Teagan Oliva
Fiction
Laura Briggs’s house sits at the crest of Burberry Hill in the leftmost corner of Montpelier. It’s not a modest home by any means. But then again, there are no modest homes on Burberry Hill. The two-story Victorian boasts a steeply pitched roof, bay windows adorned with stained glass that sparkles with turquoise and gold, and a wraparound porch on which Grace and the twin boys sit, blowing bubbles as the sun dips below the hills.
Owen’s boisterous giggles echo across the cul-de-sac as his bubbles collide with his brother’s, shattering into tiny soap particles that plummet to the wooden boards. Ethan’s bubbles are significantly smaller than Owen’s. Each time the two bubbles crash into each other, Owen laughs as his continue to float away.
“I win, I win!”
Grace greets Ethan with a soft smile. He is content amidst the constant losing, something his brother could never be comfortable with. Owen’s smug grin over his victory towers over Ethan, and yet, the timid twin doesn’t appear upset. He only continues his warm smile.
There is a quiet squeak from Laura’s office, and she appears in the doorway. She is wearing the same crimson robe that Grace greeted her in this morning, paired with old, white slippers that look too large for her feet. Dark bags crescent her eyes behind a pair of black reading glasses.
“Time to come inside, my boys,” Laura says. Her small voice is gravelly in the evenings and sends unsettling shivers down Grace’s spine.
The twins scramble to their feet and twist the bubble bottles closed before shoving them into Grace’s arms. They disappear inside with Laura, screeching and giggling as their footsteps pound up the stairs.
Alone on the porch, Grace glances at the orange- and pink-streaked sky. The white cotton ball clouds have turned to feathery wisps and the nearly full moon has begun its climb. Her phone vibrates from her pants pocket.
Hope all is well, missy. We sure miss you over here. Come for a visit soon. The Washington air isn’t the same without you. xxx Mom.
Grace presses her eyes closed tightly and sighs. Even the unannounced move from Sequim to Montpelier couldn’t rid her of her mother. Grace shoves her phone back into her pocket and trudges inside.
Laura is sitting at the kitchen island with her navy mug in front of her, resting her chin in her palms. “Were they good for you today?” Laura asks.
“They’re always good.” Grace sits beside Laura at the island. “How are you?”
“Tired, very tired.”
Laura sips her tea as her eyelids slide shut. Her strawberry blonde bangs are overgrown and have begun to fall over her eyes. In the six months that Grace has worked for Laura, she has rarely seen her leave the house aside from Sundays. On these days, Laura is grocery shopping, running errands, and checking in on the psychiatry office. Laura’s late husband, Perry, had been the most highly requested psychiatrist in Montpelier.
Owen emerges from upstairs first, dressed in green pajama bottoms and a plain white t-shirt. Grace notices that his curly brown hair is also overgrown. He bears a similar pajama outfit to Ethan but has chosen blue rather than green.
“Looks like you’ll be seeing the cutting shears tomorrow, my love.” Laura ruffles Owen’s hair. “Give Mommy a kiss.”
Laura gives her boys a warm smile as they rush into her arms. She plants a kiss on either of their heads and tells them goodnight.
“I’m off to bed.” Laura stands as the twins race back up the stairs. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Laura wraps an arm around Grace’s shoulders and squeezes her. The mother’s small, frail body presses against Grace, and she breathes in the soft scent of coconut. Laura’s motherly nature is often expressed to Grace—in the perfect amount.
“Goodnight,” Grace says.
Laura leaves her mug on the counter and sets off for her bedroom. Grace rinses the mug quickly and sets it in its usual place, beside the coffee pot.
At the top of the stairs, Grace instinctively turns to the left. The landing extends in either direction with two doors on the left and one on the right. The boys’ room resides furthest on the left with a bathroom next door. On the right, a storage room is tucked into the corner. “Grace, me first!” Owen says as she enters the room.
Ethan has tucked himself beneath his comforter. His doe-like brown eyes protrude above the seam as Grace kneels to the hardwood floor to ruffle his hair and tuck the remainder of his blanket around his body. The twins’ mattresses rest against the floorboards, and a small wooden dresser with a black table lamp on top is the only other furniture in the room.
“Grace, Grace, Grace.”
“I’m coming, crazy.”
