The magnolias were in full bloom the day Miralyn Liang found the envelope addressed to her, penned in her dead mother’s hand. Tucking it in her dress pocket, she climbed back down the ladder, wincing as her bare feet hit the cold concrete of the garage floor. If Laura had been there, she’d have insisted Miralyn wear socks or slippers. But Laura was upstairs resting again; she did that a lot now that the baby was almost here.
Though Miralyn had been looking for a book from her mother’s boxed-up library, the envelope was a far better find. She tiptoed out the open garage and padded across the front yard toward her favorite tree. Fuchsia petals fell as she climbed up to her usual spot and nestled in. It wasn’t far off the ground, but she liked it here; the branch was curved like a chair, and she felt safe, surrounded by the blossoms her mother had loved.
Miralyn inhaled deeply, filling her nostrils with the scent of sweet, pleasant magnolia. Then she opened the eggshell envelope and slipped the contents out.
She had been hoping for a heartfelt letter written the day she’d been born or, perhaps, a note of advice to guide her through the ages. Something to show that her mother was thoughtful and wise and possibly gifted with the foresight to prepare Miralyn for a motherless future.
What Miralyn held, instead, was a faded Polaroid.
She pored over the image, drinking in every detail. Her mother sat on a mint green tufted armchair, hands folded primly in her lap. Her head was tilted to one side, thin lips curved up in a closed-mouth smile, and she stared straight at the camera with eyes that shone bright. Behind her, the walls were covered in pink wallpaper covered in a white paisley design.
Below the image, a handwritten address: 13 Cedar Boulevard.
Thirteen. Same as Miralyn’s age. Laura said it was an unlucky number, though Miralyn’s father didn’t believe in such superstitions. Miralyn wondered what her mother would have thought.
The guilt arrived immediately, pitting in her stomach. It felt wrong to compare her mother with Laura, no matter how innocent the point of comparison. It felt too much like comparing old versus new, original versus replacement. Her mother was her mother, and Laura was Laura. There was no crossover.
Miralyn slipped the polaroid into her pocket and went inside to look up the address on the family’s shared computer.
The following day, Miralyn walked home from school, Laura’s voice running through her mind. Come straight home. Do not talk to anyone or stop for any reason. I’m serious, Miralyn. I want you to stay safe—both your dad and I do. We can’t let you walk home alone unless you promise you’ll follow these rules.
Miralyn had promised. Those first few days, Laura waited on the porch each afternoon for her to arrive, face settling into relief when she caught sight of Miralyn.
But months had passed, and nowadays, Laura was usually dozing when Miralyn returned from school.
Miralyn stopped at an intersection. She knew she should keep walking, but her gaze slid right. It was only two blocks out of the way. Two blocks were barely anything. If she walked quickly, her detour wouldn’t count. She would arrive home at roughly the usual time. And all she wanted was a look at the outside. What was the harm in that?
She turned right.
The house at 13 Cedar Boulevard might once have been deemed an adorable little starter home with its buttercup yellow exterior, white scalloped trim, and ivy running down the trellis. Now, it was a dilapidated thing, shrunk with age, windows and doors boarded up. The siding was pockmarked where the paint had peeled, the gutter sagged with rotting leaves, and overgrown ivy strangled everything.
Miralyn pulled the Polaroid from her pocket and held it up to the house in disbelief. She blinked and rubbed her eyes, willing the scene before her to change. The place her mother had led her to find could not look like this.
Miralyn was halfway to the front step when she startled, staring at the words spray painted in poppy red on the boarded-up door. NO TRESPASSING!
When had she decided to walk toward the house?
Uneasy, Miralyn turned around. She tucked the photo back into her skirt pocket and found her way back to her usual route. She didn’t know how long the stop had taken; all she knew was that she needed to return home before Laura woke up.
She picked up her pace.
Each night, Miralyn slept with the Polaroid under her pillow, and each morning, she carefully tucked it into the pocket of her outfit of the day. Her father had said her mother loved dresses and skirts with pockets, so that’s what Miralyn insisted on wearing. Since Miralyn’s mother had died when she was on the cusp of forming long-lasting memories, all she had were fuzzy bits here and there, which she filled in with her father’s tales.
