. “We talked about that, sweetpea. Remember?”
Amy shakes her head. “I want to say hi to Grandpa.”
“Grandpa’s gone, Amy,” Trenton says. Minna shoots him a murderous look. She places her hands on Amy’s shoulders.
She speaks in a lullaby voice. “Remember the chapter in
The Raven Heliotrope,
where Princess Penelope gives up her life to save the Order of the Innocents?”
“Oh, God.” Trenton rolls his eyes. “You’re reading her that crap?”
“Did you hear that, Alice?” Sandra says to me. “
Crap
. No wonder it was never published.”
“I never tried to get it published,” I say, and then regret it. She’s only trying to goad me into an argument.
“Shut up, Trenton,” Minna snaps at him. Then she continues, in a soft voice: “And remember Penelope has to go away to the Garden of Forever?”
Amy nods. “To live in a flower.”
Minna kisses her forehead. “Grandpa’s in the Garden of Forever.”
Trenton snorts. Minna ignores him, stands up, and switches off the faucet. It’s a relief. We’re very sensitive to sound now. The noise of the water is thunderous. Water running through the pipes is an uncomfortable feeling, and it still fills me with anxiety, the way I used to feel when I had to go to the bathroom and was made to laugh: a fear of leaking.
“But will he come back?” Amy asks.
“What?” Minna turns around. For a moment I see that underneath the impeccable makeup, she is just as tired as anybody else.
“In Part Two, Penelope comes back,” Amy says. “Penelope wakes up. And then Prince Thomas joins forces with Sven and saves everybody.”
Minna stares at her blankly for a second. It’s Trenton who answers.
“Grandpa’s not coming back, Amybear,” Trenton says. “He’s going to stay in the garden.”
“As long as the old grout stays away from here,” Sandra says.
Of course she isn’t really worried that he’ll return. It’s just the two of us. It will no doubt always be the two of us, and the spiny staircases, and the ticking furnace, like a mechanical heart, and the mice, nibbling at our corners.
Unless I can find a way to light the fire.