A mischievous grin spreads across Owen’s freckled cheeks as Grace turns to his mattress. She drags the comforter over the small boy’s body and begins shoving the edges beneath him.
“I’m a burrito!”
“A burrito who is going to sleep.” She smiles. “Did you take your pill?”
“Yep!” Owen says. “Grace, what do you do for Father’s Day?”
“That’s a weird question. Why’re you asking?”
Grace is taken aback at the mention of Father’s Day. Since her own father died, she hasn’t celebrated the day for seven years. The grief over her husband sent Grace’s mom into hysteria, and she smothered Grace every chance she got. It was the spark that incited her to move to Montpelier.
“I saw it on Mom’s calendar.”
“My dad isn’t really around anymore, so I don’t do anything.”
“Me and Ethan don’t have a dad, either.”
Grace glances at Ethan. He is wringing his fingers between one another as he listens to Owen. She analyzes Owen’s words. Their dad would have died when the boys were three. She doesn’t know if they would remember him being there or remember a man in the house at all—but to believe that they don’t even have a dad?
“Everybody has a dad.”
“Nuh-uh, not me and Ethan. Mom said so.” Owen jabs a finger in his brother’s direction. “Tell her, Ethan.”
She fully turns to face the quiet boy, whose fingers have stilled at the mention of his name. He looks between Owen and Grace before opening his mouth to answer.
“Mommy said we were special, and that Mister God said that we only needed her.” The thought of Laura concealing Perry to his sons creates an unease in Grace’s abdomen. The two seven-year-olds believe that they were born without a father. Surely, there’s been some kind of misunderstanding.
“So, you guys never had a dad? Did your mom ever tell you about a dad?”
“There was a man who helped her take care of us when we were little. Mom called him Perry. But she said he didn’t want us, so she made him leave,” Owen says. Grace furrows her eyebrows in confusion at Owen. Why make up an elaborate story about Perry when the twins remember him being in the house? Rather than pretending that he wasn’t their father, why not give them happy memories of him?
“I’m tired,” Ethan says. “Can we go to sleep?”
His odd timidness during the ordeal piques Grace’s curiosity. While Owen was fully engaged with Grace, Ethan had almost disappeared into his sheets.
She ruffles Owen’s curly locks and smiles before standing. Ethan has already slid his eyelids shut—either to sleep or to avoid Grace from prodding anymore. She whispers goodnight to the boys, then flips the light switch on and off three times per Owen’s request before pulling the white, wooden door closed behind her.
Why make up an elaborate story about Perry when the twins remember him being in the house?
The landing is darker than normal. She scans the corner on the right, and the light bulb above the storage room flickers. Grace’s socks glide against the smooth board as she approaches the newly darkened corner. The light bulb, encompassed by a glass shade, emits a soft yellow glow. It flickers again, then dies.
Grace is swallowed by darkness and an uninvited shiver darts up her spine, dancing along the hairs on her neck. A small draft tickles her ankles as she stands below the burnt-out bulb. Grace bends to the ground and runs a hand along the frame, where cold air secretes from the gap between the door and the floor.
She stands quickly and jiggles the doorknob. The door has never piqued Grace’s interest in her short time at the house. There has never been a reason to go inside or even go near the room. Now, to her disappointment, the knob remains stationary.
Silently slinking down the staircase, Grace finds herself staring at the innocent family photos on the wall. They seem to have been taken in the last year or so. Owen’s wide, toothy grin is seen in each frame, accompanied by his freckled cheeks. Opposite of him, Ethan’s lips cover his mouth in each smile. He only smiles with his teeth when a camera isn’t pointed at him. Grace can’t help but notice Laura’s radiance in each photo, with her pearly teeth and bright blue eyes that pop alongside her strawberry blonde hair.
She pictures what Perry would look like beside them. His sandy blond hair would provide a nice contrast to offset Laura’s hair from the dark chocolate curls, and his ocean-like irises would sparkle beside his wife’s.
Grace narrows her eyes at the photo frames, noting the difference between the twins and their parents. They don’t even share a nose or a chin.
Was Laura having an affair before the twins were born? It would explain the difference in appearance. But, no, Laura wasn’t like that. She’s much too nice and warm; she could never hurt someone she loves.