Before Laura, Miralyn’s father had spoken of her mother often.
At school, Miralyn found herself doodling paisley patterns in her notes during lectures. In art class, she painted with rosy pinks and minty greens. On her walk home each day, she tried not to think about the house or the Polaroid. But it was like having someone place a slice of your favorite cake in front of you and tell you not to eat it.
Nearly two weeks passed before Miralyn gave in, making her way toward 13 Cedar Boulevard. As she approached, she was surprised to find the house looked both shabbier and less menacing than she’d remembered. In her imaginings, the vines had grown thorns, the curls of peeling paint resembled curved claws, and the spray paint on the door had turned dark as blood.
This time, Miralyn didn’t stop to stare. She had already decided to break Laura’s rule; might as well go all in. She stepped over a fallen section of fence on the side of the house and slipped into the backyard, hoping no one in the neighboring houses would notice.
Miralyn figured this would be a scouting trip. She’d get a closer look, so she’d know what to bring next time to help her break in. But there was a loose board over the back door, and when Miralyn tested it out, it moved aside easily.
Miralyn stepped inside.
Other than the strip of light streaming in from her entry point, the house was dark. Miralyn heard a squeak, then the sound of something scurrying across the floor. She swallowed hard, recalling her history teacher’s lesson on the Black Death; how rats bearing disease-ridden fleas had helped spread the plague. She shivered, nearly ready to turn back.
“Miralyn?” A soft voice called.
Miralyn jumped. Her elbow bumped the wall, hitting something sharp, and she gasped in pain.
“Miralyn?” The voice was laced with concern now. “Are you alright, dear?”
Gritting her teeth, Miralyn stepped backward, feeling for the loose board. She wanted to turn and run, but her skin crawled at the thought of turning her back on whoever—or whatever—was in the dark house.
“Miralyn, you’re bleeding. Let me take care of you.”
As if her thrice-repeated name was an incantation, Miralyn stopped in her tracks. Her eyes must have adjusted, because now she could see the barest outline of a small kitchen table and three matching chairs. Up ahead, a sink and stove cut into the speckled countertop. And beyond that, a glow in the distance.
Miralyn couldn’t remember why she’d been afraid. This was why she had come, to explore the little house. She stepped toward the soft light, into a hallway.
Framed photographs hung on the walls. It was still too dark to make out most of the details, but Miralyn thought she could see a pair of gleaming eyes in one of them, the silhouette of three figures in another. Ahead, light spilled out from beneath a closed door. Miralyn made her way down the hall. She turned the handle, and the door creaked open.
The room inside was small and achingly cozy. In person, the pink paisley wallpaper was softer, less disorienting, and the velvety armchair looked like something you could sink into for a long, leisurely nap. A hand-carved mango wood table sat beside it, and the wall boasted a fireplace.
“Sit, my dear, and let me tend to your wound.” The voice seemed to emanate from all around her. Miralyn liked the way it spoke. The words felt antiquated, reminding her of the historical fiction she’d found in her mother’s collection.
“Who are you?” Miralyn sat. The armchair was even comfier than it appeared.
“Why, don’t you know, Miralyn?”
Miralyn. It prounounced her name just right. She hadn’t had to correct it. She couldn’t remember the last time someone had said it correctly the first time. She was seven months into the schoolyear, and one of her teachers still called her Marilyn. “How do you know my name?”
The voice laughed, a melodic sound like the ringing of Christmas bells. “Well, I was the one who named you, of course.”
Miralyn sat up. “That’s impossible.”
The voice tutted. “Impossible is such a limiting word, isn’t it? Now, hold your arm out and close your eyes, dear.”
It occurred to Miralyn that there was one way to find out who the voice really belonged to. Playing obedient, she held out her arm and closed her eyes. She felt something brush her arm, the slight pressure as her shirtsleeve was rolled up to expose her elbow. Curiosity bubbled up within her, but she forced herself to wait another moment, to make sure they were distracted.
“Relax, my dear. This will only sting for a moment.” Something wet and squishy pressed into Miralyn’s elbow and she drew back.
