Free Just J by Colin Frizzell Page A

is so much darker than the darkness at home. Down the hall I see a sliver of light—my target. As my eyes refocus, I can see that the path between me and my goal is clear. I dash toward it. Once in the washroom, I close and lock the door. The bath–room is large, bright and spotless, judging by my thorough check of the toilet. No matter how badly I need to go, it’s never bad enough to put my butt on a disgusting bowl. You could end up with an infection or something. But this bowl doesn’t even require toilet tissue on the seat, and there is no need to hover.
    While enjoying the release, I look around the room. Aunt Guin seems to have gotten into every crevice on the white tile floor and the blue tile walls. Both look clean despite the cracks and missing chips. The tub is long and deep; its sturdy feet look as if they could hold you up while you soak for hours. There’s no shower.
    In the corner of the room, a white washbasin and pitcher sit on a square, well-worn wooden table. The sink is a half-moon that’s mounted on the wall, without a counter. There’s a mirror above it but no medicine cabinet; there is no cup–board. I wonder where the people who lived here before kept their towels and stuff. I picture a tall cabinet next to the table, made from the same kind of wood in a similar design. As I finish up, panic sets in with the realization that there isn’t a toilet-paper holder on the wall.
    â€œPerfect, just perfect.”
    Looking up, I see a roll on the windowsill. I hate windows in washrooms; they make me nervous. Perhaps it could be changed to stained glass, with frosted glass put in the door to make up for the light that would be lost. While wiping, the picture of a multicolored, spiral-patterned mosaic floor comes to me. And then I flush.
    As I open the bathroom door, I can see a flickering light coming from the living room. I must have been too con–cerned with peeing to notice it before. I go to investigate.
    A fire sways beneath a cherrywood mantel. The hard–wood floors are perfectly polished and reflect the flames, bringing the whole room to life. Burgundy walls set off the maple trim. A grand piano dominates the corner by the window. In front of the fire I see a brown leather chair with a matching couch next to it. The chair is large, and its arms invite you to curl up in it with a book and drift effortlessly into another world. There are framed classic-movie posters and paintings on the walls. There’s no way all this could have been done today.
    â€œAre you all right?” Aunt Guin calls from the outside door.
    â€œHow did you do that so quickly?” I turn to her to begin my interrogation. She won’t get away with telling me that I wasn’t paying attention this time.
    â€œWhat?” she asks.
    â€œThe room.”
    â€œJust some bleach and elbow grease. Art helped.”
    I pause, trying to figure out her game. “I don’t mean the bathroom.”
    â€œWhat then?”
    â€œThe…” I stop and turn back to the living room, but there is no fire, no cherrywood mantel, no furniture. It’s just as it was when I first saw it, smell and all.
    â€œJ, what room?”
    â€œNothing,” I yell back. “I’ll be right out.”
    â€œYou’re sure you’re all right?”
    â€œI’ll be right out,” I repeat. The door closes while I stare into the empty room. It’s lit by a vague trace of moonlight and bathroom light spillover. I think of the roaring fire and I wonder out loud, “Did she do that? Or was it the house?”
    And then a third possibility crosses my mind.
    â€œOr was it me?”

Chapter Fifteen
    I awake shivering and run my hand down my clammy arm. The only blanket that covers me is the morning dew. Although the sun is high enough to wake me, it has yet to become hot enough to dry me out.
    Aunt Guin walks toward me, holding my salvation in her outstretched hand. I get