The Wrong Kind of Quiet

I knock on the door with my two kids beside me, unsure why we have come here or why this feels like the only place left to go. This is my grandparents apartment, two bedrooms and one and a half baths, familiar in layout but distant in memory. My aunt lived here until recently, but now she and her children are gone. That alone feels strange because she never worked and my grandfather paid for everything.

When my grandmother opens the door, a musty smell drifts out, the kind that clings to old thrift stores and forgotten closets. They welcome us in, but something in their faces tightens when they see the kids. They do not ask why we are here, and they do not acknowledge that they have never met my children before. Instead, they insist we take their bedroom, the one with the larger bathroom attached.

I hug them hello, and the discomfort hits me hard, a sudden wave like stepping into cold water. I have not seen them in so long, and the distance between us feels heavier than their furniture.

Their room is neat and carefully kept. A large bed dominates the space, surrounded by heavy wooden dressers and matching nightstands. Only one lamp glows on my grandfathers side of the bed. A broom stands in the corner, like my grandmother had been sweeping the carpet right before we arrived. The bathroom is clean, the shower curtain pulled neatly across the tub, the white floor mat bright and spotless. The mat catches my attention, too clean and too white, especially considering my aunts kids, who were always wild and without boundaries.

I bring the kids into the bedroom and start gathering our things from wherever they were. I am still in shock and feel disoriented, unsure what to do other than get everyone settled and ready for sleep. The kids are not speaking to me, and I know it is going to be a long night. I send the oldest to shower first just to get a few minutes of quiet. The youngest wanders the room touching everything and eating a shredded cheese sandwich my grandmother handed them.

I stack our bags along the wall. When I look out into the hallway, I notice a light on toward the back of the apartment where the second bedroom is. I decide to check in with my grandparents before bed. The door is open all the way. My grandfather is lying across the mattress on his stomach. My grandmother stands against the wall on the opposite side of the bed, staring out the window into the dark. Neither of them acknowledges me. The silence creeps under my skin, and I back out of the room and return to the bedroom, closing the door quietly.

The oldest finishes showering and gets dressed to go with me to the basement to do laundry. The youngest goes in next. We take all the laundry we brought and head downstairs. I do not have money for the machines, so we take some coins from the valet tray near the entryway where my grandfather empties his pockets. We have soap and about ten bags of laundry. We start sorting everything into washers and feed coins into the machines until the lights turn on.

A group of people arrives and begins climbing the double stacked dryers, shoving their clothes into the unused washers. They do not speak. They do not look at us. They just move around us like we are not even there.

That is when I remember the youngest is still upstairs in the shower. I grab the oldest and we rush back to the apartment. I do not remember the trip back, only the moment we enter and find the youngest still in the shower with water all over the floor. They did not know the curtain was supposed to go inside the tub. There is only one towel for the three of us. I do not want to upset my grandparents, so I push the floor mat against the tub and tuck the liner inside to stop the water. The mat absorbs the spill. The youngest gets out and dressed, and we head back to the basement to move the laundry to the dryers.

The basement is empty now. I find a ladder tucked around a corner and climb up to reach the dryers on stilts. The kids hand me the clothes and I drop them into the strange chute doors. I start feeding coins into the machines when the same group of people returns. They stand in front of the dryers, silent, jangling coins in their hands.

We go back upstairs. I feel dazed, like I am drifting instead of walking. The kids are still upset and silent. Staying with my grandparents feels like too much. When we enter the apartment, my grandmother is sweeping the kitchen floor. She does not look at us. My grandfather sits in his chair reading what I assume is his bible. He does not look up either. Their stillness makes me think we should leave.

I get the kids into the bed and they fall asleep. I sit at the foot of the bed and try to clear my mind. Then I remember the laundry. I wake the kids and we go back downstairs to retrieve it. We fold everything and return to the apartment. The sun is rising. We decide to clean up the room and leave.

As I am packing, I bend down to pick up crumbs from the sandwich. When I look under the bed, there is nothing but shredded cheese. How did cheese get under the bed. I look at the youngest and they shake their head and ignore me. I let it go. We will thank my grandparents and leave.

We step into the kitchen. My grandmother is sweeping again. I tell her we are leaving. She keeps sweeping and glances back at me. My grandfather sits in his chair reading his book. I say goodbye. He nods without looking up.

We gather everything and walk out of the apartment. Somehow we end up back in the laundry room. I realize we must have missed a dryer. I get the ladder, climb up, empty it, and we head for the stairs again.

But when we reach the top, we are standing in front of my grandparents apartment. Again.

I look at the kids. They look back at me. No one moves. The hallway feels too quiet, like the air is holding its breath.

Something is wrong. Something has been wrong since the moment we walked in.

The sweeping. The way she never looked at me. My grandfather reading the same page every time I saw him.

My grandparents have been dead for decades.

So who was in that apartment.

I look at the kids and they are just standing there, waiting for me to understand.

And I do.

We are dead too.

And the worst part is, the apartment is still waiting for us to come back inside.