The Invited(25)

Olive blinked down at it, not quite believing.

She held her breath.

Had she done this? Did she have that kind of power? Something awakened, brought to the surface by rage?

No way, Odd Oliver, she told herself.

It was coincidence, that’s all. People couldn’t control the world around them like that.

Least of all her.

“I was thinking we could put built-in shelves along this wall,” Daddy said, gesturing. “Floor to ceiling. With maybe a built-in desk right in the center. A place for you to do your homework. To set up a computer.”

“But I don’t even have a computer.” Her anger now came out as a whine. She hated whining.

“We’ll get you one. To go with your brand-new room.”

He smiled big and wide, and she thought, So this is how it’s going to be. A bribe. A trap, really. But it didn’t matter. It was no use fighting. What’s done was done. Daddy had made up his mind. He had already taken a sledgehammer to things, torn down the wall behind where her bed used to be. The air was full of dust, the carpet covered in the rubble that was once her wall. She hated the way the walls looked without drywall—the studs, plumbing, wiring, and junction boxes exposed. It was like catching a grown-up getting undressed. It embarrassed her. Made her wish she hadn’t seen.

    Houses held secrets.

Her father seemed determined to expose all of their house’s secrets, to strip it down and tear it wide open for all the world to see. Even in her very own room.

“You could use a computer for your schoolwork,” Daddy said, giving her a sly smile. “Think how much easier your homework would be. You’re still getting homework, aren’t you?”

She nodded, looked down at the dusty carpet while he held her in his gaze.

She was sure, absolutely positive, then that he knew. He knew she hadn’t been to school that day, that she’d been skipping regularly. He knew, but he wasn’t going to say anything, wasn’t going to confront her or punish her.

The world felt off-kilter, torn open.

He held out the pry bar for her, and she understood that her helping him with this, tearing down the walls of her bedroom, endlessly renovating the house, would make skipping school okay.

It was an unspoken deal.

And she knew she had no choice. Not really.

It would be different if Mama were here. But then again, if Mama hadn’t gone away, none of this would have happened. She wouldn’t have made a habit of skipping school; high school wouldn’t have turned into the disaster that it was. The house would still be intact. Mama would never have put up with the torn-down walls, the plaster dust that covered every surface like fine snow.

Her insides twisted as she reached for the pry bar, her fingers gripping, squeezing tight, like she was trying to choke it, but the metal was cold, unyielding.

She was sure that she couldn’t have made that sledgehammer drop. She was just a girl. A powerless, school-skipping, odd girl whose mother had run off and whose father was making hope where he could find it.

    She was a terrible, cruel girl for wishing him harm. It was like spanking a little baby for crying because it was hungry.

He smiled at her now, his whole face lighting up. “Won’t your mama be surprised,” he said, “when she comes back home and finds things fixed up so nice. A brand-new house. That’s what it will seem like. Won’t she be happy then?”





FRAMING





CHAPTER 7



Helen





JUNE 8, 2015

They were just finishing framing the downstairs when the sky opened up.

The house had truly begun to take shape. The subfloor was in and the four outer walls were up and braced; the interior walls framing the pantry and mechanical room were done. They were attaching the final bathroom wall when thunder shook the house; lightning struck so close Helen could feel the electricity in the air, smell the ozone. She’d never seen such a powerful storm. Was it because they were higher up in the mountains here, closer to the sky?

She stood in the center of their newly framed downstairs, surrounded by the two-by-four framed walls—the skeleton of the house—watching the storm, feeling the storm.

Nate was stressed because they were behind schedule. The plan was to be finished framing the entire house, including the roof, in six weeks, and it didn’t look like they’d make it. Helen wasn’t worried. She’d worked with her father enough to know that it was normal to be a little off schedule and over budget. They’d get it done. And they were moving a little faster each day as their skills and confidence improved.

“It’s not safe out here!” Nate yelled over the downpour and rumbles of thunder. Off in the distance, they heard sirens. They got their tools under cover and sprinted down to the trailer, laughing at how soaked they got. They changed into dry clothes and Helen made a fresh pot of coffee. The thunder and lightning let up, but the rain continued. They sipped coffee and watched the rain fall, feeling cozy and content as they listened to the lovely sound it made on the old tin roof of the trailer.

“What should we do with ourselves?” Helen asked, looking at the stack of papers on Nate’s makeshift card-table desk in the living room—the house plans, the building timeline, the endless to-do lists and schedules. Surely there was some rainy-day project for them to tackle.