My Husband's House by Sheryl Browne

Author:Sheryl Browne [Browne, Sheryl]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781837904426
Published: 2023-06-04T16:00:00+00:00

THIRTY-SEVEN

Naomi

I knew it was Sara at the front door. I’d seen her approaching through the lounge window. She’d texted me a couple of times asking how I was, which I found astonishing considering she clearly didn’t care. She would know I was home – my car was on the drive. Plus, I’d made no effort to be quiet while scraping the rest of the paper off the lounge walls. I wasn’t going to answer the door, though, nor was I going to reply to her texts. After being on the point of storming round there, my anger at tipping point, I’d decided to take Ben’s advice and have nothing to do with her. I couldn’t believe she’d actually had the gall to come here.

After a minute, she rang the bell a second time, then rapped on the door. Then lifted the letter flap. ‘Naomi? Are you all right?’ she shouted through it.

I ignored her, continuing to pour my energy into removing the layers of yellowing paint from the doorframe.

There followed a brief silence, then another rattle of the letter flap. ‘I’m worried about you, Naomi,’ she called. ‘Could you at least text me and let me know you’re okay?’

I ignored that too. Did she honestly think I wanted to talk to her in any form?

When she finally left, I decided I would text her – a short, succinct text, from which she would hopefully get the message. Downing tools, I grabbed my phone from the coffee table. I’m fine. Busy. If you have Maya’s teddy bear, could you leave it in the porch. Thanks.

I’d barely placed the phone down again when she shot a text back: I left it in the shed. Really worried about you. Are you sure you’re all right?

Was the woman mad? A pathological liar? Why would she not just leave me alone? Anger churning my insides, I plonked the phone down. I was tempted to go and bang on her door, ask her outright what her problem was, but I couldn’t see how a blazing argument would help. I just didn’t feel strong enough.

Sighing with hurt and confusion, I went back to my task, which I had been finding quite therapeutic. Eventually I got down to the bare wood of the doorframe and realised it was quite beautiful. Thinking I might leave the woodwork natural, I traced my fingers down the rest of the frame, pausing as I came across what appeared to be notches carved into it. That was a shame. Would filler fix it? Examining the damage more closely, I was surprised to find it was a height chart.

Realising I’d uncovered a little bit of history, sadness engulfed me – for the family who had lived here, the lost little girl. Might this have been her height chart? My heart pitter-pattering, I squinted at the lettering above the notches, trying to read the name. Crudely carved, it looked like Alan. Or Adam, possibly? I couldn’t quite make it out. The age looked to be eight.

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