The Memory Keeper of Kyiv (40)

“Mom! Being good looking doesn’t disqualify him from being a serial killer.”

Anna scoffed as the sound of Birdie’s laughter filtered out the half open door. “Oh, come on. Would you let someone you suspected of being a serial killer read to your kid? You’re awfully defensive about Nick. Maybe you like him more than you realize, and it scares you.”

The grain of truth in her mother’s glib observation momentarily stunned Cassie, and it took a few seconds for her to choke out a response. “Oh, please, that’s not it at all.”

“Uh huh, that’s what I thought,” Anna laughed.

“Moving on from that wildly inaccurate accusation”—Cassie slammed the trunk with more force than necessary—"I didn’t get the chance to tell you that I dreamt about Henry last night.”

Anna cocked her head and appraised Cassie.

“Don’t look at me like that. I know you think it’s all a bunch of crap.” Cassie grew indignant. “But it meant a lot to me that he might have visited.”

“Visited?” Anna stopped and rested her bags against the car hood. “Really, Cass?”

“Bobby said I should ask him to come to me, so I tried it. I didn’t think it would work, but maybe it did.”

Anna rolled her eyes. “You don’t really believe in all that, do you?”

Cassie tried to shrug away her mother’s cynicism, but it stung. She wanted to believe in this. “I don’t know.”

“Okay, fine. I’ll bite. What did he say?”

“Be happy. Live your life.”

Anna pressed her lips together. “I’m glad if that brought you some comfort, but my theory is that it’s your subconscious telling you that it’s okay for you to have feelings for Nick.”

“Well, I don’t have feelings for Nick, so your theory is junk,” Cassie said with more venom than necessary.

She flinched at the wounded look on her mother’s face and tried a different track. “Didn’t you ever dream about Dad?” Cassie’s father had passed away from cancer ten years earlier, and for all of Anna’s talk about moving on and finding closure, she rarely opened up about that loss.

Anna stiffened. “Of course I have dreams about your father now and then, but that doesn’t mean anything. Dreams are merely a manifestation of your subconscious.”

Cassie quirked an eyebrow. “Really, Mom?”

“I only want you to come to terms with Henry’s death in a healthy way. If stuff like this makes you feel better, fine. But it might also help if you put yourself out there. Socialize. Try to connect with people.”

“Like dating?” Cassie blew out an exasperated breath and hefted the grocery bag onto her hip. “And we’ve come full circle. I’m going inside.”





Three days later, Cassie set Birdie up at the table with paper and crayons next to Bobby and her solitaire game while she talked to the internet guy Anna had sent over.

“You guys should have internet here. It’s important to stay connected, and one day soon, you’ll want to start writing again. You’ll need to connect with your old contacts at the magazine. I’ll even pay for it,” Anna had said the other night at dinner. Cassie’s protests had fallen on deaf ears, and she’d finally given in.

“When you’re ready, you plug this into your computer.” The technician held up a cable that came out of the wall near the kitchen table. “And you’re all set. With broadband internet, you don’t have to use the phone line anymore.”

“Thank you,” Cassie said, though she couldn’t have cared less about the whole process. Her mind kept sneaking away to the box in Bobby’s closet and the note Bobby had shoved into it when she was crying. Was it another note about hiding food? Or was it something different? She didn’t want to pry, but it was time to be more aggressive in figuring out what was going on with her.

She ushered the man out, then checked on Bobby and Birdie. Both had abandoned their independent pursuits, and Bobby was teaching Birdie how to play a simple version of solitaire.

Satisfied that they were well occupied, Cassie tiptoed down the hall and into Bobby’s bedroom. “I’m doing this to help her,” she said to herself, in a vain attempt to alleviate the guilt she felt at snooping.

She slid the mirrored closet door open. Pushing aside the clothes on the shelf, she dug around until her hand hit a cardboard box. She scooted it forward and flipped through the contents: the old leatherbound journal wrapped in a long, embroidered rushnyk, a bundle of old black and white photographs in an envelope, a dozen or so loose notebook pages with Ukrainian writing on them, and the old candle and candleholder she’d first seen next to the journal.

So much information, and Cassie could decipher none of it.

The doorbell rang, and Cassie hesitated, trying to weigh the need to help Bobby against invading her grandmother’s privacy. She grabbed a handful of notebook pages she assumed wouldn’t be missed and pushed the box back behind the clothes.

“I’ll get it!” Cassie folded the papers and shoved them into her jeans pocket, then ran down the hall. Safe in the living room, she let out the breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding and, hoping her face didn’t look too guilty, pulled open the front door.