PodCastle 742: The Morning House

* Author : Kate Heartfield

* Narrator : Kaitlyn Zivanovich

* Host : Matt Dovey

* Audio Producer : Devin Martin

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PodCastle 742: The Morning House is a PodCastle original.

Content warning for dementia

Rated PG-13

The Morning House

By Kate Heartfield

“This B&B; is frankly unacceptable,” Dad says. “I want to go home.”

Sylvia freezes, runs through all the things she shouldn’t say.

You are home, Dad.

No, don’t argue. Never argue. Rule number one. Don’t dismiss. Get into his world, because he can’t get into yours.

Don’t you remember? You bought this house before I was born. You and Mom.

Don’t mention Mom, for God’s sake. Maybe today he doesn’t know she’s dead.

I know you think it’s a bed and breakfast, but this is actually your house. We all live here, now. Me and Kayla and David and you, together. Remember, Dad? Remember? We moved in with you, in March, after the diagnosis. But this is still your house.

Geez, Dad had said that to her, once. Years ago. When she was eight. “This is still your house, Sylvia.” She’d been sitting down at the bottom of the sloping lawn, by the cast-iron arbour. Her butt was wet from the grass but she refused to come in. She was waiting for someone to come through that arbour and take her away to the Mirror House, where everything was the same, but better. In the Mirror House, Mom and Dad always got along. They weren’t getting a divorce. Sylvia didn’t have to stay in Vancouver. The Mirror House was her home. But the real house wasn’t. Not anymore. She was moving away with Mom.

Dad sat with her quietly for a long time — he was younger then, bigger. He sat in the wet grass and just let the silence stretch. At last, he said, “This is still your house, Sylvia.”

She shook her head. “Not this one.” She looked through the arbour, at the fence beyond.

“Ah.” A long pause. “The old story about the house that’s just like ours. Well, maybe there will be a special other house in Vancouver too.”

“It’s not imaginary. I’m not making it up.”

“I didn’t say you were, sweetheart.”

“Then why don’t you believe it exists?”

Dad pulled a blade of grass, thought for a while. It was getting dark. Time for dinner, with Mom and Dad, and everyone would be polite. Sylvia didn’t want dinner.

Finally, Dad said, “There’s this principle in science called Occam’s Razor. It basically means that when we ask whether something’s true, we try to work with what we already know. I already know that when I look through that arbour, I see a wooden fence. I know many other people also see a fence, right? So how can I explain that you see a house there?”

“I don’t see a house there. Only sometimes.”

“Right, OK. Well, I could imagine all kinds of reasons why there might be a house there sometimes, but I think the simplest explanation is that it’s a house that only you can see. Which doesn’t mean you’re making it up.”

She thought about this for a while. “What does it have to do with shaving?”

He was puzzled. “What do you mean?”

“The razor.”

“Oh, ha, right. Well, it’s because you’re shaving away extra bits that you would need to assume for your theory to be true. Like my beard.” He put his hand to his face. “Needs a shave, actually. Want to feel?”

She put her hand to his stubble and smiled despite herself. It was very bristly.