Summer of Supernovas (29 page)

Seth looks gut-punched as he swallows. “No, you don’t mean that.” But his tone is unconvincing. “You’re just upset. Come here.” He tries to pull me to his chest, but I recoil. “Baby, I’m sorry, that was stupid. Grant and me…I don’t know—we’ll figure it out. We
will.
”

And I believe him. Just not with me in the picture. I place a shaking hand to his warm chest, and gaze up through blurry eyes. “Do something for me?”

“Name it,” he whispers, wiping the tears trickling down my cheeks. “I would do anything for you.”

The part of me wanting to confess what transpired in the gardens is dominated by my awareness of the selfishness of the action. Unburdening myself at this point would only be cruel.

I pull Seth close enough to lay a kiss on his chlorine-scented cheek. “Forget me.” The two words escape like wisps of smoke; the tendrils of their meaning hold Seth in suspended animation.

Dropping the towel, I wrench the Buick’s door open, then slide behind the wheel, pulling the door shut and hitting the auto lock.

Seth pounds on my window. “Don’t do this! You’re upset…you…
don’t leave like this
! You don’t mean it! Come back, Wil!”

The floodgates open. Hot, salty tears cascade over my cheeks and fall to my chest. I throw the Buick in reverse, peeling out of the driveway.

The last image is of Grant in my rearview mirror, barefoot, his wet clothes clinging to his body. He stands beside a cypress tree under the glow of the porch lights, and watches me fade into the night.

Something’s wrong. Gram never sits idly on the porch swing without a book, or crossword, or a notepad where she’s scribbling down her latest confectionary stroke of genius. And more unsettling—she sits in darkness. I recheck the time before getting out of the car. I’m not late, even with my aimless driving and gas station pit stop. I must’ve punched that hand dryer button twenty times to get my dress somewhere in the vicinity of dry.

I gather the wads of napkins I’ve been crying in from the passenger seat, shoving them in my purse. The half-moons of mascara remain stubbornly beneath my eyes. But between night’s veil and Gram’s questionable eyesight, it’s likely she won’t notice anything amiss in my appearance anyway. Which is good, because I’m not ready to talk about it.

The front steps protest with their usual groans when I climb them. “Gram? What’re you doing out here in the dark?”

She doesn’t glance in my direction. Instead, she fixes those steely blues on the tinkling wind chime hanging from the porch ceiling. “I’m sitting here wondering where I went wrong with you, Wilamena Grace.”

“I—what?” Okay, that is about the last answer I expected, and the first to strike a whole lot of fear in the worn-out organ miraculously thumping in my chest. And she used my middle name—
Mama’s
name. That heightens my alarm more than any line on her face could. My mind flips through the possibilities like the rapid shuffle of a card deck.

She gently rocks in the swing. Patient. Waiting. Confident I’ll unpuzzle the meaning of her words. And still, she doesn’t look at me.

Then it clicks. Oh…
no.

“The dress,” I blurt, drooping against the porch railing. In my mind’s eye, I see the balled-up green dress carelessly left in my overnight bag along with all the other damning evidence.

Gram ceases her rocking. “Course, I’ve gotta ask myself what a girl who’s having a sleepover would need with a fancy dress. Do you know what I came up with?”

The question’s unwinnable. So I don’t answer.

“There
was
no girls’ night in. Was there, Wilamena? You lied to me. I trusted you, and you broke that trust with your lies.”

Beneath my haze of exhaustion are the fiery sparks of anger. I push off from the rail. “But…you went through my things! How can you sit there lecturing me about trust?”

“Child, don’t change the subject!” Gram booms.

“But—”

She holds up a hand. “No!” She takes a steadying breath. “Wilamena Grace, you are
grounded.
So grounded you’ll be tasting the dirt through summer’s end. Do you hear me?”

My anger ignites. “You can’t! Gram, you have no idea what I’ve been through tonight! None! And I’m practically eighteen! I have a right—”

“You’ve got a right?” Gram rises, her displeasure polluting the air. “Your rights ended the second you stepped foot from this house last night!” Her fists land stubbornly on her hips. “Not another word on this tonight. But believe you me, starting tomorrow there’ll be hell to pay. Beginning with the attic.”

How I’m not exploding under the duress of this injustice is an effing wonderment.
And cleaning the attic?
The cobwebby, musty, crusty attic? Good Lord, you’d think I committed murder! I toss up my hands. “So, I’m just condemned? No discussion at all?”

“You wanna keep going? Because this can get a lot worse,” Gram snaps.

I jerk open the screen door, then let it slam behind me.

Balanced high atop the ladder, I jab and sweep the broom along the corner rafters, removing an abundance of webs that coat the bristles like icky white cotton candy. I got an early jump on cleaning this morning because come noon, it’ll be hotter than Mercury’s core up here. It’s not like I was getting quality sleep anyway. I spent the bulk of the night rehashing every traumatic detail of the Walkergeddon family dinner. Maybe today, if I wear myself out physically, I’ll pass out the second my head hits the pillow.

I climb down off the ladder, nudging a box of multisized Styrofoam balls painted to look like planets out of my path. I got an A on that project and had it hung in one of the showcases at school. Gram made me Cherry Chip cupcakes in celebration.

Things were so much simpler then.

