“Just one?”
“If you knew what you wanted, one is all you’d need, baby.”She caressed my cheek and tucked a knot of dark curls behind mylittle ear.
I smiled at my mother and looked back out toward the water,so certain, even at that delicate age, of what I wanted.“I’d wish to sail away on an adventure and fallin love with a prince!”
Mom laughedand kissed my cheek. “Always remember that you don’t need a princeto have the adventure of your dreams, Dianna, baby.”
“I know, Mommy.” I grinned up at her. “But it would be morefun with someone to share it with.”
My eyes filledwith tears at the memory. God, I loved my mother. She was unlikeanyone I’ve ever known. She loved relentlessly, was never angry,and dreamed of things no one could ever fathom. I used to be justlike her. It’s funny, really, removed for so long from my father’srealist personality and infinite sadness... I somehow managed tobecome just like him.
I decided totake a break.
After checkingmy phone to see if John had replied yet and frowning when I saw hestill hadn’t, I wandered out to the kitchen, hoping there wassomething in the fridge and lucked out with a bottle of water andan apple fruit cup. I wondered what he was doing. I’d been gone fornearly a day and he never replied or called me yet. Thethree-and-a-half-hour time change was a pain, yes, but still. Iquickly punched in a short text to say hi and remind him to callme.
I wandered thehouse, slurping back the pureed apples and taking note of all thethings I still had to go through. Approaching the base of thelarge, dark staircase, I ascended upstairs to see what awaited me.My parent’s room was surprisingly decent. It seemed that Dad keptthings the way I remembered, only a couple of small boxes sat nextto his side of the bed. The image made me frown as the thought ofhim still sleeping on his side, after all these years, popped in myhead.
I moved on tomy childhood bedroom and peeked my head inside. My heart sank whenI found nothing but a glorified storage locker. Boxes, trunks,totes, and bags filled the space. I stepped inside and opened theflaps of one of the cardboard cartons marked with my name andsmiled.
To anyoneelse, it would have appeared to be a collection of random thingstossed inside, but I knew the items. My parents took me to St.John’s one year, I was no more than eight or nine years old. Wealways took a trip each Summer, after tourist season died down andright before school started. That year, we went to Signal Hill. Itrained so hard. I was so bummed that we couldn’t do any of thehiking trails, so Mom and Dad took me to a gift shop and boughtjust about everything in it.
I smiled atthe memory as I pulled out a key chain; a tiny snow globe hung fromit with a model of Signal Hill inside. I fished the house key frommy pocket and attached it to the trinket before stuffing it back inmy jeans.
Ifinished my fruit cup and tossed the empty container in thebathroom trashcan before heading back downstairs. As I descended, Icould feel a chill in the air, as prominent as the silence whichfilled the rooms, so I made my way over to the woodstove and stokedthe near-dead fire. The coals were still piping hot, and the glowyred came back to life as I poked it with the metal rod. I grabbedanother log and tossed it in. While I waited for the flame to takeit, something caught my eye. Alone box, sitting on the dining room table just a fewfeet away.
I closed theheavy iron door of the woodstove and latched the handle beforemaking my way over to the table and realized the box was, in fact,a small trunk, one of those of my mother’s that I adored in mychildhood. Pure moonlight filled the space, the orange blaze of thesleepy sun now gone, replaced by the cool white glow of the massiveAugust moon blaring in through the picture window next to thetable.
The trunk, anold leather-covered box about the size of a small carry-onsuitcase, didn’t jog my memory at all. I wondered where Mom hadthis one poked away. And, why was it there, all alone, on my Dad’sdining room table?
My fingers ranover the rough surface, taking note of the once dark red leatherand how it had weathered into a murky brown over who knows how manydecades. Along the edges, near the seams, I could see hints of thedeep, rust color it once sported. Hand-forged brass tacks decoratedthe edges and matched the heavy lock at the center.
Thetrunk was small, but beautiful, and should be easy enough to takeback on the plane. I decided, then, that I would fill it with thethings I wanted to keep for myself and leave the other piles for myaunt to distribute as I saw fit. But my idea stopped short when Irealized the lock was, in fact, locked and there was no keyin sight.
“Great,”I said with an exhausted sigh and glanced around the room. All thebuilt-in shelves, nooks and crannies, where the heck would I findsomething as small as a key? And one specifically for that chest?My mother had hundreds of old keys lying around; some for her manychests and cabinets, some decorative, and others she was too scaredto throw away in case they belonged to something she’d need in thefuture. “Come on, Dad. You had this one out for a reason. Where didyou put the key?”
I beganto wander, feelingaround on high shelves, running my hands along the tops ofcabinets. I found a load of dust bunnies, a few crumpled upreceipts, and three paper clips. But no key. Then I remembered atin of them I’d found earlier, in Mom’s office, and ran to grab it.It was heavy for itssmall size and plunked down on the marble-topped table with a clank thatresounded through the dead silent
