Rhonda by Anastasia Arellano

Rhonda

Spider threads catch the ends of my lashes as I walk up to the house. I yelp. Ellie is unpacking stacks of empty cardboard boxes by the car. She perks up.
    “You ok?”
    “Yeah. Everything is fine.” I wave the webs away. They’re old, and I’m thankful I don’t have to contend with their former residents.
    I steady my hands as I insert the key, unsure why I’m shaking. I can’t tell if it is the spider webs or being back home. My childhood was normal, despite the nagging voice inside me that told me I was different.
    “Great.” I flick a switch.
A solid inch of dirt and dust has built up since Rhonda went into the nursing home. I walk to the living room and luck out finding a working lamp. Ellie is clattering through the door, struggling with boxes.
    “The hall lights are out Shelly.”
    “I know.”
    “Do you want me to run to the store?”
    “I don’t know.”
    “Hey, what’s wrong?” She comes in and puts her arms around my waist.
I tense.
    “I need air,” I dash out to the porch.
     The light crunch of autumn leaves follows me. The old maple tree has always left a carpet of red and orange during the fall months. It was my favorite time of year, but somehow I can’t derive the same pleasure of seeing the leaves on the lawn like I did as a child. I look up to the tree just as the wind rustles more leaves to the ground. The ancient tire swing squeaks. It’s still there, barely hanging on by a couple of threads. Ellie places a hand gingerly on my back. She starts to remove it several times, like an old car engine stalling.
    “I don’t know why I’m crying,” I blubber, hastily wiping my eyes.
    Ellie holds me in silence. I calm a bit, letting myself melt into her embrace.
    “Hello!” a shrill voice echoes from the hedges by the driveway. I look up. A figure is bobbing around the back of Ellie’s Subaru.
    “Hi,” I call back.
    I instantly recognize her. Debbie. The busybody from next door. Seeing her bound up the driveway, carrying a pack of chocolate chip cookie under her arm, it occurs to me she’s still the same squat middle-aged woman with a bad perm job who would always call over for a gossip with Rhonda. She waves frantically.
    “I’m Debbie, I live over there,” she points with her middle finger. “Thought it’d be nice to bring you these. So which one of you is the new neighbor?”
    Ellie accepts the gift. I notice that it’s already been opened. Debbie sees me eyeing it and laughs.
    “I couldn’t wait. I just had to have one. Is your coffee maker unpacked? Thought a chat would be nice.”
    “Sorry, we’re just here to pack up the house. But thank you for coming by.” I grab the cookies out of Ellie’s hand and give them back.
    “Oh.” Debbie is taken aback. “Then you must be Rhonda Brown’s nieces?”
    “I’m her daughter,” I correct.
    Debbie backs down a few porch steps like she’s stepped into a dangerous situation. “Michelle?”
    I muster my most polite smile.
    “I didn’t recognize you without your long hair,” she comments on my bob. “It’s been ages! Why did you never visit?”
    I shrug. “Never had the time.”
    Debbie nods, calculating her next question.
    “I’ll just grab a few more boxes.” Ellie escapes to the car. She’s never been good at handling awkward situations.
    “So you’re back home? For how long?”
    “Just long enough to pack a few things,” I answer.
    “Where are you living now, Michelle? Your license plate isn’t local anymore.”
    “My partner and I live in Connecticut.”
    “You went to college there, didn’t you?”
    “New York, actually. We just moved to Connecticut a year ago.”
    She strokes her chin.
    “Who’s your partner? Is he a Connecticut native?”
    “I’d love to catch up but I have lots to do.” I’m not in the mood to be grilled.
    “One last question, and I hope it’s not too forward, but why didn’t you come to the funeral?” Debbie tilts her head.
    “I’m sorry Debbie, I don’t mean to be rude but my partner Ellie and I really need to pack up the house and get on the road.”
    Her face sprouts a look of unease and disgust. It is the one good thing about Little Pass, Ohio. Both the town and its people are cemented in good Christian traditions. Growing up, our street was the epitome of old-fashioned family values. The elementary school was at one far end, while the church was at the other, and in between sat the homes with white picket fences. Looking around, it’s clear that most are still untouched, their exteriors never having left the fifties except for the modern cars stuck in driveways – it’s just as I had left it fifteen years ago.
   Ellie comes up the porch steps and follows me inside. I close the rusted out screen door behind me, waving goodbye to Debbie with an amused chuckle.
    My light-heartedness fades as I stared up to the second floor landing. I can still picture Rhonda at the top. It was second week in January, just as winter break was drawing to a close. She was still wearing one of her beloved Christmas sweaters with the gaudy tinsel piping along the front. They were her favorite part of the holiday season.
    I opened the door and felt the cold hands of winter cup my face. I turned back one last time and begged, “Mom, say something. I’m your daughter.”
She callously stared me down, hurling her pocket-sized Bible towards me. It landed with a deafening thud.
    “As long as you’re a sinner, I have no daughter.”
The words still echo through my heart, tearing open old wounds.
    “Is this where it happened?” Ellie’s voice breaks the silence.
    I nod. She holds my hand as we walk up stairs but I pause half way.
    “Can we do the living room first?”
    “Sure.”
    We assemble a couple boxes. I label only one of them ‘Crap I actually want’. We comb through the entire downstairs room by room, and I only salvage a small Tiffany lamp. It had been my grandmother’s. Rhonda had called it an eyesore.
    “When are the cleaners coming?” Ellie fingers the dust on the mantle.
    “Not sure.” I run my hands through my hair. The back of my neck feels a little clammy. “The realtor said his office would arrange that this week.”
    “Did the realtor say what’ll happen to all these boxes?”
    “I’d imagine they’ll go to charity. Who cares?” I reply with a shrug. “I’m going upstairs.”
    The determination in my voice surprises us both, but I’m not too keen to stay any longer than needed. I grab some boxes and head up to Rhonda’s room, Ellie trailing behind me.
    Before I open the bedroom door, I freeze.
    “Ellie?”
    “Yeah?”
     I hand her a box saying, “Can you start the other room? I think I need to do this one alone.”
     She kisses my cheek. “Whatever you need honey.”
    I’m pleased to see that a bulk of Rhonda’s closet has already been packed. It was probably Aunt Margaret while she was down from Dayton for the funeral. She’s always been an organizer like that. There isn’t much left for me to do except strip the bed and empty out the dresser. That’s the biggest task. Rhonda had a habit of hiding her good jewelry inside of clothing. I want to find her opal pendant set she said she was going to gift to me one day – see if she still has it hidden somewhere, or if she’s given it away. I hold onto very little hope.
    At the very back of the bottom drawer, I stumble upon an old yellow manila envelope addressed to me. I open it to find a letter. It’s dated four months before her fall.

