The Homemaker's House

“We have to hurry!” I exclaimed, leaping downstairs. “Or else this house will consume everyone we love!”

My ex-partner trailed close behind. “What do you mean?”

Fire surging in my gut, I stopped on the landing and gestured to the walls. “Look around, Jonathan! Pay attention.”

With great effort, he tore his attention from me and whirled around to survey the crumbling walls of our home. The wallpaper had peeled back to reveal dozens of white plaster faces– some frozen in awe or pain; others still trying to move and speak, reaching out for our aid. My grandmother, his mother, our friends… all of them and more were trapped in our walls.

I wiped the sweat from my brow, pulled my hair back, and proclaimed: “We must find a way to save them, or they’ll be lost forever!” My voice echoed off the walls, mingling with the bemoaning souls.

Dust and mold decorated the staircase and filled the air with toxic glitter. The staircase seemed to stretch as we rushed down it.

Since when do we have so many stairs? I thought furiously.

The deeper we went, the harder it became to breathe, and so I hid my nose in the collar of my shirt.

Just as I was about to ask him how many flights there were, he yanked my arm and stopped me mid-step. I would have fallen, if not for his vice grip. He eyed me through a layer of fume-induced tears. “You know… I’m sensing a bit of superiority from you, Eliza.”

At first, I wanted to snatch my arm back and shout: Don’t project your own complexes onto me, Jonathan!

But then he continued: “I’m not used to you leading the way… So tell me: why do we have to be the ones to save them?”

I held his shoulders and looked him square in the eye. “There is a great difference between superiority and a servant’s responsibility. I’m not trying to lead; I just know what’s right. We serve this house, and so we must save it.”

His brow furrowed. “Eliza, are we called to save this house, or the souls trapped inside?”

I would have been stunned, but there was no time. The belly of the house quaked below our feet, shaking us into each other’s arms. For a fleeting moment, we held each other in a silent covenant of love. His sweet and salty breath overpowered the stench of mold.

From the rafters to the floors, choirs of loved ones cried out again. But their voices were fading, as if their very essence was disappearing.

We pulled each other upright, and this time when I looked into his earthy eyes, they shone with flecks of inner sunlight. “How are we going to save them?”

I reached up to touch his face, but stumbled from another house-quake. “I don’t know, but I do know someone who does. She’s been living here longer than we have.”

The line between his brows returned, but he seemed satisfied enough to follow me down another flight of stairs.

At the next landing, finally, was a door. It had an ornate archway that depicted the zodiac wheel, and Leo the lion was a brass knocker. Usually, I would knock before entering, but the door opened without a touch.

I glanced behind me, hoping to ask him for courage, but Jonathan was gone. Panic seized my throat; I tried to call out to him, but couldn’t utter a sound.

And then I saw him, his whole body morphed into the shape of stairs. He was frail and splintered; the house had stripped him of clothing and turned him into wood. His eyes were the only part that could still move, which stayed on me as I fell to my knees and prayed.

But something from the room reeled me inside and slammed the door shut.

I say ‘something,’ but it was more of a ‘someone’.

Ah, but she was both… Beast and Beauty in one being. It was Selvaggia; keeper of the house, grounds, and everything in between. My in-house wild woman.

In her presence, all panic dissolved. Her room appeared untouched by the house-quakes, still and tranquil. The mirror and perfume bottles on her vanity remained intact, and her walls of bookshelves had not even quivered. Her bed was perfectly made, comforter tucked and pillows fluffed.

As she leaned over me, Selvaggia’s black hair billowed like a protective veil. She smelled of geranium and baking flour just like my mother, with the same rosy smile too. Only when these full lips blossomed, they revealed wolfish canines.

“I’ve been waiting for you, Eliza Rose,” my wild landlady whispered.

Only then did the floor shake, or maybe it was my spine…

Before I could respond, she helped me to my feet and handed me a hairbrush. “Come, sit with me.”

I followed her to the edge of the bed and sat. She plopped down on the footstool in front of me and flicked her thick forest of hair behind her.

“Brush,” she commanded.

I obeyed, for I knew that this was how all good conversations with Selvaggia began. She wouldn’t speak to me at all if I did not first serve her in some way.

“Usually, you have me make the bed or sweep the floor.” I laughed nervously. “But you’ve kept this room utterly pristine. There’s nothing left for me to clean.”

Without seeing her face, I could tell she was grinning. “Not in this room, perhaps, but the rest of the house is in shambles.”

I leapt to my feet, leaving the brush stuck in her hair. “Oh my God!” I exclaimed. “I have to save my loved ones.”