“What is that?”
“Only a sponge, dearest.”
It felt too squirmy and ticklish to be a sponge, but she didn’t argue. Silently, she counted to thirteen. Then she opened one eye a fraction to peek.
There was no one there.
Maybe they were hiding just outside her peripheral vision. She tried to turn her head ever-so-slightly to get a better look, but her lashes kept blurring everything.
“All cleaned up, dear.”
Miralyn opened her eyes all the way. She was alone in the room. “But . . . where did you go?”
“Here, of course. I’m always here. Now run along, darling, or you’ll soon be missed. But come again soon, won’t you? It’s lonely here, and you’ve been such good company.”
“I . . . ” Miralyn wanted to ask more questions, but then she thought of what would happen if she came home late. Laura would be frantic, calling everyone in the school directory. Thanks to an incompetent cervix, she’d been ordered on bedrest, which meant Miralyn’s father would have to start leaving work early to pick Miralyn up from school. That meant reducing his hours, which they couldn’t afford, with the baby coming.
If she came home late, everything would fall apart, and it would be Miralyn’s fault. She would lose her freedom of movement. She might not be able to return here easily.
And she found that did want to come back.
“I’ll visit soon,” she promised.
Miralyn thought she caught a glimpse of a smile in one of the patterns on the wallpaper before she left, closing the door behind her.
Outside, she inspected her elbow, pressing on the spot she’d torn open. It was still tender, but the gash was sealed up, the blood gone.
The morning after Miralyn’s visit to the house, Laura went into labor, and Laura’s mother came to stay with them to help with the squalling thing.
Miralyn knew she should be helping out more. She wanted to be helpful. Her father was busier than ever at work—his boss had laughed when he’d inquired about paternity leave—and baby Riley seemed to need something every other minute.
It was just that Riley was so annoying and gross. He woke Miralyn with his screaming in the middle of the night, and he was always covered in some distasteful substance of his own making—drool, vomit, urine, excrement, flaking skin—that inevitably ended up absorbed by the clothing of whoever was nearest. Plus, whenever Miralyn tried to hold him, making sure to support his little neck with her forearm, she could feel Laura hovering, ready to snatch him back at the first sign of an imperfect cradling position.
Miralyn had thought Riley would be a good distraction, making it easy for her to slip away. But Laura’s mother kept a vigilante eye, busy as she was. Miralyn dared not do anything but walk straight home from school each day.
It wasn’t until Laura’s mother flew back to her home across the country that Miralyn finally had the chance to visit the little house again. By then, a month had passed.
“Miralyn, dear, where have you been?”
“My baby brother was born. I had to help out.” Miralyn felt bad lying, but did it really count if the person you were lying to was, themselves, a liar? They had to be.
“Your . . . baby brother?” Something sharp lay beneath the soft edges of their words.
Miralyn colored, remembering who the voice had claimed to be. “My baby half-brother. Dad, um . . . wants me to call Riley my brother, but I know he’s not really, y’know, my full brother. That would be impossible.”
“That word again. Well, darling, I missed you.” The voice lingered on missed you, all the sharpness gone. Miralyn let the words wrap around her like a warm hug. She smiled, setting down her backpack.
“I brought some things for the room.” She pulled out the goodies she’d gathered. First, she strung up the fairy lights, taping them to the pink wallpaper and then flipping on the battery pack. Second, she took out a thin travel blanket and set it on the armchair. Last, she took the extra peanut butter and jelly sandwich she’d snuck into her lunch bag the night before and set it on the side table.
Miralyn sat on the chair, lay the blanket on her lap, and picked up one half of the PB&J. “The other half is for you.”
“How considerate you are, my Miralyn!” The voice sounded delighted.
Miralyn waited, feeling mighty clever. If the voice belonged to someone, they would have to show themselves in order to eat.
No one showed up.
“I brought the sandwich for us to share. Can we eat together?”
“Of course, dear! Close your eyes and take a bite, Miralyn, and I’ll do the same.”
Miralyn frowned. “I don’t usually eat with my eyes closed.”