    Dear Shelly,
Over the years I have wanted to pick up the phone and call you, but I’ve never had the strength, despite all the praying I’ve done. Pastor Dan has always said that being a true believer entails giving others unconditional love. My weakness in doing so has failed you as a mother all these years. I can’t lie and say that I am entirely comfortable with your lifestyle, but I will welcome you back home with love because you are my daughter. From the moment you were born you were my whole world and I’m so sorry I’ve driven this wedge between us. I pray one day you can forgive me.
    Love,
    Mom

   My lungs deflate and I gasp. I hadn’t realized I’d been crying. I spend a minute, still kneeling on the ground, rereading the letter. It’s almost impossible to imagine the woman who wrote it, was the same woman who rebuked every effort I made the first few years to reconcile with her. What changed? Why did she never send it in the end? The loose ends and unanswered questions stir knots in my stomach.
   I pick up the envelope. Something small slides around the bottom. I shake the contents into my left hand. The pendent set falls out.  
   “Ellie!” I exclaim.
   She comes running from the other room and stops when she sees me on the ground.
   “What happened?”
   I raise the letter and jewelry up to her to inspect. “She left this.”
   Ellie quietly reads the letter, placing a hand on my shoulder as she does. Outside the bedroom window the autumn sky is fading from blue to a greyish pink. The dusty mauve clouds creep across the sky.
   I stand up. “Stay here. I’ll be back.”
   “Everything ok?”
   I nod before leaving the room. “I need a minute alone.”
   I walk down the short hallway. The floorboards creak beneath my steps. I stop at the top of the landing and look down the staircase to the front door.
   I whisper to the still house, “I forgive you Mom”.

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Anastasia Arellano is originally from California but now lives in Dublin, Ireland with her wife. She is a graduate of Trinity College Dublin, and holds a Master’s in Creative Writing. She writes for Wetpaint Life and Goodfullness. She’s had short stories published in McStorytellers and Honey + Lime, as well as poetry published in Smithereen’s Press. She recently completed her first solo YA novel, as well as a coauthored YA novel with fellow writer and Trinity graduate, Emma Guinness. When she’s not writing, she’s cooking, plastering her bedroom walls in storyboards, or seeking inspiration from the Irish landscape. You can follow her on Instagram @latingurl26 and Twitter @AnastasiaArell5