Susan Lafferty“Momma. Momma.” I woke from a deep sleep. In the middle of the night.
Jenna, 6 or 7 years old at the time, was standing next to the bed. Pressing my arm.
Yes?
“I heard a voice. Like this…” her voice changed from sweet innocence to a guttural growl. “‘Jenna, I’m going to get you.’ And there were two red eyes. And he laughed like this…” It was an evil laugh.
I sat up straight in bed. On high alert. Heart pounding. Wide awake.
Inside the cover of a 1995 journal, I find these words: In case of evacuation.
And underneath, a simple list. What I hoped to take.
Bible. Journals. Baby books. Two baby quilts Mom embroidered. Photos. Recipe book.
The realtors come to look at our house. Consider its selling features. Advise on what we must do as we get ready to place it on the market.
We know we need to clear the clutter. But their first comment? “You sure have a lot of books.”
Why, yes. Yes we do.
Then comes the directive.
“Clear out this bookcase and that one and that one. Go ahead and pack those books. Store them out of sight.”