The voice sighed. “Me neither. But it’s only temporary. Soon, we’ll be together for real, mother and daughter. The way things should’ve been.”
Miralyn’s intake of breath was audible. “But . . . ”
“In the summer, we’ll sit and read together under the shade of the magnolia—the big one in front of our house. It was my favorite tree when I was . . . more corporeal.”
“We’ll . . . read together?”
“Surely, you didn’t think your love of reading came from your dad. That’s all my side of the family. When you were a toddler, your favorite time of day was bedtime because that’s when I’d read you a story.”
In an album Miralyn had pored over countless times, there was a photo of baby Miralyn snugged up against her mother, who read from a board book.
“And we’ll bake together! I’ll teach you the recipe for matcha thumbprints, my favorite cookie.”
Miralyn tried to imagine this. Her mother moving back in with her and her father.
. . . and Laura and baby Riley.
“Okay.” She closed her eyes and took a bite of her sandwich. From the side table, she heard the sound of munching.
Miralyn began visiting the house on Monday and Thursday afternoons. She’d told her father and Laura that she had joined a biweekly study session with friends from school.
Each time, she brought more treasures and snacks to share. And when Miralyn wasn’t there, the voice did its part, dragging in furniture from other parts of the house and cleaning them up for use. Soon, the pink paisley room had a little library, a second armchair besides the fireplace, an assortment of cozy blankets and floor pillows, and a coat rack. Below the fairy lights, Miralyn had hung up her paintings from art class and photos taken from an album she’d found in her mother’s boxes.
Miralyn had begun to believe the voice might really belong to her mother. She knew too many things about Miralyn’s life and childhood that she couldn’t have known otherwise, like Miralyn’s first word (more as in more food, Mama) and the way the third step from the top on the main staircase in Miralyn’s house always squeaked.
Gone were the days where Miralyn had to slip through the gap in the fence, exposing herself to curious neighbors’ scrutiny. Nowadays, she took a more discreet route that led directly to the backyard of 13 Cedar Boulevard.
Miralyn pushed aside the boards and walked through the dark, dusty house the way she always did, headed for the pink room. She opened the door, a wave of happiness settling over her. It was peaceful here. No squalling baby.
“Hello, dear.” Miralyn’s mother always sounded so happy to see her. It was a nice change from her father’s tired nod after a day at the office or Laura putting a finger to her lips and mouthing Riley is asleep.
“Hi, Mom! I brought some of your old clothes, like you asked.” She opened her backpack and took out a floral dress, brown sandals, and a wide-brimmed sun hat. She laid the sandals on the floor, then hung the hat and dress up on wall hooks. Her fingers accidentally brushed the wallpaper, which felt slightly squishy and oddly warm.
Miralyn drew her finger back, inspecting the spot. For a moment, the paisley teardrop resembled an eye. She blinked, and it was just a random shape again.
She had caught glimpses of this from time to time—a slight shift in the wallpaper pattern, the barest hint of an ear or a curved upper lip. She didn’t pay it much mind; it was far from the strangest thing about this place.
“Shall we continue reading your book together?” Miralyn’s mother asked.
“Yeah!” Miralyn opened Horrid to the bookmarked page and set it on one of the armchairs. Then she curled up in the other chair, opened a pack of Bin Bin Rice Crackers, and covered her eyes with a sleep mask. She snacked as she listened, careful not to crunch too loudly, lest she miss something.
Miralyn’s mother had a beautiful, sonorous storytelling voice. When she read aloud the conversations between Jane and her mother, Miralyn could almost imagine both characters were there in the room with them. Miralyn let the story envelop her, picturing the details captured so vividly on the page.
When the chapter was finished, Miralyn pulled the sleep mask off, walked over to her mother’s armchair, and picked up Horrid. The seat was still warm. She placed the bookmark in the new spot and closed the book.
“Time for you to run along, dear.”
Miralyn sighed. “I wish I didn’t have to leave.”
Though the fireplace remained unlit, warmth tickled Miralyn’s cheeks and she heard the crackle of logs burning with a phantom flame. She imagined her mother smiling.
“You have no idea how much I wish you could stay longer, Miralyn. I love you, darling.”
