Mothered (21)

14


With stealth on her mind, she tiptoed upstairs. Had Jackie done this too? Taken advantage of Grace’s absences to have a little look-and-see? She stepped into her mom’s room, already with a target in mind. While helping with the boxes, Grace had become familiar with the general inventory of her mother’s belongings. But everyone had secret (if not naughty) things tucked away in drawers, or precious things stashed in a closet for safekeeping. That’s where Grace started—the closet—as she knew her mother still had the special plastic tub full of Hope’s keepsakes.

She wasn’t looking for anything in particular; it wasn’t as if she expected Jackie’s belongings to disclose a shattering revelation. But she liked to know what made people tick and preferred to make her observations from the safe ground of anonymity. Several pairs of shoes were stacked on top of the plastic tub. Grace made a note of what order they were in before taking them off and sliding the box out of the closet. She plopped herself down on the floor and popped the lid off.

In spite of telling herself she had no expectations, Grace’s first reaction upon opening the tub was disappointment. She’d thought an aroma might waft out, a spicy scent that would transport her back to Hope’s bedroom-in-the-dining-room. It had crossed her mind more than once that some of her recent dreams might have been subconsciously triggered by the nostalgic smells her mother had brought with her. But the inside of the bin only smelled of old paper.

As Grace gently sifted through the keepsakes, careful not to damage or rearrange anything, she was let down again: the entirety of the tub held only Hope’s mementos. Report cards. School photos. Scribbly drawings. Mother’s Day cards—yes, including the one they’d made with Grace’s magical paper.

Young Grace had known that Mommy only cherished Hope’s things. Especially after Hope’s death, Grace had understood the importance of preserving these last bits of her sister. But she’d always wondered if later something of Grace’s had been saved too. But no.

If judging by these relics, Jacquelyn had only ever had one daughter.

At the bottom of the tub was a smooshed cardboard shirt box, the kind people used when giving a gift of clothing swaddled in tissue paper. To open the shirt box, Grace had to lift out the rest of the memorabilia. In slow motion, she placed the stack beside her, begging it not to tumble over.

She couldn’t guess what might be in the box within a box but assumed it must be something important. A birth certificate? A death certificate? A precious piece of clothing from Hope’s infancy? When she lifted the lid, she found Mona.

Paper doll Mona, in one of her fine dresses.

Paper doll Mona, with her crayon orange hair and big cornflower eyes. Grace searched beneath Mona’s paper wardrobe, a stack of ball gowns that Grace herself had cut and colored, but Rona wasn’t with her.

Grace frowned. Mona’s presence made her miss Rona in a way that wasn’t logical but bruised her heart nonetheless.

Unable to handle any more memories, Grace packaged Mona into her cardboard sarcophagus and returned it to the tub. Less carefully than she’d taken everything out, she dumped it all back in. This was a waste of time; this was old news. She got to her feet and shoved the tub back into the closet, replaced the shoes atop it, and shut the door.

The digital clock beside the bed said Hurry Up; Jackie would be home soon.

The dissatisfaction of the search thus far made Grace more eager to find something of genuine interest. She considered all the framed pictures on the wall, hung with Victorian abundance. People hid things in frames. Hadn’t someone found an original copy of the Declaration of Independence tucked behind a painting? In movies rich people often used a painting to hide the safe where they stashed their jewelry, cash, handguns. Jackie, a two-time widow, was comfortable financially, but she hadn’t sneaked a safe in with her hastily packed things—or carved a space for one in the wall. It was tempting to turn each painting over, but Grace was concerned about the time and the likelihood of leaving evidence of her snooping. If she rushed she might accidentally leave something askew.

It seemed barely worth the effort, being such a cliché, but she went to her mother’s dresser next and started riffling through the drawers. And much to her delight, she found something she’d never seen before: a small wooden box, the sort of thing she imagined might hold a medal. Had it belonged to Glen? Or Robert? She knew Robert had served in Vietnam, and afterward he protested against the war. Grace had always wondered if pothead Ollie had learned his bad habits at home; Robert may have clung to youthful pleasures beyond his preference for ’60s rock.

The box wouldn’t open. At first Grace thought it was just stuck together, the wood swollen from years of Florida humidity. But then she saw the teeny hole where a teeny key would fit. She grinned. Held the box to her ear and shook it. Nothing rattled. She considered its weight in her hand. Light. Maybe too light to contain anything solid, like jewelry or a medal.

She drummed her fingers against the lid’s dark wood and looked around the room. Where might her mother have hidden a tiny key? No one who wanted to preserve a really good secret would keep the key too close at hand.

Maybe Mom has a stash. The thought made Grace laugh. In modern times, that wasn’t something that needed to be hidden away.

Downstairs, someone was pushing and pulling at the front door, but it wouldn’t budge. Grace was out of time.