Grace arrives at the Briggs’s house the next morning. She is running on four hours of sleep from haunting dreams of Perry. A brisk breeze accompanied by droplets of rain sends her dashing through the front door and into the spacious entryway. Once her tennis shoes are kicked off, she heads directly to the kitchen. She tosses her backpack onto the kitchen island and begins adding ground coffee to the filter within the coffee maker. Laura’s navy mug is perched beside it.
For breakfast, Grace cuts a banana into slices and divides them equally on the boys’ plates. She adds a small bowl of instant oatmeal with blueberries for Owen and raspberries for Ethan. Owen says raspberries taste too red, whatever that means.
The coffee pot spits out the final drops before sputtering to a stop. Grace pours Laura’s mug three-quarters full, then tugs the carton of almond milk from the refrigerator and splashes it to the brim.
Laura’s office door is slightly ajar. The sound of clacking keys emerges from the crack, only stopping at the sound of Grace’s footsteps. Laura tugs open the door and greets Grace with a warm smile. Her hair is tied up in what looks to be an attempt at a bun but resembles more of a knot, and she still wears the same robe and slipper getup as yesterday. “Good morning,” Laura says. “How are you?”
“I’m fine, I guess.”
“Well, I’m exhausted.” Grace hands Laura the mug. “Don’t ever run a business.” Laura’s desktop computer screen is opened to her email inbox. She has 248 unopened emails, and three opened drafts addressed to various recipients.
“Looks like a lot of work.”
Laura sips from the coffee mug and spins her chair back to face the monitor. Her eye bags look even heavier than they did yesterday.
“Well, money is money. Too bad I’m the one doing the work, now. I definitely preferred when Perry did the breadwinning and I did the stay-at-home-momming.”
At the mention of Perry, Grace’s unease rises from deep in her chest. Her breath hitches, but she hides it behind a yawn.
“I noticed one of the light bulbs burnt out upstairs. Where can I find another one to get that changed?”
Laura sits back in her office chair and sips once again. Her eyes narrow as she stares at the ceiling fan above her.
“I have no idea. Maybe with the cleaning supplies?”
“Could there be some in the storage room?”
Laura shakes her head assertively as the mug meets her lips, causing a trickle of light brown coffee to spill down her chin. She hastily wipes it away before shaking her head once more.
“No, no, I actually don’t think we have any. I can grab some at the store on Sunday. Just leave it be for now.”
Laura scoots into her desk and gives her full attention to her inbox, silently shooing Grace from the room. In a huff of discontent, Grace begins her climb towards the boys’ room. She had only wanted to help.
The darkened light fixture above the locked storage room flickers ever so slightly. Curiosity pricks against her skin as she pushes the door to the twins’ room open. Their soft snores quickly soothe her unease.
“Good morning, crazies.” Grace tosses Owen’s comforter off him, then ruffles Ethan’s hair until his eyelids lift. “Time for breakfast.”
At the mention of breakfast, Owen shoots from his mattress and out the door before Ethan can sit up fully. He extends his arms above his head in a stretch and scrunches his nose, wrinkling his dotted freckles. Grace examines his small face as they sit. Tumbling curls cover his forehead and protrude in all directions. His deep, chocolate-brown eyes glisten with innocence, a stark contrast to Owen’s mischievous glint. There are small, dark bags beneath them. “Did you sleep all right?” Grace asks.
“I woke up a bunch-a times.” Ethan yawns and rubs the back of his hand against his eyes. “I kept hearing stuff in the other room.”
At the mention of the storage room, Grace perks up.
“Hearing stuff? Like what?”
“I don’t know. Sometimes Mommy goes in there at nighttime. We aren’t allowed to go in.”
“Why not?”
Ethan blinks slowly. He opens his mouth to answer, then closes it again. His skin pales and he squirms slightly, removing his eyes from Grace’s face.
“I don’t know.”
The sinking feeling returns to her stomach. Grace is unable to shake the look on Laura’s face when she had mentioned the room. She was adamant that Grace avoid it. “Have you been in there?”
Ethan’s eyes dart back to meet hers for a split second before moving away again. His hands begin to wring together before he speaks.
“Mommy gets angry when we go near the storage room.” He swallows and drops his head. “She doesn’t like it when I talk about it.”
