The House That Answers

Her mother had been dead for eleven years when Helen learned there were still things she could make worse.

The message arrived while she was buying bin bags.

She had chosen the heavy black ones, suitable for broken glass and garden waste. There would be a great deal to throw away at the house. Andrew had asked her not to call it rubbish, so she had stopped using the word when they spoke.

Her phone vibrated against the basket.

One new voicemail.

No missed call.

She put the bags down beside a display of washing powder and pressed play.

For a moment, she heard only movement: a faint scrape, then the soft double knock of something touching the telephone.

Her mother used to do that with her wedding ring.

Helen stopped breathing before the voice began.

“Listen to the whole message, Helen.”

Not a recording she remembered. Not a phrase borrowed from an old birthday video.

Her mother sounded tired.

“You’ll want to ring your brother. Do that afterwards. I haven’t got long enough to explain twice.”

A trolley squeaked behind Helen. Someone said excuse me. She stepped aside without looking.

“Come to the house tomorrow. Bring Andrew with you.”

Helen pressed the phone harder against her ear.

“And if you hear yourself speaking from a room you haven’t entered, don’t go in.”

There was a sound beneath the words. Helen could not place it until her mother went quiet.

Water running into a sink.

The kitchen tap at the house had always shuddered before the water settled. Her father had replaced the washer twice. Her mother said she liked knowing when someone was making tea.

“Helen?”

The voice was closer now.

“Are you listening?”

She nearly answered.

Her mouth had already opened when the message ended.

For several seconds she stood with the phone against her face.

Then she took it away and looked at the screen.