The Fourth of July Portrait

On the morning of the Fourth of July, 2023, I was trying to get my two kids ready for the town parade. My son, Leo, age five, was already dressed in his red-white-and-blue tee, but my daughter, Mia, age two, was being stubborn. She sat on the floor of our living room, clutching a plastic firetruck, refusing to put on her sandals. Our new house, a fixer-upper in the rural town of Ashford, still smelled of paint and old wood, and the long hallway leading to the bedrooms was lined with boxes we hadn’t unpacked. I was exhausted from the move, but I had promised the kids we’d see the fireworks.

I knelt beside Mia and said, ‘Sweetie, we need to put on your shoes so we can go see the big trucks.’ She ignored me, staring at the front window, her brow furrowed. I tried again. ‘Mia, come on, the parade will start soon.’ She turned to me, her eyes wide, and said, ‘Nana here.’ She pointed to the front door. My heart skipped a beat. My husband’s mother, who we called Nana, was on a cruise in Alaska that week, thousands of miles away. ‘No, honey, Nana’s on a boat,’ I said, trying to mask my unease. She insisted, ‘Nana here,’ and pointed again. I rubbed her shoulder. ‘We’ll see her next month, I promise.’ But Mia tugged on my hand and pulled me down the hallway, past the stacks of boxes, until she stopped at a framed photograph propped against the wall. It was an old picture of my own grandmother, Elena, who had passed away in 2015 when I was pregnant with Leo.

I hadn’t hung it yet, and it was buried under a pile of books. Mia touched the glass and said, ‘Nana. She says the smell is strong until the floor is sealed.’ I felt a chill. The floor in the hallway was fresh plywood, still bare, and there was a strange odor we’d noticed since we moved in, like wet earth and burnt sugar. My husband had chalked it up to the previous owner’s cooking, but I knew better. My grandmother had loved to bake and had always smelled of vanilla and cinnamon. The house sat on the edge of a forgotten orchard, and the realtor had warned us it was built on an old settlement site, but we were desperate for space. I dismissed it as a child’s fancy, but the term ‘sealed floor’ kept nagging at me.

Later that afternoon, after the parade, I decided to inspect the floor. Under the area where Mia had pointed, I found a loose plank. My heart raced as I pried it up, revealing a dark crawlspace. Inside, lit by a shaft of light from a small vent, was a mason jar containing a lock of gray hair and a medal from World War II. The name ‘Elena’ was scratched on the medal. I recalled that my grandmother had once mentioned her younger brother, who went missing in ’45. The house gave me the creeps, and I felt like we were intruding. I called my mother, who lived three hours away, and she told me that my grandmother had always said, ‘The dead don’t rest until their bones are under the house.’ I didn’t understand then.

That night, after the fireworks, I put Mia to bed. She seemed agitated, mumbling about ‘the lady under the floor.’ I tried to soothe her, but she suddenly sat up and said, ‘She says she’s not lost, but you are.’ A knot formed in my stomach. I decided to burn the jar in the backyard firepit, thinking it would cleanse the house. As I threw it into the flames, the fire turned green for a split second, and I heard a weak rumbling from beneath the house. The next morning, the smell was gone, but every mirror in the house had a single handprint on it, too small for an adult. I searched for my kids, and found Leo in the kitchen, staring at his reflection, humming a tune I recognized as my grandmother’s lullaby. Mia was in her crib, pointing at the ceiling, saying ‘She’s happy now. She’s home.’ I looked up, and there, in the water stain on the ceiling, was the face of a woman, serene and smiling. I closed my eyes, and when I opened them, the stain was gone, but I could feel the house settle around us, as if it had finally accepted us. Sometimes, at night, I hear footfalls in the hallway, and I know it’s her, walking her rounds, keeping us safe. But that doesn’t stop me from checking the mirrors every morning, half-expecting to see a second face beside mine.