“Hush now, hush.” She tapped the brush with a talon-like fingernail. “Keep brushing, and I’ll tell you everything you need to know.”

Sighing, I sat again and continued combing the knots out of her raven waves.

“I can feel you trembling.” She steadied my hand. “Don’t fret, child. Believe it or not, you already have everything you need to save these souls, and this house.”

I raised my eyebrows.

“Yes, yes,” she confirmed. “You must save both.”

“But how? How can I save the people from the house, and the house from… itself?”

She wagged a finger. “Aha, the answer is in the question. ‘Save the house from itself’. Or herself, as it were.”

“The house is female?” I asked, bewildered.

“Oh, Eliza,” she sighed. “Have you learned nothing from me?”

“I’m learning right now, Selvaggia. Please, tell me how to save the souls and the house.” After detangling the ends of her hair, I moved slowly toward her scalp.

Her broad shoulders relaxed. “Alright, alright. Patience, my child. If I tell you everything all at once, your head will pop off and the whole household will be doomed.”

I took a deep breath and used my free hand to massage the base of her skull.

“Thank you, Eli.” She patted my hand again. “Thank you for trusting me. While you were with that boy, I was worried you wouldn’t come to receive my help.”

“He’s a man, Selva, and I need to save him too.”

“He’s a boy, Eliza, and no you don’t… at least, not in the way you think.” She raised both hands in surrender. “But that’s besides the point. For now, focus on this truth: I was here before you, him, and all those souls stuck in the walls and floors. That’s why the house cannot swallow me up, although she wants to. After all… I built her just for you.”

“For me and Jonathan?”

“No, Eliza, for you and only you.”

I held my breath while she continued.

“The reason why the house has not consumed either of us yet is because we were here when she was first made… We dwell here full-time. The rest have been guests.”

“But why is the house consuming anyone in the first place?” I stopped brushing.

She looked at me over her shoulder, violet eyes ablaze. “She’s hungry. Starving, actually.”

“Starving for souls?”

“Starving for stories,” she corrected, turning away again and tapping the hairbrush. "Famished for feelings of connection and forgiveness."

I continued combing, even though there were no more knots.

“The house has been neglected by her homemaker,” she explained.

I plucked a clump of kinky hair out of the brush and examined its streaks of white and sapphire. “Well, why did you neglect her?”

She turned her whole body to face me and placed her hands on my knees. Silvery tears streamed down her cocoa-brown face. “Eliza, I am not the homemaker. You are.”

I drew back, but couldn’t bring myself to pull away completely. “But you just said you made the home…”

She shook her head. “I made the house. I forged its form. I fashioned her beauty and character, but you…” She took my face in her hands, wafting me with warm empathy and perfume. “You get to make a home out of her.”

My spine jolted with inner electricity. “Oh,” was all I could say.

“It’s very natural,” she reassured me, wiping away both our tears. “In your precious ignorance, you thought you were just a housekeeping tenant. But you’re so much more than that, Eliza Rose. You’re the homemaker. That means more than cleaning and decorating… it means hosting. Accommodating. Integrating guests with the heart of the home, and being gracious when it’s time for them to leave.”

I broke down in her arms. “I don’t want them to leave,” I confessed.

The room began to quake alongside my weeping. With every fallen tear, a book shook loose from the shelf. A tiny crack blemished the mirror.

“Ah, you are learning,” Selvaggia observed, gathering my hair in her hands and massaging my scalp. “But another important responsibility of the homemaker is to know when it’s time to let the guests go. Otherwise, their true souls become shallow images imprinted on the walls, or aromas that fill rooms. They become dead memories in the house, instead of living guests or tenants.”

I gazed into her purple eyes, the eyes of my great grandmother. “But if they leave… w-will they ever come back?”

She sighed dreamily and drew me to her bosom, staining her silk robe with my tears.

“Who can say?” she whispered into my hair. “The right ones will return, and the right ones will stay gone. This is not a prison, Eliza. It is a home with many doors and windows, and only you have the keys to unlock them."

Through the blur of tears, she looked like a mosaic of every woman I’d ever known.

“Wise woman,” I beseeched her and knelt. “My pockets are empty, and so is my mind. Please, tell me what the keys are. How do I unlock the walls of my house and set these people free?”

She grinned, letting her own tears drip across her full lips and sharp teeth. “Always asking the right questions. You’re a good student, Eliza Rose, and you always will be.” She took a deep breath and rolled her shoulders back. “To set these souls free, you must call them by their names.”

Awe and relief swept over me like a trance. “Okay.”

“You must call them by their full names,” she specified, dragging her fingernails over my scalp. “The ones they were given at birth.”

