The key to my dead brother’s house—the key I should not have—resists turning.
I pick up my phone and search for companies that buy estate properties. If I press ‘call’ now, I won’t have to go in. Won’t have to find urine-soaked bed linens. Won’t have to walk through rooms that have never been touched by a woman’s hand. Then, I can at least preserve a small part of the memories I have of my brother intact. Free from old age's junkyard, where body and mind compete over who rots first. My brother was a traitor, but if I open the door, even the last shred of his dignity disappears.
The phone goes back into my pocket. I firmly press down the handle and close the door behind me. Light filters through the windows, settling over the worn floors. The high ceilings open up the rooms; I have to remind myself that this is just a place to get through. Room after room, I open the windows, in need of an overview of all that needs to be done. I pass through Dan's crooked study where stuffed birds jostle with butterflies in glass frames pinned down with needles. On a shelf that seems made for this sole purpose stands a worn pair of binoculars.
I unlock my phone and check that the scheduled email to all my active clients has been sent. Once again, I read the text I've retyped so many times: “On vacation all week to clean out my brother's estate.” I’m still hoping to write some prose a few hours each day while I'm here. Writing is an elixir my soul doesn't fare well without. I place the laptop clearly visible on an oak bar table to remind myself of it. Who over twenty owns a bar table? So much about my brother I don't know, so much that I don't recognize.
The map of his journey lies next to the computer on the wooden surface. As I trace the route, my finger runs over unfamiliar places. The journey ended somewhere around there. No more fire from him. After I understood, after his death became clear to me, after the grief that never existed was over, I found a key with his name. A key I shouldn't have.
Back to the present. Hard to focus. I look at the laptop without seeing it. On ordinary days, the world fades when I write my prose. Writing balances out long hours in front of spreadsheets and tables. Seraphina, my written spotlight, makes her so irresistible. So beautiful, confident in a way only someone entirely exposed can be. By writing her out of me, I live.
If I recoil now and sleep at home, maybe I won't make it back tomorrow to slay the dragon again. Clean, write, sleep. Just replace 'work' with 'clean.' Just like a regular day. Except now it's in hell.
I begin the purification process by changing the sheets, reluctantly climbing toward becoming settled in. Every step in the house now feels like treading on old ground where he still watches, heaving with his suffocating cough-drop breaths. No memories shall be saved. Nothing that has been in this house shall enter my home. Deal? Deal.
I start by clearing out old records—a bit of volume to haul to the recycling center and at the same time see some tangible results to keep the energy up. I stand in front of the largest of the many shelves with old records in the living room, eyes struggling to take in the amount of junk before me. I spot a framed photo of Dan and Mom on the wall where the vinyls end. I take two quick steps, strike the side of my fist against the photo. The glass shatters and falls to the floor with a low, brittle clinking sound; my anger has found its own voice outside my body. I stand still. Look down, see red stains on the light birch floor. A stinging and pulsating pressure spreads through my fingers. The side that struck the glassed photo is bleeding; my fresh blood colors my light gray sweater infectiously dark. Damn it, already on the first day in hell, I'm delayed by reality.
On the way to the kitchen, I pull my sickly sweater over my head. Temporarily blinded, I stumble into the doorframe. Back half a step. I let out a scream. Bump into something with the back of my knee. Land on the floor after a clumsy fall. Lie still, with the sweater like a suffocating film over my face, the cotton sticky against my skin. Every breath is a wrestling grip. When I finally tear the sweater off, I see—little red tea cart, broken beneath me. The one we played with as children. I run my hands over the splintered wood, remember the blue plastic teacups that used to stand on top, neatly lined up on square saucers. Dad had crafted small wooden cookies on his lathe for us, but one Christmas Eve they ended up in the river when I didn’t get the doll I wanted. The river's currents had carried them away, perhaps to another girl somewhere. A better girl, of course.
A tear sneaks into one of my eyes. Why? The cart would have ended up at the dump anyway. I get up, hope the tears are from the fall. No feelings allowed these days. I stumble to the kitchen, where oversized salt and pepper grinders share space with hanging copper kettles. I roll my eyes at the effort little Dan has made. I try with dish soap and water to get the blood out of the sweater but succeed poorly. Behind me—bright red drops at annoyingly symmetrical intervals. I place my hand under the faucet's cold flow. The chill spreads up my arm. The fingers of my other hand drum restlessly against the counter. My gaze flutters over the room, finally settling on the notes adorning the refrigerator. Yellow note—uninspired pizzeria; blue note—information from home care services; white note—a Yahtzee scorecard. Two people have played, one round, three columns are empty. Across the empty columns, someone has written "RECORD!" in bold letters. Not Dan's handwriting but a bit like my own. Yes, actually. With my hand still under the cold water, I reach toward the fridge and pull off the note from the colorful magnet holding it. The values in the second column are phenomenal. Over 80 points on the upper section, nothing crossed out below, 18 on three-of-a-kind, 24 on four-of-a-kind. Even 25 on chance. At the bottom, in bold numbers, the total reads 334. Someone has filled in the numbers multiple times.
