Mothered (55)

Coco meowed a question at her as she crossed back through the dining room—likely having to do with the inadequate amount of food in her bowl.

“I’m going upstairs? Want to come?” Without waiting for the cat to answer, Grace scooped her up and, with one glance back at her mother on the porch, headed upstairs.





34


Guilt plucked a sour note in Grace’s resolve as she stood in her mother’s doorway. She wouldn’t want anyone snooping through her own crap . . . But then again, it was Grace’s house—the room was technically hers. She left the door wide open intentionally—the better to pass off her ruse—and set the bucket and the cat on the floor. Coco uttered a disgruntled yowl and fled back downstairs.

“I know. It really does stink in here.” Grace squirted Febreze over the bed. And for good measure, spritzed the air around the room.

The entire mission would be pointless without the little wooden box. Grace checked the dresser drawer where she’d first found it, and there it was between the folds of a soft cable-knit sweater. For now, she left it atop the dresser. She surveyed the room. Where would her mother put the tiny key? It might depend in part on the magnitude of the secret held within the box. For easy access, the jewelry box would be a logical place to store it.

Compared to her own jewelry chest—an antique-store monstrosity that overflowed with every style of bauble Grace had ever liked, from the classy to the garish—Jackie’s collection was prim and proper. Grace could barely remember if “Mommy” had worn jewelry when she was little. Hope would know. (Not helpful.) Petite faceted gems glittered from their tidy rows: gold chains with sparkly but subtle pendants; a tennis bracelet with Xs and Os; gold stud earrings with modest diamonds or emeralds; hoop earrings in different sizes. It was all so sedate and refined. Was Jackie sedate and refined? Most of the pieces, Grace imagined, were gifts from Glen and Robert—for her birthday or their anniversary. Perhaps Valentine’s Day?

Grace felt like an archaeologist, discovering an unknown person from her mother’s belongings. Here was a woman who had turned her back on her hardworking, low-paying younger life. This woman wasn’t broken by loss and didn’t have to spend her days and nights mucking up bodily waste. The jewelry box revealed what Jackie would wear to show her Florida friends that she was comfortable financially, without ever being ostentatious. The pieces might have served as periodic reminders that the men she married had honored her and provided for her better than Paul No-Last-Name ever could have. Jackie’s treasures were fine pieces, items with true value. They had durability in a way Grace’s things did not.

She glanced around the room, appreciating her mother’s furnishings differently than she had before. The headboard, nightstands, dresser. They were wood, solid, made to last. As were the hodgepodge of frames on the wall. In contrast, Grace bought cheap things at IKEA or trendy things online. And now that she looked closer, the pictures that she’d called “reproductions” were numbered prints.

Was her mother’s evolution a product of age? Or of marrying and changing her lifestyle? Grace rejected the likelihood that this more genteel version of Jackie had always lurked within her; neither Jackie nor Grace had grown up in a home with artwork or heirlooms. Perhaps this explained why her mother felt okay about judging her, having acquired the solidity of enduring things.

I have artwork. Did Miguel’s paintings count? Or wasn’t he famous enough?

Grace hadn’t meant to get so distracted. The missing key wasn’t in the jewelry box, and that was good: Jackie hadn’t intended for the box’s contents to be accessible to everyone. A secret needed better precautions.

Coco meowed from the doorway but wouldn’t come into the room. Guilt plucked another bitter note as Grace heard an accusation in the cat’s sharp tone: Shouldn’t you be checking on my daddy? That’s what a good friend would do—it’s what Grace intended to do, right after she found what she was looking for. The cat sprawled on her side just beyond the door, her tail flicking, her eyes on Grace. Judgmental eyes—and tail. Or so it felt.

Back to the task at hand. Grace was overwhelmed by her options and couldn’t figure out where to start. In a movie, a key might be taped beneath a drawer. Or it could be in a more random place that Grace would never find: rolled in with a pair of socks, hidden in a medication bottle, pinned to the inner lining of a coat. That line of thinking was only going to frustrate her, so she started with the nightstands.

Each had one shallow drawer. The nightstand on the far side of the bed must have been Robert’s, its contents untouched since he died. A man’s reading glasses, flecked with dandruff. A couple of paperback books. A key ring—with full-size keys. A little tub of Vicks VapoRub. One hearing aid. A black comb. The drawer pulled out easily, and Grace raised it over her head to examine the bottom without disturbing the contents. Nope, nothing there.

Her mother’s drawer was even less interesting. A datebook from the previous year. A travel pack of Kleenex. A wristwatch. Several ancient tubes of lip gloss. A few pens. An old phone charger. Once again, Grace lifted the drawer to check the underside. Once again, nothing but a panel of grainy wood.

The dresser was the obvious place to try next, though Grace was pretty sure she couldn’t hoist the drawers without emptying them, and that seemed too risky. Instead of rummaging through them (having done that the first time she poked around her mother’s room), she pulled each drawer out one at a time and crouched to examine it. Nothing, nothing, and nothing. But the lowest drawer was a problem; even if she lay on her back, she wouldn’t be able to see the entire bottom. A flashlight might help, but she didn’t have one handy. That would be a good thing to keep in a bedside table.