REM // Van McCann

83. She Lives On

The entire car ride to Clara's house was quiet. I couldn't concentrate and didn't have the appetite to eat. All I can feel is the sandwich Florence made sitting in my stomach, every bump in the road mixed in with nerves making me wonder if I'd see it again. I came to a complete stop in front of Clara's house. Luckily there were no cars behind me.

"That's her house right there," I said, looking out the window. I was in awe at the accuracy of my dreams. This is my first time coming here and I've only seen partial photos of her house but never the entire thing.

"It looks just like your dream," Florence said in awe. She looked to her right and saw the green tiled house in all its glory. The house took her breath away. I can see why Roman's mother-in-law loves this house so much. It looks like the house you dream of raising your family in.

There weren't many cars parked on the street so I went further down to turn around. I didn't want to park right in front of Clara's house so I parked the car a few houses down. The temperature was just right. There was a slight chill in the air but all we needed was a light jacket.

A car was parked in the driveway which was a promising sign that someone was home. I didn't recognize the car. I'm used to the car Clara's family used to own back in the UK but there's no way they brought the car with them. I stopped when we were in front of Clara's bedroom window. What I wanted to do was walk up to it and press my head against the window to take a look inside, but I knew the homeowners wouldn't like a stranger looking inside their house.

Florence reached for my hand and squeezed it. I looked at her and she gave me a reassuring smile. Once I calmed down from my nightmare, I told Florence about my dream but left out the detail that Clara was pregnant when she died. Even though it wasn't my child, I didn't want Florence to feel worse than she already did about Clara's death. The both of us walked up to the door and rang the bell.

We could hear footsteps on the other side of the door, a brief pause, and then the door slowly opened. I was expecting to see Mr. Jones but all I saw was an older woman in her 50s or 60s. Her gray hair was neatly tied back into a bun and she wore a dress made of cotton. She was thin but her arms were tan from working tirelessly in the Portuguese sun.

"Hello..." she trailed off, looking uneasy. Her eyes shifted between Florence and I.

"Hi," I replied, finding confidence after knowing I wasn't going to deal with Mr. Jones. "Is Clara Jones here?" The lady reacted to Clara's name which was a good sign.

"Clara is dead. She's been dead for years. May I ask who you are?" My heart sank at the news. Although I knew she was dead, it wasn't what I wanted to hear.

"I'm Van, Clara's friend. And I was afraid that's what happened. Do you know where her parents are?"

"A few months after their daughter's death, they cremated her body and moved back to Chicago. I haven't kept in contact ever since. They were the ones who sold the house to me." She then paused as if remembering something. "So you're Van? Did Clara write letters to you?"

"She did. How did you know?" I asked.

"I have some of her letters. Why don't you come inside?"

She has some of her letters? How is that even possible? It didn't make sense but I was intrigued anyway and stepped in without hesitation. The lady closed the door behind us and I began looking around the house. Never in a million years did I think I'd set foot inside the house Clara lived in for less than a year. I wonder how much was kept the same and what changed. The house was smaller than the one she had in the UK but it was cozy. The lady noticed me looking around.

"Would you like a tour of the house?" she offered, as if reading my mind. I nodded my head.

The lady showed us the living room and kitchen. I imagined Clara's mum in the kitchen cooking and the whole family sat at the table eating together. We passed the bathroom and then headed towards the general direction of Clara's room. The yellow walls have since been painted white and all of Clara's belongings were gone. Instead of being a bedroom, she had converted this room to an office.