There was one month left until Christmas. Snow was on the ground, and school was canceled, something teachers figured beforehand, so they sent us home with paperwork and books.
I placed all my work back in a folder and looked at the time. Nine.
Clara was cleaning the floors. First, she had swept, and now she was mopping every crevice and corner she could get to.
"Do you need help?" I asked.
She glanced up and placed a hand on her hip. "I'm almost done... If you want, you could dust?"
I nodded and took up the duster. Not that there was much to dust. We had no bookshelves, hardly any furniture except for a love seat we had found and a dining table and three chairs.
I cleaned the kitchen cabinets. Using a chair to get onto the countertop.
I glanced back at Clara from time to time. She cleaned a lot, it helped distract her mind from other things. And there was always this certain look she got on her face. Her brow would furrow, and her eyes looked clouded in sorrow.
I would ask if she ever wanted to talk. She stared at me or the floor, thinking it over, before she would finally shake her head and respond. "I'm okay."
I knew very little of everything Clara went through. Especially that upstairs room. Once I turned of age, I knew what took place up there. I was confused and scared, but I never experienced what Clara had.
Sometimes, I could thank my own disobedience for it, but most of the time, it was Clara, and for her, I would forever be grateful for.
She would never tell me what went on. If she did, it was one word sentences that were indiscernible.
"Clara," I tried, putting down the duster. "Do you want to talk?"
She looked back at me and looked down, staring at the floor. "I'm okay."
I stared at her, noticing the way she tried to mask the fear in her eyes, and I almost wanted to ask again, before there was a knock on the front door.