The Past-Life Chronicles

8

"While I'm out today, will you bring the Samhain decorations up from the garage?"

I finish typing, then spin around in my computer chair. "Say what?"

Mom stands in my doorway in her work clothes, looking conformed as ever in a collared jacket and pencil skirt. Only her wild curls and au naturale, unmade-up face indicate there might be free spirit behind the professional facade. Other than that, she could pass for perfectly mainstream.

She repeats her question.

"Oh," I say. "Sure. Remind me which boxes you want?"

"The green plastic totes. They're labeled—I think there're about three. I forget what's in there, but if any of them are too heavy, ask Henry to help you."

"Okay. Have a good morning, Mom."

"You too."

She departs, leaving behind a whiff of her chemical-free shampoo, and I return to my computer, data sheets and spreadsheets and website tabs with speed tests and backlink reports.

The hours tick past. By late afternoon, I stand up to stretch. My upper back makes a cracking sound, and I exhale. Setting my remaining assignments aside, I leave the room and head downstairs.

The entrance to the garage is on the bottom level of our home. I pass Henry's closed door, heading to the end of the hall, and open the door to the dark and slightly musty-smelling garage.

"Green totes," I whisper, looking around. I try the switch on the wall but nothing happens, and then I remember the bulb burned out a while ago and no one's gotten around to replacing it. I should've brought a flashlight.

I part a long-abandoned cobweb to squeeze past the rows of Greg's furniture, for which we haven't yet found a place in the house, and boxes he and Henry haven't unpacked since they moved in last year.

After five minutes of searching, and most likely turning the soles of my white socks black, I spot the stack of green-tinted plastic storage totes. I have to move a box of Greg's old records out of the way before I can get to them. They tower over me, definitely more than three. More like ten.

Jeez, Mom. How many Halloween decorations do you need?

I lift the lid of the top one to peek inside. It's hard to see because the garage is so dark, but I see some huge binders carrying Samhain spell print-offs, pouches of oil tinctures and pinecones, and a big Styrofoam spider, and I know I've got the right containers. I refasten the lid, gather the first tote in my arms, and set it down in the hallway inside.

I return for the next in line, but this one's too heavy. I try to buckle down, putting my legs into it, but don't want to hurt myself trying. I snap off the lid and look inside. "Oh, brother," I groan. Mom's cauldron collection. She likes to show it off in the front window at Samhain, the way other people might display winter scenescape miniatures at Christmastime.

"Hey, Henry?" My voice echoes on the bare walls around me.

No answer. He probably didn't hear, since I'm out in the garage. I step back inside the house, taking care to peel my socks off before walking on the carpet (sure enough, the bottoms are gray with dust), and head down the hall to his room.

I stop at his door and give it a gentle rap of my knuckles. Still no answer, which is unlike him. Usually, he jumps at the chance to help me with whatever I need.

Cautiously, I open his door. He's lying on his bed atop the comforter, half-buried in a pile of textbooks. The screen of his laptop, which faces him on his nightstand, has gone black. He's sound asleep.