Shivers cascade down Grace’s spine and flesh out along her arms. The sinking feeling grows into a deep pit lodged in her abdomen, and she feels her hands begin to shake.
“It’s okay, buddy, I won’t tell her you told me.” She extends a pinky to the boy. “I pinky swear.”
He stares at her pinky hesitantly before locking it with his own.
“I lost one of my cars one day and Mommy was busy so I went looking for it. I looked everywhere. And then I remembered Mommy said that the storage room had some old toys in it, so I went inside. I found some stuffed animals, but no trucks or cars. Mommy heard me looking in there and yelled at me and told me that I wasn’t allowed in that room. It was hers and Perry’s special room.”
“You know Perry?”
“Mommy said that he was our dad for a little bit, but he didn’t want us.” Ethan wrings his fingers together. “She told me that I can’t go into the special room because it’s too sad and it makes her think about him.”
“Do you know how to get inside?”
Ethan hesitates. He looks back and forth between Grace and the doorway, then gulps before answering.
“She told me that I can’t go into the special room because it’s too sad and it makes her think about him.”
“Mommy hides the key so that Owen won’t find it. I’m not supposed to know where it’s at, but I watched her hide it one day.”
His eyes move to focus on the wall behind her head. Grace turns to follow his gaze, and she lands on the analog clock to the right of the windowpane.
“It’s behind there.”
Grace practically jumps to her feet as she snatches the clock from the wall. A large metal key with a long rounded barrel with intricate designs along the top clatters to the floorboards.
“Am I going to be in trouble?” The small boy’s voice trembles as he speaks and he ducks beneath the sheet with only his eyes peering over the edge. Grace collects the key and stows it tightly in her palm, then returns to Ethan’s side. She places a hand on his curly locks and smiles at him.
“I would never let that happen.”
Pounding footsteps thunder up the stairs and in seconds, Owen appears in the doorway. He has his breakfast plate and an empty glass in his hands.
“Can I have some juice?”
Grace slides the key into her pants pocket before standing to collect the glass from Owen. He turns on his heel to fly back down the stairs. Ethan slowly climbs out of bed, a guilty expression pasted on his face.
“You won’t get in trouble, Ethan,” Grace says. “I pinky swore, remember?” The reminder of the everlasting promise provides him with a small sense of relief. From downstairs, Grace hears Owen’s incessant chanting for juice. He is jumping and spinning in circles when they enter the kitchen. His toothy grin greets her and Grace tries to smile back, but thoughts of the room upstairs cloud her mind.
She pours the orange liquid into the glass. The twins sit at the kitchen island with their plates to simultaneously dig into their oatmeal. She takes a seat next to them, and her fingertips tap restlessly against the marble while her leg jumps up and down in an irregular rhythm. She bites down hard on her fingernail and winces, then stands.
“I’ll be right back.” She locks eyes with each boy. “Don’t move.”
Upstairs, the darkened corner is slightly illuminated by the soft flicker of the previously lifeless bulb. It lets off just enough light to guide the key into the knob, and the door clicks open. Grace pauses, holding the air in her lungs, as she listens for any indication of Laura stirring. Luckily, she seemed distracted enough to buy Grace some time.
The room is pitch black. She realizes that this is the corner of the house tucked into the back, invisible to the rest of the street, with no windows. Grace edges the door shut, leaving it only slightly ajar, and tugs her phone from her pocket. She presses the flashlight to reveal what the room is concealing.
On the left-hand side of the wall, two baby cribs sit side by side with large frames enveloping cursive letters; one spells Ethan, and the other spells Owen. A tub of discarded stuffed animals sits between the cribs with several picture books scattered around it. On the opposite end of the cribs, two large cardboard boxes rest beside one another. Grace carefully steps toward the boxes, ensuring that the floorboards beneath her don’t creak and signal her presence. The first box is open. A thick, gray binder is the first thing inside. Grace pulls it out of the box and flips it open in her hands. Clear dividing folders split off different sections labeled Birth Certificates, Immunization Records, and Baby Photos. The birth certificate tab houses four separate documents. Grace examines the first, written for Liam Collins. His mother’s name is listed as Miranda Collins and his father as Derek Collins. The second is for Owen, with Laura and Perry stated as the parents. This paper feels slightly thicker and the font is not the same as Liam’s. The ink on the birth year is smeared.
