Luanne Castle

The Perfect House

The crash of a shifting log as my book bounced into the firebox startled me into clarity. I saw my husband Dax’s drunken back while he stabbed at the brief blaze with a poker as if a tint film had been peeled from a window. My beautiful edition of The Ghost and Mrs. Muir was browned to the image of the oceanside mansion but refused to burn.

I pulled the skirt of my nightgown tighter and ascended the staircase to our bedroom. My foot was raised for the next step, and my body was in the momentum of climbing, when Braiden passed through me on his way down. He didn’t stop, but his healing presence allowed me to sleep well, although awoken briefly by a sodden, smelly Dax rolling onto the bed.

A day later, as I loaded Dax’s mud-encrusted off-roading clothes into the washer, Braiden gently pushed me away from the machine. The lid slammed down, and the dials turned. I felt him at the small of my back guiding me toward the back door where, just outside, the peonies were opening their big, lovely faces. Over the next few days, Braiden counseled me in similar ways. I asked him his name, where he came from, but he answered nothing in actual words. I gave him the name Braiden.

I couldn’t trust anybody but Arlene with news of Braiden. With the crystals growing in her garden, I knew she wouldn’t scoff. She suggested Braiden was Jaden. It was only a year since my lanky blond son died at swim practice. Hypertrophic cardiomyopathy. Stick to the facts. Hypertrophic cardiomyopathy. I didn’t want to mention, even to Arlene, that Braiden had dark wavy hair and sculpted stubble.

A river rambled past our neighborhood, 200 or so feet down from our backyard. I dragged my chaise lounge farther down, just close enough so I could watch the movement of the river and smell the alluvium. Dax, sober this morning, came from behind and sat down on the grass next to me. We both stared ahead without speaking. Then Dax cleared his throat. “I don’t know why you threw your book into the fire. Have you noticed? Something’s wrong with this house. We should put it on the market.”

“This house is perfect for us.” I patted him on the hand. Braiden pushed me into Dax, who put his arm around my shoulders.

 END

Luanne Castle’s stories have appeared in Your Impossible Voice, Gooseberry Pie, Bending Genres, Bull, The Ekphrastic Review, MacQueen’s Quinterly, Cleaver, South 85, Roi Fainéant, River Teeth, The Dribble Drabble Review, Flash Boulevard, and many other journals and anthologies. Her stories have been nominated for Pushcart, Best of the Net, Best Microfictions, and Best Small Fictions. She has published four award-winning poetry collections. https://www.luannecastle.com/