She woke to her daughter lying next to her.

It was not an uncommon occurrence. She gave Emma a kiss on the forehead and she stirred in her sleep. In the spot where she was laying there was a damp spot, already stained yellow. This also was not an uncommon occurrence.

She screamed, startling her daughter and causing her to bolt upright.

“Why do you do this, Emma? I have told you again and again to use the bathroom before bed! Why are you like this? What is wrong with you?”

Emma retreated to a corner of the room, making sure to keep still while her mother ripped the sheets off the mattress.

“Every time I think you’re done with this bullshit you start it all over again. Answer me. Why do you do this?”

She punctuated every word of the last sentence with another violent twist of the sheets. Her daughter stared down at her feet without blinking, twiddling her fingers.

The mattress had a stain on it as well. She sat on the bed and buried her face in her hands, massaging her temples. Emma walked towards her with more than some trepidation.

“I’m sorry, mommy. I can do better, I won’t do that anymore,” she whispered in her mother’s ear.

Jane looked up and cupped her cheeks with her hands. “No, baby, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have yelled at you. I didn’t mean to scare you. We can wash everything, nothing is ruined.”

They held each other in their arms, healing each other with the touch of shared flesh and blood. She prepared her daughter’s favorite breakfast shortly afterward, taking care to show extra interest and attention to her inane stories about ancient curses and mountain men with bushy beards and gruff voices. She smiled, genuinely smiled, at the child’s creativity. Who had she gotten that from, she wondered? She recalled the stories Tom would share at bedtime. He’d tell her about beautiful princesses that were in danger and down on their luck travelers in faraway lands. Where had he gotten that from, she wondered? She smiled again at the thought of there being something she didn’t know about her late husband.

Midday came and they took a nap in the living room. A thick rug, maroon and gold, served as their mattress. More whispering. It was in moments like these, when the subconscious became pronounced, that memories flooded her brain and she could almost begin to feel them; a stroke of the hair or fingertips tracing her thigh, like the phantom limb of an amputee. Sometimes she would smile, sometimes she would cry.

Sunlight filtered in through parted blinds and the soft glow of golden rays belonging to the setting sun fell upon her face and woke her. Emma was still fast asleep, curled up against her mother. She shook her gently, rousing her from her sleep.

“Let’s get some food in you, baby.”

Emma groaned, rubbing her eyes as she sat up. She nodded before laying down again.

“No, we can sleep later, baby. I’m tired too, but we have to eat.”

She shook her a little harder, more persistently, and finally she made her way to the dinner table, lumbering across the living room as if sleepwalking.

The hum of the microwave was loud. She threw together a couple of plates and they sat down to eat. It was a silent dinner, not altogether uncomfortable or unfamiliar for mother and daughter, until Emma spoke.

“I want to sleep in the game room.”

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“What?”

“I want to sleep in the game room. Daddy’s there.”

Her fork clattered against the ceramic plate, and a lump formed in the back of Jane’s throat as she spoke. “Daddy isn’t there, baby. He’s gone. Daddy is up in heaven watching us, remember?”

“That’s not true. He’s in the game room, looking at us.”

Tears formed in Jane’s eyes. “Why do you say that?”

“He told me.”

“What do you mean, Emma?” Jane could hear the trembling in her voice, but she could do nothing to stop it.

“He doesn’t like it in the game room, he says he’s scared. We need to go there, show him that there is nothing to be scared of. Please, momma.”

A cold sweat ran down her spine. It pooled at the small of her back, and her body stiffened from the chill of it. She searched her daughter’s face looking, or hoping, for evidence of perhaps a cruel joke or prank, but the look on her face was unassuming and sincere. Her request was genuine.

“Okay, baby, we can go in there. If it’ll make you feel better.”

“It’s not for me, mommy, I told you.”

Jane opted to remain silent. She stood up and began walking towards the game room. The sun had already fallen behind the large pine trees that could be seen from their living room window. It wasn’t quite dark, but there was little light left in the house. She reached for the locked door and twisted the knob halfheartedly, sure that it would jam. But to her surprise it gave way, and she was able to push the door open. She was surprised, scared. Tentatively, she pushed the door and it swung slowly with a loud creek.

Light did not reach this far in the house and she fumbled in the darkness, looking for a switch that she hadn’t used in years. She felt cold for some reason and slightly numb, as if she could not quite get a complete grasp of her senses. She found the switch and a dusty bulb saw the room alight in a dull, orange blaze. It was all as she remembered it. Perhaps there was a few more cracks in the wood cabinet and the dark blue felt on the pool table was slightly frayed and peeling, but it was as she had left it all those years ago. Save for a stray, unimpressive wooden chair that sat square in the middle of the room, a couple of inches from the fan. Directly above it was a thick piece of rope, tied to a wooden beam that ran across the ceiling. The rest of it twisted in a loop, like an ill-fitting halo.

She clenched her jaw and turned on the spot to face her daughter. She too stared at the rope hanging obtrusively from the wooden beam.

“Did you put this up here, Emma? Why did you do it? Answer. Me.”

She grabbed her daughter’s arm as she spoke, shaking it violently. Emma backed into the corner of the room, next to the door. She said nothing, but she shook her head vehemently.

“This is not funny. Don’t do this. I don’t ever want you doing this again, and you are not going in here anymore. I can’t believe you.”

Tears welled in Emma’s eyes, but it did nothing to soften the expression on her mother’s face. She was breathing loudly, and she had a wild look in her eye. She noticed that the fan was spinning, as if to further remind her of her late husband.

She marched to the middle of the room and placed a foot on the chair. It groaned slightly and tipped backwards for a second from the added weight. She steadied herself then stood on the old chair. She raised her arms over head, trying to undo the knot on the wooden beam. She stood on her tippy toes as if she were a ballerina preparing a pirouette, and the chair again rocked ever so slightly before she steadied herself. She felt a jolt of electricity, a cold rush, and her skin began to feel clammy. She fumbled with the elusive knot, but her fingers betrayed her and gave in to fear. They moved clumsily. Emma began to cry. Loud, dry heaving screams and sobs.

“Mommy, get down from there. Stop, please, just get down.”

“I will, baby, I just need to do this. Stop crying, baby.”

“Mommy, please. Stop, I’m sorry. Get down, please,” Emma continued wailing. Her screams felt like daggers in the ears of her mother.

“Shut up! Can you please just be quiet for one second? This is your fault, Emma. I just have to get this down.”

Her sobbing pleas continued, loud and chaotic and obnoxious. She continued working the knot, her jaw clenched and her teeth grinding together. She stood on the very edge of the chair as she could hardly reach. The ends of the rope began to fray and come undone with how much she picked at it. Emma’s cries faded and beads of sweat fell down her forehead. Her fingertips felt raw. She continued working at it, almost rhythmically.

“There! I’ve got it, finally.”

She felt proud of herself, something she had not felt in a long while. She had almost forgotten the sensation. She made to step off the old chair, hopping down from it, but she never landed. The rope caught on her chin and constricted around her neck. There was a couple loud pops and her arms jerked wildly for a few brief moments. Then the sporadic sound of low gurgling every now and again. Emma watched from the corner of the room, tears streaming down her face, two feet swinging side to side, a couple of inches from the floor.