Chapter 2: The Lilac Predator
The days following her death were a blur of casseroles and soft-spoken condolences that felt like sandpaper against my skin. The house, once a sanctuary, felt like a museum of things I wasn’t allowed to touch.
Mrs. Kline, our neighbor from three doors down, had essentially moved in under the guise of “helping.” She was a woman who navigated life with a syrupy sweetness that always felt slightly performative. She was draped in a scent of lilac so aggressive it seemed to precede her into a room by a full minute.
“Oh, Emma…” she sighed, leaning over the kitchen table where I sat staring at the now-moldy blueberry pie. She reached for my hand, her grip surprisingly strong. “I just can’t wrap my head around it. Lorna was the heart of this neighborhood. She was everything to you.”
“She still is,” I replied, pulling my hand away.
“Of course, dear. Of course,” Mrs. Kline said, dabbing at her eyes with a lace handkerchief. “I remember when she brought you home. You were this tiny thing, only seven years old, clinging to her coat like you were afraid the world would swallow you whole if you let go.”
“I remember,” I whispered.
“The world had already taken so much from you,” she added, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. “Lorna never let you feel the weight of that. She protected you from the harshness of things.”
I looked at her, my grief sharpening into irritation. “She didn’t give me a choice. She just did it.”
Mrs. Kline leaned closer, the lilac perfume making my eyes water. “And it was a beautiful gift. But now… things are different, Emma. You’re nineteen. You’ve got college, a career, a whole life waiting for you beyond these dusty walls. Have you thought about the house? It’s a lot for a young girl. The taxes alone… the repairs to that old roof…”
“I’m not selling,” I said, the words coming out more like a snarl than a statement.
“I didn’t say you had to, sweetheart,” she said, her tone hurt. “I’m just saying it’s okay to let go. Holding onto a pile of bricks isn’t the same as holding onto her.”
“In this house, it is,” I snapped. “It’s all I have.”
I walked away from her, my feet leading me instinctively toward Grandma’s bedroom. The door was closed, a silent barrier I wasn’t ready to cross, but Mrs. Kline was right behind me.
“You’ll need something to wear for the service,” she said softly. “Something that honors her. Lorna had such a magnificent collection of clothes. She was a seamstress of the highest order, you know. Go on. Look through her things. It might help.”
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