The scent of something baking drifts through the circular attic window from the kitchen below. My grandmother’s up, but we haven’t spoken. She’s been clattering around making breakfast. But I’m too mad to talk and too nauseated to eat, so I keep working.

Another hour passes. If I squint I can almost see progress up here.
Almost.
I heft a couple boxes, cautiously picking my way through the maze I’ve created. But caution only gets you so far in an attic packed with mementos that better serve as booby traps.

I trip. The precariously stacked boxes tumble from my arms.
“Ow!”
I rub my stubbed toe. Wiping the sweat from my forehead, I glare at the sheet-covered rectangular object responsible for my klutz attack.

Irritated, I give the cotton material a forceful tug. Dust immediately kicks up, forming a cloud in the air around me. I cough and fan my face. And just as the allergen particles settle—
I see it.

Gram’s old cedar chest.

My gosh
…I haven’t seen this trunk in ages! Not since I was little and she kept it at the foot of her bed. She was always shooing me away from it.

But wait a sec. Didn’t she tell me she got rid of it?

Then why is it still here?

Dropping to my knees, I run my hands along the surface of the chest, the smell of the pungent wood beckoning me. How many times had I sat as a child, wondering about the treasures…or secrets locked inside this mysterious trunk?

And now here it is, having magically appeared in the attic.

I frown, wrestling with my conscience. Breaking into the chest would be a
total
invasion of her privacy. And yet according to Gram, this chest shouldn’t even be here. Which makes it somewhat fair game, doesn’t it?

Well, that settles it.

I find a box containing old hardware, screws, and random tools, and set about jimmying the lock. My heart slams harder as I work to spring the old padlock, inserting one metal object after another to no avail. I try jiggling a bent nail in the keyhole, shifting it this way and that. “Come on,” I hiss through gritted teeth. And then…the unmistakable click, and the lock drops open.

I blow out a breath, rubbing my hands back and forth on my paint-spattered overalls before easing back to sit on my heels.

This is it. The moment of truth…

I open the lid and peer inside. Carefully I sift through the contents, mindful of their original placement. I take out stacks of old letters—many from my grandfather, who died before I was born. The envelopes have begun to yellow and the ink bleeds. I find a copy of the Old Testament, a locket with a stern and weathered face I don’t recognize, and a handkerchief with the initials
AEC
stitched in blue. And there are photos—lots and lots of photos—depicting a past Gram rarely revisits.

I dig and dig and dig until I am near the bottom of the chest. And so far, I have found
exactly
what you’d expect in an old trunk—precious keepsakes. Family heirlooms. Nothing more, nothing less.

I pinch the bridge of my nose to stave off a looming headache.

What am I doing? There’s no mystery in this chest. Here I am picking locks and pawing through Gram’s personal effects, and for what? To satisfy some silly childhood obsession?

Well, mission accomplished, and I still feel like crap.

Folded at the bottom of the trunk, I find the peach-colored blanket Mama and I used to lie on when we watched the sky. I pull it out, holding it under my nose, breathing in the sharp cedar scent. Of course there’s no lingering trace of my mother in the fabric. But I try to find it anyhow. Try to catch even the faintest whiff of that soft floral fragrance that used to perfume her hair and skin.

Nothing.
I feel a pang of emptiness. It would be unbearable if not for the stars. Because at least they tether my mother and me in a sacred bond. A bond that transcends even death.

I lower the blanket, glimpsing the last remaining item in the chest—an old hatbox. Pulling it out, I sit cross-legged on the attic floor and lift the lid. I expect more letters from my grandpa.

I don’t expect to see stacks of letters addressed to me. I blink in disbelief, fingering through the colorful envelopes interspersed with official-looking bank letters.

What? Why would Gram have kept these from me? Why would she bury them at the bottom of her trunk? Why would—?

I shake my head. There’s only one way to make sense of this.

I pull a pink envelope randomly from the pile. There’s an Arizona return address and my name scrawled in sloppy writing on the front. I tear into the paper. My stomach clenches at the sound, a cold sweat cropping up at my hairline.

It’s a birthday card decorated with bursts of metallic stars. A twenty-dollar bill floats to the floor as I open it.

Happy Birthday, Mena!

I don’t know if this card will ever reach you, but I continue to send them in the Hopes that one day they will. My birthday wish for you is the same as it always is—I wish for your happiness.

I smile as I imagine you blowing out those birthday candles and wonder what you’re wishing for. Do you have a favorite cake? A favorite ice cream? You must be such a big girl by now. And every bit as beautiful as your mama was.

There’s so much I wish I could tell you. There’s so much I wish I knew.

Maybe someday I’ll have that precious chance.

But no matter what, I will always love you, Mena.

Daddy

The attic swirls around me; the high ceiling presses down. I close the birthday card Gram never intended for my eyes and, with trembling hands, reach for another.

It’s more of the same. Wishes of happiness and second chances and wanting to be here in some big or small way.

I rip through more envelopes, devouring every word.

Year after year of birthdays and holidays blur together. Lost years. Lost wishes.

Lost.

And I find myself gravitating to one card more than all the others, like the magnetic needle of a compass pointing due north. I pick it up again; the glitter sticks to my sweaty fingers. It’s the card where my father tells me how pretty I looked with the purple ribbons in my hair.