A Plea from Her to Me

I keep dreaming about the house we’re buying. I’m in the kitchen, fretting over ugly cabinets. A familiar voice calls to me from upstairs. I follow it, my shoes silent on carpeted steps. The voice grows louder as I reach the bedroom door. I grasp the doorknob.

I wake up.

It’s a probate sale. Elderly woman, distant family. Terracotta tiles in the kitchen. Patterned carpets up the stairs. Sacred Hearts and Pope John Paul on the walls. Chilly bathroom, a fold-out stool in the shower. A hospital-style bed in the bedroom. Mould around the windows.

I call the estate agent. They promise to clear the place out before handover.

Every night, I’m back there. Carpet patterns twist underfoot. John Paul side-eyes me on the stairs. I hear her voice. I feel something like understanding.

While awake, I work. Research insurance, new kitchens. Email the solicitor. Probate is slow, they say.

I sleep. I hear the voice, pleading.

I’ve started hearing echoes of it when I’m awake, when I’m wishing that we loved the house.

A message from the solicitor. Keys next week.

I climb the stairs, reach for the doorknob. It twists under my hand. She’s there, sitting up in bed, her hair frost-white, her eyes sunken and despairing, her upper arms skeletal and withering.

My hair. My eyes. My arms. I’m her, she’s me.

My voice, her throat: “Don’t…”

I wake—first to terror, then clarity. At least the house is affordable.

Cathy de Buitleir is an Irish writer, published in The Interpreter's House, Martello, and FlashFlood.