Free The Three Sisters by Lisa Unger

shouldn’t have even been there. I’d finally scheduled it for demolition; should have done so long ago.
    Megan and I talked about building our dream home in its place. Or rather she talked about it, and I made noncommittal noises. I might have known the house wouldn’t allow itself to be destroyed. In fact, maybe that was where I’d gone too far into my new life. It was one thing to move on. It was quite another to try to level the past, to pave it over and build it back as you would like it. That wasn’t allowed. Not for me.
    And then there it was, as rickety as it was defiant. As fragile as it was indestructible—shutters askew, siding faded and slipping, yard overgrown, porch sagging. As I turned a hard corner with the mean winter sun setting behind me, it rose into view, looked bigger than it had a right to be. The sky behind it was orange and black, the trees dark slashes against the gloaming.
    Oh, Meg had plans for this place—our country home, just a few short hours from the city. It was to be our retreat, a place where I would write far from the distractions and temptations of our urban life. No, we wouldn’t have wireless up here. It would have been our place to unplug. But those were her plans, not mine. As far as I was concerned, self-immolation was a more desirable option.
    As I came to a stop, the whole place seemed to vibrate with malicious glee. The scream dropped into my belly and became a hard ache in my gut as I climbed out of the truck. How is it possible that I am back here? I asked myself. A place I fled, vowing never to return. Now it’s the only place I have left. Megan would have something to say, like: It’s the universe forcing you to confront the thing you dreaded most. It’s taken everything from you because that’s how important this is. What lesson is it asking you to learn? In fact, that’s precisely what she had said.
    Man, I ached to hear that bright and positive voice, to hear that vibration of love and confidence. But now, when I called her, I only got the clipped and professional tone she’d used for her voice mail. I’m not available at the moment. Please leave a message. She wasn’t answering my calls. I left long rambling messages; I wasn’t even sure she listened to them. Her last words to me:
    We don’t have anything left to discuss, Ian. Don’t call me until something changes.
    I don’t know what that means , I pleaded.
    But there was an expression she wore when she looked at me now—sad, disappointed, and angry. And that look was the only answer she gave me before she left me on our bench in Central Park by the Alice in Wonderland statue. It was the first place we’d kissed, and the last place I’d seen her. I watched her walk away, huddled into herself against the cold. She moved quickly past a little girl who was chasing a boy around the circle. The boy was crying but the girl was laughing, oblivious or indifferent to the fact that the game was frightening him.
    I think I called Megan’s name, because the children stopped and looked at me, both of them staring with mouths formed in perfect O’s of surprise. Their nanny hurried over and shuttled them away from me, casting a disapproving look in my direction. But maybe I didn’t say her name. Maybe I said something else. Whatever it was I said, or yelled, Megan hadn’t stopped. She moved faster as if she was afraid, as if she couldn’t wait to be away from me. Why was she afraid of me? How could she be? I had watched until she was absorbed into the throbbing crowd of New Yorkers shuttling through the park on their various ways to various important things.
    Now the thud of the hatch closing reverberated like a gunshot in the silence. I had one large black duffel bag, my leather art portfolio, my supply box. I slung the bag over my shoulder and left the portfolio and art supplies for later. The air was frigid, my bare hands raw and painful from just a few moments of exposure.
    Then I turned to face the