Everything We Didn't Say(64)

“Want me to wake him?” I ask, worried that the morning will erupt in drama. I’m nineteen, past the point of believing my birthday grants me special princess status, but that doesn’t mean I’m eager for a confrontation today—or any day, for that matter.

“Nah. He’ll be up soon.” Mom sounds deliberately mild, as if she’s trying to be as nonchalant as possible.

Is everyone hiding something from me? “I’ll be back,” I tell her, abandoning my peach on the butcher block.

“Where are you going?”

I mumble something in reply. I just want to be alone.



* * *



It’s a beautiful June morning, the air already warm and laced with the scent of the lindens that line our long drive. They’re in full, heady bloom right now, and the ground is littered with clumps of tiny yellow flowers like fallen stars. I breathe in deeply, trying to memorize the way the sun shines through the heart-shaped leaves and casts dappled, golden light on the gravel lane. As ready as I am to go, there are things that I’ll miss, and this view—the way the hills roll away from our farm and the sky spreads so wide and blue it seems endless—is one of them.

I don’t see Law anywhere, so he must be in the coop or in the barn, and I lean against the trunk of Mom’s car where it pokes out the back of the detached garage. There’s a breezeway between the garage and the house so that Mom doesn’t have to get wet when it’s raining or snowing, but in the summertime, we tend to leave the garage doors wide open and forgo the breezeway in favor of the porch.

Mom is fastidious about her car and keeps exactly two things in her trunk: a faded patchwork quilt for impromptu picnics in the summer and potentially hazardous road conditions in the winter, and a spare tire that she knows how to change without help from AAA. It strikes me that today is the perfect day for a picnic, and I go around to the front of her car to pop the trunk. But when I reach for the quilt, I realize the blanket is unusually high, tucked around something that’s peeking out from beneath a loose corner. I peel the fabric back and find mom’s suitcase staring back at me. It’s a gaudy, floral print that she’s had for as long as I can remember, though it usually collects dust in the attic. I haven’t seen it out in years. What’s it doing in her trunk?

It’s absolutely none of my business, but I’m so sick of people keeping things from me that I reach out and grab a corner of the suitcase. I assume it’s empty, but I can hardly lift it. The big case is clearly packed full.

Glancing over my shoulder to make sure that Lawrence is nowhere to be seen, I pull the suitcase toward me and hurriedly unzip it. I have no idea what I’m going to find, but it’s filled with the most obvious—and unexpected—things imaginable: Mom’s clothes.

Her favorite dress is on top, a soft cotton shift with a flattering silhouette and big flowers the color of ripe nectarines. She doesn’t wear it often, but she loves it and glows when she does. What in the world is it doing in here? I carefully lift the folded clothes and finger through a couple pairs of jeans, a bunch of shirts, and her well-worn cream-colored cardigan. The mesh pocket sewn into the top flap is stuffed with underwear and socks rolled neatly together, a bra in black and another in blush. Tucked in the side are a pair of canvas tennis shoes and brown leather sandals that I’ve never seen her wear before. There are enough clothes in here for a week away at least.

But Mom’s not going on vacation.

I try to yank the zipper closed, but the clothes have shifted from my probing and it won’t go. Cramming everything in, I press on the top of the suitcase to try to make the zippers line up. Something crinkles in the flat exterior pocket. I know I shouldn’t—I’m already buzzing with the fear of being caught, of having unintentionally discovered something that’s much bigger and scarier than I could have imagined—but I’ve already come this far. I unzip the outer pocket and stick my hand inside. It’s an envelope. It’s the envelope. The one with the letters from my birth dad.

All the air leaves me in a whoosh, and I’m left breathless and gasping with my head in the trunk. I try to blink the darkness away, but my vision swims anyway and I feel faint. I can’t even begin to imagine what this is all about. Why my mother has a packed suitcase hidden in the trunk of her car—the car that Law never drives, never even touches. When they go places, they take his truck, and I can’t recall a single time that I have ever seen him behind the wheel of her practical little sedan. It strikes me that if Reb was trying to hide something from him, this would be the perfect place to do it. And she’s clearly hiding things. The envelope is undeniable proof.

My hands are shaking when I finally return the envelope to its original location and force the zipper closed. I pull the blanket back over the suitcase and tuck everything in tightly, doing a better job than Mom did, so that if someone does happen to open the trunk, they can easily dismiss the lump that is her faded car blanket. I’m not sure why I’m protecting her, but I feel strongly that she needs protection, and I’m desperate to offer it.

I shut the trunk quietly, afraid to slam it and draw attention to what I’m doing. I don’t want to arouse Law’s suspicions and I don’t want Mom to know what I’ve seen. But I’m not quick or stealthy enough, because after I double-check that it’s latched and turn around, I see Law walking toward me across the yard.