Ignite (Ignite 1)

If it hadn’t been for the GPS tracking my whereabouts, I would have been completely lost. Gosnells was on steroids; new streets, so many shops, and so many people. When I drove through the centre of town, I marvelled at one of the major shopping centres. It’d been extended and refurbished; no longer looking like an old derelict warehouse I used to buy groceries from with Lucinda.

Fuck, when her name sprang up, I cautiously looked around the streets as if she would sprout out in front of me at any second. I panicked knowing I was in the same vicinity as her. I was not ready to face up to her, and deep inside I knew I never would be.

When I hit my small neighbourhood, I gasped at every townhouse I drove past. Every lawn was manicured and had a bush or a small section of flowers. The townhouses looked the same, but there was something different in the air. I just didn’t know what.

I parked in the parking lot that belonged to the aisle of townhouses ahead of me, one being my old home. I pulled out my phone and dialled the landlord’s number. I told him I’d arrived. Ten minutes later, he rocked up in a van and came out with the key in his hand. Mr Diaz was a cheery, fat little man with rosy cheeks and a grey beard.

“Sara Nolan, yes?” he asked in a thick accent.

“Yes,” I said with a pretend smile, walking with him to my old home.

“I’m very sorry for your loss, Sara.” He cast me a sympathetic look as I took the key from him. “Your mother was a very lovely tenant. When I took over from the previous owner, I went around and introduced myself to all the tenants, and she invited me in for tea and biscuits. I’ll never forget how kind she was every time I was in the neighbourhood.”

I blinked and my smile faltered. What the fuck did he just say? Lovely tenant? Tea and biscuits? “Right,” was all that escaped me.

“Very sweet woman. I went to her funeral last week. So many people there. She was very loved.”

“Was she?” I couldn’t hide the disbelief in my voice as we stopped at the front door of the townhouse. I faced him with wide eyes. “Who went to her funeral?”

“I don’t know how many, but the church was quite full of people. You might want to speak to the priest at the church. Would you like me to give you his number?”

“I have his number, thanks.”

“Well, do you need me to help you here with anything in particular? I can call for a skip if you’d like?”

“I’ll have a browse around now, and then make arrangements for a skip tomorrow. I don’t want to inconvenience you in anyway.”

He smiled and gave me a gentle pat on the back. “I wouldn’t be inconvenienced in the slightest. You just let me know when you need anything at all, and I’ll be happy to help.”

“Thank you.”

He gave me a nod and began walking off. Then I remembered. “Mr Diaz?” He stopped and looked at me. “Are there any motels nearby?” I’d driven past one, but it was on the outskirts of Gosnells.

“Yes, it’s called the Manor Motel, and it’s about a ten minute drive, just past the grocery store, and onto Roe street; beside the Chinese restaurant with the dragon pictures on the windows."

“Manor Motel, I’ll look that up. Thank you again.” I climbed up the two step porch and opened the screen door that wasn’t there when I’d been living here. I watched Mr Diaz until he was out of sight, and then stuck the key in. I hated that I was trembling. This house didn’t stand for anything good. It was my childhood nightmare.

I opened the door and was hit with a vague sandalwood scent. The first thing I noticed was the carpet below my feet, and I thought that was quite odd because it was supposed to be tiles. Then again, upon looking around the living room, I realized everything about this home was different. There were two leather sofas against a wall, a glass coffee table with sandalwood wax cubes prepped beside a wax burner; where the TV had once been had been replaced with a tall and wide bookshelf, and it was packed tightly with books on religion, gardening, and self-help. On the walls were framed photos; one of an ocean and the sun setting, and another of a wooden bridge with a quote that read, Life is a journey.

Had I entered the Twilight Zone? Was this not Joanne Nolan’s home? As I walked throughout the house and into the kitchen, I found old bills on the counter that read her name. Jeez, I’d never seen the kitchen so clean in my life. Aside from accumulating dust and an empty coffee mug in the sink, it was spotless. When I began climbing the staircase, I had to tell myself to breathe and keep the images of him throwing me down them at bay.

Her bedroom was new as well. The queen sized bed was a chestnut brown, as well as the good quality dresser and tallboy. My heart tugged when I saw that her bed’s doona was ruffled and unmade. She hadn’t made her bed the day she died. Yet it was probably something she always did when I took into account how spotless and organized the house was. I left the room and went into mine. I already knew before I walked in that it was probably changed as well, and it was. Everything was gone and replaced with packed boxes. She’d used the space as a storage room. Any sign that a terrified child who often wet her mattress on the floor had lived here was gone.

I suddenly felt overwhelmed by all this change. My legs were wobbly and my eyes stung from exhaustion. None of this made any damn sense. I hurried back down the stairs and collapsed onto the black leather couch, unsure of how to cope with it all.

Pulling out my phone, I dialled the priest’s number. “I’m sorry to bother you like this, but just how well did you know my mom?”

“I knew her very well.”

“But being here, at this house… it’s nothing at all like I remember. Everything… is different.” I closed my eyes tightly and shook my head. “This doesn’t make any sense. My mother was an alcoholic. This house was in shambles. I don’t…I just don’t understand. Please make me understand.” I must have sounded so pathetic begging a priest I’d never met at a Church I’d never gone in to help me understand my mother – a woman who I was meant to know everything about.

“Your mother was troubled, but she’d made tremendous progress. There’s a lot I can tell you, but I’ll give you the basics.” What he then continued on to explain had left me shocked and unable to speak. Four years ago my mother had joined the Catholic community and sought help for her alcoholism. She was checked into a rehab, funded solely on the generosity of her friends, and though she relapsed a couple times upon leaving, she’d been sober twenty eight months last week. She volunteered at the church, got a job as a cashier in a bookstore, and relied upon the support of the church community to help distract her from her addiction and personal troubles.