From behind Owen’s, Grace pulls out a birth certificate for Caleb Collins, who shares the same parents as Liam. Ethan’s certificate follows suit. Caleb’s paper feels the same as Ethan’s, and the font is still different.
Confusion swirls Grace’s brain as she shifts slightly, causing the tiniest creak of the floorboards. She freezes with a breath hitched in her throat. There is no sound of movement from downstairs.
The immunization records tab presents documentation of shots for both Liam and Caleb Collins, but none for Ethan and Owen. Grace picks through the rest of the binder quickly in search of them, but to no avail. There is a third document in this tab, belonging to Liam. It’s a psychiatry report detailing notes of OCD and the recommendation of the prescription Anafranil. The signature at the bottom is signed in messy cursive with the full name of the doctor printed below it: Perry Briggs.
“What the fuck,” Grace mutters, flipping to the baby photos.
Ethan’s and Owen’s freckled cheeks and chocolate eyes are unmistakable. They have large, toothless grins, and their curls have just started to form. A man is laughing in the background. He wears small, rectangular glasses that cover a pair of brown eyes. Unkempt brown curls encompass his head.
Nausea floods Grace’s stomach. She reaches a hand up to cover her mouth as she flips to the next photograph—Ethan and Owen with a woman. Her eyes are closed in a laugh, boasting a large, toothy smile. Freckles cover every inch of her cheekbones.
Grace sets the binder on top of the second box before snatching a black folder from the first one. As she opens it, her eyes widen, and the nausea ripples through her body. A newspaper clipping of Ethan and Owen, who couldn’t have been more than three years old, is pasted above the words Missing Collins Boys. The boys had been abducted from their front yard while the father, Derek, was at work and their mother, Miranda, had run inside to change her baby girl’s diaper. The next newspaper clipping shows the twins sitting side by side, holding an infant wrapped in a cow-print blanket. The caption reads Collins Boys Still Missing. At the time of this article, they would have been gone for six months. The final clipping is one year later. Ethan and Owen sit on their father’s lap with their mother standing beside them. Each one of them smiles their toothy grin. Below the photo, Search Coming to Close—Collins Boys Nowhere to Be Found is printed in thick, black ink.
Grace shoves the folder and binder back into their original box before turning to the second one. The cardboard edges seem to fly upwards at her touch, revealing the box’s contents. Two infant onesies, one blue and the other green, are packed first. They’re soft, as if they have never been worn. Below the onesies, a man’s pair of denim jeans and red flannel are folded neatly with a pair of balled-up socks underneath. Grace plucks the flannel and jeans to the side, but a hard, dried spot on the jeans rubs against her hand. She flips them over to reveal a deep red stain embedded in the denim, accompanied by several others. Grace runs her fingers over the stains with her mouth agape. A torn piece of notebook paper flutters to the ground from the pocket of the jeans. She kneels to pick it up and realizes that it’s a handwritten note. I love you. But you’ll never love them like I do. I’m sorry.
A manilla envelope is the final thing in the box. Grace slowly plucks it from the bottom. Her heart is pounding in her ears so loudly that if Laura was on her way, Grace would have no idea.
Inside, a sonogram showcases two fetuses. A sticky note has been pressed to the back, reading Ethan and Owen, 25 weeks. Grace moves the sonogram to the side to reveal two identical death certificates—one for Owen and one for Ethan.
A creak in the floorboards snaps Grace’s focus toward the door. The silhouette of Laura takes up the doorway, and in the flashlight of Grace’s phone, Laura’s blue eyes shine with an animal-like madness. Her shadow displays her disastrous hair from earlier, and Grace can see the outline of her unhinged jaw.
The two women are frozen in place. Neither one of them dares to make the first move. Grace feels her hair stand up on the back of her neck and drops the manila folder to the floor. In one fluid motion, Laura seizes the door handle and slams it shut. Grace flies across the room and latches onto the knob, twisting and pulling with every ounce of strength that she can muster.
The doorknob is unmoving, and Grace presses her forehead against the door as tears edge against her eyes. The key, she knows, is in the palm of Laura’s hand.
Teagan Oliva is currently a junior attending Rocky Mountain College studying English education. Her favorite movie is Ratatouille and she can’t snap her fingers.
The Rocky Mountain Review 