“Love you too, Mom.”
It was a sunny Thursday, and school was almost out for the summer. Miralyn took her usual shortcut down a side street and through the neighborhood park to the house on Cedar Boulevard. As she approached, she heard voices. It was probably a neighbor, but it didn’t hurt to exercise caution. Nervous, she crept up to the backyard and peered through a hole in the fence.
Two strangers in hard hats, googles, and reflective orange vests inspected the board she usually pushed aside to enter. One said something to the other, who jotted it down on a clipboard.
Miralyn couldn’t make out their words over the roaring in her ears.
The thought of them going inside—had they gone inside?—and finding the pink room sent a wave of panic through her. She fought the urge to run up to them and shout at them to leave the place alone. It was hers. Hers and her mother’s. They were trespassing.
But what would she say? She didn’t own the place, nor did she know who did. She forced herself to take three deep breaths and listen.
“God, what a shithole.”
“Yeah, the ones that’ve been empty awhile always are.”
“What’s the story here anyway?”
“Owner died, kids couldn’t decide what to do with it, blah blah. One of them tried fixing it up, but y’know how these old houses are.”
“Moneypit.”
“Yep. They finally decided to sell it, but squatters had moved in by then and it was a whole mess. Took almost a year for them to sort it out and find a buyer.”
“Well, they’re doing the right thing, knocking this place down. Some places aren’t worth salvaging.”
The roaring in Miralyn’s ears was back. She pictured a wrecking ball tearing through the pink room. Ripping the fairy lights off the wall and smashing the little corner library she’d worked so hard to curate. She imagined herself walking through the wreckage, calling out. Listening for a voice that never came.
She had just found her mother; she could not lose her again.
Miralyn watched and waited, but the workers kept walking in and out of the house, assessing various things.
At last, Miralyn tore herself away. She had to get home before her father or Laura suspected. She had to figure out what to do.
Miralyn had never snuck out before. Her nerves rattled as she tiptoed through the silent house, taking care to skip the creaky step on her way downstairs. The room shared by her father and Laura—and Riley, now, in his little bassinet—had a window facing the front, so Miralyn figured going out the back was less risky. Sneakers in hand, she unlocked the sliding glass door, wincing as it made a little pop sound, and squeezed through the opening. Carefully, she slid it shut, put on her shoes, and headed for the yellow house.
Between the moon’s glow, the occasional streetlamp, and light spilling out from windows, Miralyn was able to find her way. This time, there was no board to push aside to slip inside; the workers must have taken it down.
Moonlight seeped in through the hole in the boards, casting strange shadows on the living room. Miralyn shivered. She had grown accustomed to how the house felt on warm afternoons, but being here in the dead of night was different. The cool air shimmered with possibilities, and she half expected a clawed creature to leap at her from the shadows. She walked briskly down the hallway, opening the door to the pink room.
Inside, it was dark.
Worry caught in Miralyn’s throat. Though she hadn’t known why or how, the pink room had always had its own illumination.
“Hello?” Miralyn wished she’d brought a flashlight.
For a moment, the room flickered with a faint pulse of light, and she glimpsed a shadowed figure standing slouched by the fireplace. She jumped.
“Miralyn?” The voice was faded, weak.
“Mom?”
“I had to keep . . . this room . . . safe. Hidden from those . . . men.”
“What?”
“It’s hard . . . to maintain . . . this shape.” The light pulsed brighter this time, revealing a woman in the outfit Miralyn had brought over. Her black hair was cut in a bob, just the way it looked in photos Miralyn had seen of her mother. The woman’s eyes glistened. She wobbled, then slid down the wall, hitting the ground with a thud.
Miralyn rushed forward. “Mom!” The room grew dark again just as she reached out to grasp her mother’s arm. Her fingers sank into her mother’s skin, and she screamed.
“Sorry . . . dear. Trying to stay . . . corporeal.”
“What do I do?” Miralyn could hear the panic in her own voice.
“Help me . . . move my . . . nest.”
“What?”