“Oh no,” I blurted, tears threatening to spill again. “I can’t do that. Some of my friends go by chosen names… if I call them by their old names, they might feel hurt… or worse; they won’t respond.”

“Your concern is considerate,” Selvaggia chuckled, massaging my temples. “But it is misplaced. Do you know what happens when you call a loved one by their birth name?”

I shook my head.

“My dear child,” she reassured, caressing my cheek with the back of her hand. “The birth name is the first gift a person is given. It is the anchor that holds their soul to their body, establishing the 'self'. It is the code that connects their birth to childhood to adulthood to death. Even when this name changes, whether by solitary choice or marriage, this first-ever name remains... it is like concrete at the base of their identity in this life. And when you call them by this name, you are reminding them of their very first birthday gift. You are giving back their 'self'."

I leaned back into her embrace and closed my eyes. “Oh, Selva,” I sighed. “I don’t know if I’m strong enough. If I use Jonathan’s birth name, he might never speak to me again… the fact that we’ve maintained our friendship this long is a miracle…”

She held me and squeezed tight, reminding me of my godmother’s hugs. “So expect more miracles. It’s not about strength, but bravery. Only in the face of our worst fears do we muster up the courage, and only in the light of our courage do miracles appear. You know this.”

Electricity surged through my spine again; not from her or the house, but from my very heart. My hair stood on end like a mane as I rose to my feet.

“Okay, I’ll do it.” When I moved toward the door, it unlocked and opened in time with my hammering heartbeat.

“This is the way,” Selvaggia encouraged. “Walk in it.”

I glanced back at her, amazed to see her hair was gathered up in a crown of braids and jewels.

“Thank you, my Wild Woman,” I whispered, “for everything.”

She placed her hands over her heart and bowed.

Outside her sororal sanctum, chaos awaited me.

The walls around the staircase had caved in, trapping Jonathan’s wooden body under the weight of my family members. They tried to move away, but their bodies crumbled like half-baked cake. When they saw me, their mouths moved in the shape of my name, but they could make no sound except for creaks and groans.

Trembling, I touched the wall and began calling them, one-by-one, by their full names.

The more names I called, the stronger my voice echoed, and the more precious people I freed. They came back into their own bodies, organic and soft, albeit a bit dazed. They hugged each other and rejoiced not just at their salvation, but at my bravery.

“Mark William Whitestone!” I called, releasing my brothers. “Alexander James Whitestone!"

Their bulky bodies rolled like rocks from the staircase, morphing into marble pillars before returning fully to flesh. They grinned at me as if they had been expecting this all along.

I threw myself into their arms and looked behind them to see Jonathan, who was still stuck in the staircase.

My heart drummed hard and fast, echoing its frantic song in my ears and throat. But when my brothers released me, I knelt at the bottom of the staircase, yearning to smell Jonathan's breath again and hear his words. I touched his jagged wooden spine and breathed deep. One of his eyes locked onto me, wide and hopeful.

“If you never speak to me again after this,” I whispered, “I’ll forgive you.” Then I took another deep breath, closed my eyes, and called: “Jonathan David Peterson!"

His full name punctured the air. A wild wind ricocheted down the stairs and hit me like a hug-tackle.

At first, I thought his body would break while it unfurled from the zig zag, but instead he softened into my touch, unwinding and reforming into himself. Authentic… yet, somehow different. Brighter, warmer, more mature... as if his heart was renewed into its own shining sun. More himself than he ever was before.

You are a boy and a man, I realized in awe. Just as I am a girl and a woman.

From the same eye that had been staring at me, tears fell. In those glossy brown eyes I saw myself transformed too. Fully integrated, yet fully independent.

When I looked up at the demolished staircase, my heart sank.

“Where do we go from here?” I wondered, for this was my house, not his, and now it was broken. But he had been a guest in it, for however long, and it was his choice now whether he stayed or left. I resolved to accept whatever his choice was, and let them all go as they so desired.

Just as I began to savor peace and quiet, the house quaked again, and this time it wailed on its own.

Right, I thought. I have one more name to call.

But I never named the house. How could I? I wasn’t even aware I was supposed to; Selvaggia was the one that made her, and I couldn’t even make her into a home…

And then, miraculously, Jonathan looked up and cupped his hands around his mouth. “Eliza Rose Whitestone!" There it was... the authentic voice of the man I loved.

The house paused mid-quake, and for a moment I could hear her breathing. Taking time to consider who had called her name; whether he belonged or not.

And then I understood. When I breathed deep, so did the house. When I fell apart, so did my home.

I sat on the very bottom step, the only one left, and spoke so softly, no one else could hear. “It's okay, Eliza Rose. I’m here. And I’ll never neglect you again.”