Falling For Us Again

15. FRAGMENTS

Chapter 15

FRAGMENTS

Jenna

The clock on the wall ticks steadily, each second dragging as I wait for the real estate agents to arrive. I glance at my watch—12:15 p.m. I still have fifteen minutes before they’re here. I take a deep breath, my gaze sweeping over the sprawling living room. I have agreed for them to come and evaluate the property.

I hear the distant rumble of a car approaching, and when I open the door, I’m greeted by the sight of two well-dressed professionals—Marcy and another man from Croft Real Estates. Marcy, who has frequently been in touch with me over the month, wears a chic, burgundy dress. She looks exactly as I imagined a savvy real estate agent would look—a wide, confident smile and bubbly personality.

“Ms. Goldberg,” Marcy says, smiling broadly, extending her hand. “It’s so good to finally meet you. My daughter loves your books. Decadence is her favorite.”

“Likewise.” I return her smile, shaking her hand firmly. “And that's so sweet of you to say. I'm happy to hear that.”

The man introduces himself, offering a similarly professional handshake. “Ken Fisher. Thank you for meeting with us today.”

“Thank you both for coming. Please, come in.”

They step inside, their eyes scanning the house with interest. Ken and Marcy begin their inspection with practiced efficiency. Ken takes out a notepad and starts jotting down observations as he moves through the rooms. His gaze is analytical, darting from the ceilings to the wood floors, his eyes occasionally lingering on the windows where the sunlight plays.

Marcy, on the other hand, seems more engaged with the personal aspects of the house. She glides through the rooms with an air of familiarity, her touch light as she runs her fingers along the banister of the staircase. Her gaze softens as she takes in the old family portraits and the faded wallpaper, remnants of a time long gone.

“Beautiful house, really,” Marcy comments, her voice carrying a note of genuine appreciation. “I can see why you’ve held onto it for so long.”

“I wasn't holding on to it.” My voice comes out sharper than I intended.

“Oh,” she says.

I give her a small smile. “My aunt wants me to keep it, but I don't see the point.”

Ken glances up from his notes. “It’s understandable. Houses like this, with their history and charm, are more than just property. They’re part of your life.”

I nod again, unable to find the words to respond.

“Why do you want to sell the house?” Marcy asks.

My throat suddenly feels dry, and I have to clear it. “No one lives here. No one has lived here in a decade. I’m based in LA. My aunt travels out of the country regularly for work. There’s no point in keeping it.”

“I see you recently renovated the ceilings,” Ken nods as he notes the observation down.

I lead them through the kitchen next, pointing out the outdated appliances and the worn tile countertops. Ken listens thoughtfully, murmuring something to Marcy about renovation possibilities. I keep nodding, my fingers gripping the sides of my dress tighter with each passing minute.

I guide them through the house, showing them the small office space where my father used to read—the good days before he became an unrecognizable man.

We move toward the hallway, and I instinctively slow my pace as we approach the room at the end.

My mother’s room.

The door looms in front of me like a gilded fortress. I still haven't opened the door to her room since I arrived; It requires too much emotional strength, strength which I am lacking.

After she died, I began sleeping in her room as a way of holding on to whatever little piece of her presence and warmth I could find; My father hated me doing that. It infuriated him to no end, till eventually he locked the room up.

Ken and Marcy pause, waiting for me to open it, but I hesitate, my hand hovering over the doorknob.

“I, um... I haven’t gone in there since.” My voice falters, and I can’t finish the sentence. I feel a rush of heat rise to my face, embarrassment prickling at my skin.

They glance at each other, then back at me, sensing the emotion but not quite knowing what to do with it.

“Take your time,” Marcy says, her tone warm and understanding. “We can move on to the next room if you’re not ready.”

“No, you can go in. I’ll just wait out here.”

They exchange a glance before nodding. Ken opens the door, and I take a step back, my heart hammering in my chest.

Marcy and Ken talk in hushed tones as they scan the room, but I can't make out what they’re saying them from where I am standing. I wonder if they are aware of my family’s story, but if they are, they do a great job of not letting it show.

The room seems to call to me, demanding my attention. My mother’s voice echoes in my mind, soft but insistent, the way it used to be when she was scolding me for leaving my shoes in the hallway or for forgetting to water the plants.

I feel dizzy suddenly, my head spinning with a memory that rushes at me out of nowhere, sharp and vivid.

We’re in a car. My mother grips my hands firmly; her eyes are wild with panic as they dart between me and the rearview mirror. She keeps glancing back as if we’re being chased.

“Everything will be okay, Jenna,” she says, though her voice trembles.

Sweat beads trail down my back, and I nod. I open my mouth to say something, but before I can speak, the memory dissolves as abruptly as it came.

In the next second, I’m hyperventilating. The walls seem to close in; the light in the hallway is suddenly blinding. The air turns thick and oppressive. My chest tightens, and panic explodes in my veins.

“Mom!” I scream, my voice cracking as my eyes dart around frantically searching the hallway. “Mom!”

I press a hand to my chest, but it does nothing to calm the storm inside me. My breath comes in uneven, shallow gasps. The world tilts, and my vision blurs.

“Mom, where are you?” Tears spill out of my eyes now.

“Ms. Goldberg? Jenna?” Marcy’s voice cuts through the haze, and I feel a hand on my arm, steadying me.

I blink, disoriented, as I realize both Marcy and Ken are now standing beside me, concern etched across their faces.

“My mom… she was.” My voice cracks as my sobs rack through my body.

They help me to the living room, Marcy hands me a glass of water, and they give me a moment to compose myself. These flashbacks keep happening with faster frequency, and I’m at a loss to explain what they mean.

After a few minutes, the tears subside, and I blow my nose into a napkin.

I glance as Marcy and Ken come back. They stand by the doorway, giving me space but watching me closely. They’re professionals, used to dealing with distressed clients, but this feels different. I feel exposed like they’ve seen a part of me I wasn’t ready to reveal.

“Ms. Goldberg,” Marcy says softly.

"I'm—I'm fine," I say, though the words come out strangled and weak.

"Do you need us to call somebody for you?" Ken asks, his tone showing concern.

Embarrassment floods me, and I shake my head. I can’t believe I let this happen in front of them. Screaming for my dead mother and bawling my eyes out in front of strangers like a little girl. I’m supposed to hold it together. Instead, I’m falling apart, just like this house.

"I’m ok," I insist, forcing a tight smile.

They exchange glances again, but they don’t push. I force myself to stand, smoothing my hands over my skirt to steady them.

"I’m ready to continue," I say, weakly.

“Perhaps we should come back another day? We still have a few more rooms to go through.”

“I agree,” Ken says briskly.

My embarrassment deepens, and I dig my fingers into my hands. I clear my throat and nod.

“That’s a good idea. I’ll let you know when.”

They thank me for my time, promising to send over a proposal we can work on in the next few days. I nod, smiling stiffly, not hearing their words. When they leave, I’m left standing alone in the doorway, staring out at the driveway where their car once was.

I close the door slowly, the sound of it clicking shut far too loud in the silence of the house. I lean against it, my head resting against the wood, my heart still racing.

I walk slowly to the kitchen, sinking into one of the chairs at the table. The dizziness has faded, but the memory lingers, my mind trying to wrap around it like pieces of a puzzle.

I can’t shake the feeling that there’s something I’m missing, something buried deep in that fragmented memory. Why can’t I remember? Where were we going? Why was she so scared?

I feel the beginnings of a headache, as the memory from earlier keep flashing behind my eyes. My mother’s distressed voice, the way she looked at me with that strange, unreadable expression haunting me.

The questions swirl and the unease gnaw at me.