The light pulsed again, and this time, her mother’s face was only inches away. Miralyn could see something wriggling in her mother’s pupils, and the skin of her face was all wrong. It was lumpy and it shifted oddly, as if there were things squirming beneath the surface, trying to escape.
Miralyn took a step backward, fear clogging her throat.
Her mother reached out a hand. “Miralyn . . . help me.”
“What are you?” Miralyn whispered.
“I’m . . . your mother.” Hurt laced the woman’s voice.
The light went out and Miralyn sucked in a sharp breath. It was pitch dark, and her eyes hadn’t adjusted. She tried to turn toward the door, but found she wasn’t sure where it was.
“Help me.” The words tickled Miralyn’s ear, and she screamed, shoving wildly. She heard a crunch as whatever-the-creature-was hit the ground. Then the horrible sound of something tearing open, like fabric being ripped apart, followed by a gurgling noise and the skittering of a million tiny feet.
Something crawled up Miralyn’s leg. She screamed, batting it away, but more took its place.
Another pulse of light illuminated the room.
Inches from her foot, there was a pile of a rough, unevenly textured beige fabric. It was bursting with little white centipedes, wriggling their way toward her. They were between her and the door.
“Miralyn,” her mother’s voice wailed.
Miralyn looked down. There was a bump in the fabric, shaped almost like a nose, and hair attached to it; black and short, like the bob her mother had worn . . .
Bile rose in Miralyn’s throat. She wanted to close her eyes and scream until someone came to rescue her. She missed her father and Laura and even baby Riley with a fierceness she’d never felt before. She wanted to be curled up in her own bed at home, wrapped in her favorite blanket.
But no one else was here. No one was going to save her. If she wanted out, Miralyn would have to save herself.
“Be brave,” Miralyn whispered. She swallowed hard. And then she screamed, leaping over the mass of wriggling things and the fabric-that-was-not-fabric. She grabbed the door handle, using all her willpower to ignore the little things she could feel crawling up her legs, their twitchy little feelers probing into her socks. She pulled the door open.
“Miralyn, help me,” her mother said again.
At the sound of the voice, Miralyn turned back reflexively. The room was still glowing, but the light wavered unevenly, frantically. Before Miralyn shut the door, she noticed one last thing about the pink room—the white paisley pattern was gone.
Back at home in her room, Miralyn combed every inch of her clothing and shoes. She did her best to think of anything but the pink room as she wiped centipede guts from her hair and wrapped half-smashed insect bodies in tissues to throw out. She didn’t understand what had happened at the house, and she wasn’t sure she wanted to know.
Miralyn was exhausted. But every time she closed her eyes, she saw her mother’s face, little insects wriggling beneath her skin. Heard her mother’s voice, pleading and desperate.
“You survived,” Miralyn told herself. “Everything turned out okay.”
When she fell asleep at last, her fists were clenched, her pillow wet with tears for the mother she would never have again.
“Miralyn!” Laura wrapped Miralyn in a huge hug. “How was school?”
Miralyn hugged her back. Several weeks had passed since the night she’d snuck out, and she’d been slowly warming to Laura. She wasn’t sure why she hadn’t been able to fully embrace her stepmother before. She realized, now, how kind and patient and caring Laura had been. Laura worried more about Miralyn’s safety than her own father did. Laura was exactly the mother she needed. “It was good.”
“I’m glad.” Laura smiled, but it looked strained. She cleared her throat. “So, I don’t want to discourage you from being artistic or anything? You know I fully support your hobbies. But, uh . . . I was in your room this morning to grab laundry, and I noticed your design. It’s pretty, but, um, do you mind just . . . not painting on the wall? I can get you some canvases if you’d like.”
Miralyn blinked. “I didn’t paint on the wall. Why would I do that?”
Laura frowned. “I don’t think it could’ve been anyone else.”
“Where was it?”
Heart pounding, Miralyn followed Laura up the stairs. When Laura moved Miralyn’s hamper, to reveal the patch of wall behind it, Miralyn already knew what she’d see. Still, she stared and stared.
There, on her turquoise wall, was a perfectly painted, beautiful white paisley swirl.
Originally published in Mother Knows Best, edited by Lindy Ryan.
