“But you didn’t know, and once you found out, you did everything for me. Now I’m an adult. So you’ve got to back off and let me live my life, and it wouldn’t hurt for you to get one of your own while you’re at it. Besides, I don’t even remember the shed.” Not much of it anyway. Only around the dark, dark edges—a flash of memory here and there. In truth, she had very little recall of the years in the cabin—but the past was always there, lying in wait. She did have a few good memories, and she clung to them for dear life. “What I remember is Mother reading to me and singing. She had such a pretty voice.”
“I hope she still sings. But we don’t know if she ran off or… or…” her aunt’s throat worked “… if someone hurt her, they might still come after you. I don’t mean to scare you, but I’d rather you be frightened and safe than carefree and in danger.”
“That makes absolutely no sense. I wish you could hear your words with my ears. When I was a little girl—”
“They found you unconscious in the woods, half-starved and totally dehydrated, hands bloodied and blistered from digging yourself out of a shed with a tin can. So if I’m protective, you can’t blame me.”
“I get that. I do. When I was a child, when you first took me in, this whole someone dangerous is out there thing made sense. But that was twenty years ago. There’s nothing to be afraid of anymore.” Her heart quivered in her chest, making her even more determined to convince—for her own sake as well as her aunt’s. “No one is coming for me. No one is watching.”
Once in her bedroom, Mia closed the door, wishing again for a lock, something her aunt would never allow. She hurried across the room and knelt in front of her mother’s hope chest, placed both hands on the lid and then jerked them away. Years had passed since she’d touched this relic because, along with old clothes and coloring books, it contained memories she’d didn’t want to face.
But it was those very memories that made her mother’s hope chest the perfect hiding place for Celeste’s keys.
No need to padlock a box that could kill your soul with its contents.
And it wasn’t only Mia who acted like the thing was cursed.
Aunt Misty would rather hand a serial killer an engraved invitation to tea than go poking around in that chest from the cabin in the woods. It must’ve been hard for her to stomach having it in her home, but a social worker told her Mia might want it someday.
That chest was all she had left of her mother.
Mia reached out, once more, laying her hands on the lid. Her nails dug into the cedar, releasing an odor that took her back to a time and place when life was made bearable only by her love for her mother, and her innocent faith that things were going to get better.
Steeling herself, Mia pushed up.
The lid resisted, but eventually creaked open.
She felt the braces lock into place and closed her eyes.
She counted to ten, then twenty.
Don’t be a baby.
Who knew how long she had before Aunt Misty would barge through the door, eager to resume their argument?
Mia opened her eyes and swatted away the dust motes. There, before her, lay Breezy—a half-eviscerated teddy bear with one eye and no nose. Her childhood friend should’ve brought a smile, or a tear, but she only shivered from a prickle of cold. She lifted a folded shift, a pair of child’s pajamas, some patched clothes that didn’t ring a bell. Was she the same girl who’d worn these? Her skin felt numb, her palms clammy, but this was nothing compared to the cold sweats she experienced every time she imagined opening the lid to her past.
Her shoulders relaxed.
Maybe the old saying was true.
Nothing to fear but fear itself… or getting caught with a missing woman’s keys.
She yanked her purse off her shoulder and crammed her hand inside, searching for the pom-pom keyring. Once found, she laid it on the bottom of the chest and began tossing clothes on top, until eventually, inevitably, the past came crashing over her.
Suddenly, she couldn’t breathe.
Gazing down, she took in the mess she’d made. Breezy’s legs stuck straight up from a pile of wadded shirts. A woman’s cotton smock with blue roses careened over the side. The smell of Mommy’s perfume filled the room—but that had to be Mia’s imagination. Her mother’s scent couldn’t possibly survive twenty years stuffed in a box, could it? She rocked back on her heels, pulse thumping in her throat. As her head cleared, she spied an object at the bottom of the chest: a shiny paper square wedged in a corner crevice, only a sliver of it visible.
She squinted at its white border. It looked like…
Was that an old Polaroid?
Careful not to tear the fragile paper, she worked the photo loose: a young girl, she must’ve been around five or six, wearing socks and a too-big dress, probably from the Salvation Army or handed down from a neighbor.
Mia’s hand began to shake. All the photos Aunt Misty had of her were either from before or after Mia and her mother lived in the cabin. Studying the little girl’s eager smile, Mia blinked hard. She’d never seen a picture of herself at this age before. She didn’t even know what she looked like back then. There were far too many things she didn’t know—like what had really happened to her mother.
Reaching up, she wiped away a tear.
Maybe it was time to stop hiding from her past.
Maybe it was time to start looking for it instead.
Six
Tuesday
Unlike Aunt