After two days in Dan's house, I've cleared out much of what needs to be thrown away. Over a thousand of the dragon's records have gone into the container.
It was just him and me left. Mom disappeared almost 20 years ago when she fell down the rustic staircase at home and broke her neck. I remember her scent when she tucked me in, and how I felt safer than I have since. The staircase, a tool to move up, down, forward in life. A few years after the staircase swallowed Mom, Dad chose arsenic. An unusual end, everyone said. I was working every time those flat-footed cops came with their questions. Kept them brief. Not brief enough. Dan sent them back several times. Traitor. Even if he thought it was me—we were siblings. There are things one does, and then there are things Dan does. ‘We just have a few more questions.’ Impossible not to let the doughnut addicts in. They might as well have screamed 'MONSTER!'
I peek into the closet, see a blanket with a pattern I vaguely recognize. Pull it aside, feel its soft and warm surface under my fingers, crumpled but hardly faded by age. Under the blanket, a box with old photographs. Musty scent, old books, and dried flowers. The smell of Grandma's house, many summer days with Dan. A repulsive wave of nostalgia overwhelms me when I see the family pictures. The whole box will go into a garbage bag. Hope the bag holds. Don't want to stand outside catching photographs scattered by the wind if it should tear.
I spot a cardboard box that stands at the very top, almost out of reach. I drop the box, and when it meets the floor, letters spill out around me like insects from a shattered nest. There are hundreds of letters. Handwritten letters. Perfumed letters. I wrinkle my nose at the rose scent. Shake my head as if someone could see me. On some letters, the paper has yellowed; others seem brand new. On each one, it says:
Dan Kreutzer
Ringvägen 19
918 76 Kvarnhamn
Great Empire of Sweden.
The longer I look at the addressing, the more the handwriting resembles that on the Yahtzee paper. The 'R' in 'RECORD' and the 'R' in 'Ringvägen' feel identical. My stomach knots, heavy and unyielding.
I stumble, a bit dazed, into the kitchen; I have to compare. Find the paper on the floor. The 'R's are copies of each other. Completely identical. My stomach now hard as cement, I open the letter and look at the handwriting there. The same. My legs barely hold me. I sink down onto the floor. Read.
"Today has been a fantastic day. H has been as good as only she can be. Feels so safe when she sits there every day, no darkness."
I quickly skim through a lot of drivel about someone who also loves jazz; even Mom is mentioned. The letter ends with the initials 'S' and 'K,' just like on the Yahtzee sheet.
I tear the letter into small pieces. Pour out the rest of them from the cardboard box. Get down on all fours, scratch, fold, and rip. Try to damage the letters as much as possible before they find their way into the nearest trash can.
An intense day later, the dragon's lair is finally emptying. He who tarred and feathered me before Mom. Broke our mother-daughter magic. It was he who said I needed help. He who made Dad stop being Dad. The accusations against me. Dad died without loving me. If I can erase Dan, maybe I can breathe freely again. Mourn Mom and Dad. Three days have passed, maximum two left. Must endure, must slay the dragon.
I move a brown shelf. Cheap veneer, probably from IKEA. Trash that's manufactured and discarded every day. In the pursuit of the unique, everyone is set on the same assembly line. Behind the shelf lies something wedged under the molding. Hard piece of paper, glossy. I turn it over and stare. A photo of me and Dan. Sitting at a table, in a restaurant. I never go to restaurants. Dan and I haven't eaten together since we were teenagers. Yet there we sit. Very grown-up. I'm even laughing in the photo. Is it Photoshop? AI? Why would there be a manipulated photograph of us? Did he so desperately want to believe we had a relationship? That we would be friends, despite all he has done? My stomach now impossibly hard.
I take aim and strike hard with a rubber mallet on the side of the bookshelf. The hammer goes straight through the thin wood. Gets stuck. Pry and twist until it comes loose. Strike again, hitting closer to the corner where wood meets wood. Wonderful feeling. The entire bookshelf falls to the floor. Splinters and chips everywhere. Smells of wood and dust. The knot in my stomach finally releases. I look at the other shelves and manage to smile. With my whole face. Then I tackle the other furniture with an energy I seldom feel.
Panting when I'm done, everything must go into the trunk, so I go to get the car. Don't care if I damage the car's interior. Must. Get. Done.
When I turn around, I see someone in the hallway.
“What have you done? What's happening, Seraphina?”
The dragon drops the suitcase that has silently followed him on four wheels. Tears in his eyes, he looks at the wounded apartment. At the shelves that are no more. At the emptiness I've created. My fury. My hate radiating from my body. But then—his eyes. His sorrow. Genuine. In some way, more genuine than my hate.
Dan lowers his shoulders, pushes his head forward. Says with a voice that barely holds:
"Hi, Hedda. It's been a long time."
Written by Johan Olofsson.
Cover photo by Boston Public Library.