Grandma’s hand curled around mine, soft and wrinkly like a crumpled paper bag, and smelling like gardenia hand cream. “What if I could help you find it?”
Ahh, here it is. “What do you mean?”
“You need to finally consider moving in here with me.” She circled her hand. “La Jolla is one of the safest, most prestigious neighborhoods, and you’d have someone to cook for you and help with laundry while you go to class and study. You could quit that bookstore job, too. No worries about bills or money.”
“But I like working at Yellow Feather.”
Grandma sighed heavily.
“It’s a generous offer,” I said about the proposition she’d been making forever, packaging it differently each time. Tonight, it had “scary college” wrapping. “But Mom needs me. She doesn’t have anyone else.” Not even you. Not you for years.
Grandma gestured absently. “She’s chosen her way. It’s time to choose yours. It devastated me to take a hard line with her after therapy, but I had to protect my own sanity, even though she’s my daughter.”
“But—”
“Darcy, years ago, she made a few key choices of her own.”
Every single day, I lived and breathed the lingering effects of those choices. A pregnancy for Andrea Wells during her sophomore year of college—me. A literature teacher fiancé with a lucrative opportunity to teach English for a year in Thailand—except one year turned into eighteen, and a brand-new life for him.
That loss eventually turned a collector into a hoarder.
“I’m not my mother,” I told her.
“Definitely not. But you’re growing up. Sometimes that means choosing the harder, but ultimately better, path. I understand why you’ve never wanted to move in here before. Young girls need...” Grandma’s voice tripped, a certain emotion clouding her features that I couldn’t read. “Well, they need their mothers. But now it’s time to choose yourself and your future.”
And leave Mom to rot? Or drown in a sea of things and never, ever get well? “Staying is choosing myself and her—us. It’s choosing to be the one person who hasn’t abandoned her. Even though it’s hard.”
“Yes, I’m confident it’s more than hard. Grown-up choices typically come with consequences.” Grandma sipped her decaf. “You’re certainly free to continue taking care of your mother and enabling her behavior.”
I puffed out a heated breath. “I’m not enabling her. I’m trying to help her work through it.”
“Is she improving?”
“A little, yeah.” But not enough. Not yet. Worry coursed through my limbs, dull and achy.
Grandma shook her head. “Even though I don’t agree, I would respect your decision to remain with her. But you’ll have to respect those consequences I spoke of. It’s very simple. Live here, and you’ll be comfortable and worry-free. Or stay with your mother, on your own, but completely self-sufficient, too. That means your allowance will cease when you turn eighteen.” When my bottom lip dropped, she leaned in. “Don’t misunderstand me. This is not a punishment, but my checks will no longer enable your mother’s irresponsibility. Staying with her means you’re choosing to become an adult.”
An adult? Sure, the hoard had forced me to grow up and watch over my mom, but an adult was the last thing I felt like. I was still in high school!
“I’m sorry, Darcy, but adults pay their own bills. They find their own way. I wish your grandfather and I had taken this line more forcefully with your mother. We were too soft on her. Too liberal. Right here and now, you’re more capable and sensible than she ever was.” Her expression softened slightly. “But no matter where you live, you’re still entitled to the college fund we arranged for you.”
Even my grandparents’ legacy gift couldn’t stop the ache from honing cold and sharp, nicking my heart. How could she be so calm while she threatened to yank away one of the few things I could actually rely on?
While our apartment overflowed with things, Mom never seemed to buy the right things. Some days, even my most dire needs couldn’t make her snap out of her random shopping whims. Grandma’s money had helped provide my Honda and slick laptop. It bought sneakers and gasoline. Cold medicine and printer ink. The checks helped pay my insurance and cell phone bill, sometimes filling holes in my mom’s income to buy groceries. And that was quickly becoming more often than sometimes.
If I stayed with Mom at 316 Hoover, the extra money would stop. In less than thirty days.
Grandma took her last bite of chocolate torte, while my piece sat half-eaten and unwanted. “Think about it. Picture yourself in my guest room. I’ve been saving it for you, and your book collection would look lovely on the built-in shelves in there.”
I did think of that sunlit bedroom I once used as a playroom. The cushioned window box nook with its peekaboo Pacific Ocean view, jutting between rooftops and tree canopies. A quiet place to read and study. The distressed wood floors and white-paneled walls were just like the ones I imagined in the home from Little Women. And Grandma had recently added a modern walk-in closet Marisol would freak over.
Suddenly, the looming months and years grabbed tight, squeezing. Would Mom’s constant collecting plus the added stress of college be more than I could handle next year? For the first time ever, I wondered if maybe Grandma was right.
* * *
As I wearily turned my key in the lock, all I wanted to do was shut myself in my room and dump Grandma’s ultimatum into one of my books, trading it for an inky promise where evil met its rightful end. Where heartbreak always bloomed into a final kiss, no matter how many times I’d read it.
Inside our apartment, the low-toned jabber of a male newscaster hummed from the TV. My nose itched, eyes watering before I sneezed. Time to clean again. When I looked up, I noticed one of the screws securing our door chain was coming loose—nothing I’d have to call Marisol’s brother Marco to fix, fortunately. I could tighten a simple screw.
“How was dinner?” Classic Andrea Wells code for how is your wealthy grandmother who refuses to speak to me? Mom stood at the counter, her greeting card tub at her feet. She took one card from a dwindling pile and made a tally mark on a yellow legal pad.
“Grandma’s looking good. The food was yummy,” I told her. My code for same uneventfully pleasant visit as usual. Yet another lie. Sometimes I had to protect my mother from more than nosy managers and dust. I tossed my keys onto the counter and frowned at the stack of untouched mail. I ripped open the seal on the first envelope. Two words blared across the credit card statement, screaming in red ink.
I whipped around as my mother said, “I have everything here covered except Thanksgiving and Father’s Day.”
“What?”
She gestured to the virtual Hallmark store before her. “The cards. I have them for every holiday except those two.”
This was her biggest problem? The entire scope of her evening? Who even sent Thanksgiving cards nowadays? No one I knew. And Father’s Day? Of all the cards, that was the one we clearly needed. Sure. Because her father had been dead for seven years and mine was currently in Thailand with another wife and kids. A woman he’d married instead of abandoned. Babies he’d actually held when they were born.
Suddenly, I couldn’t help it. My insides sputtered like I was inhaling rage instead of dusty oxygen. “This balance has almost doubled with interest because you haven’t been paying it down.” I shoved the notice into her vision. Past Due.
“Sometimes they get away from me.” She placed another card into a pile. Jabbed a tally mark onto the pad. “I really am doing the best I can, okay?”
Your best? What about my best? When the psychologist counseled Grandma and me, did he know how much I’d despise having to act for Mom’s benefit alone? Never for mine—all to keep a mother steady and functioning. His coping plan raked through my mind.
If you push too hard, she’ll only hoard and shop more to cope. She doesn’t have the tools to deal with stress. Redirect her instead of confronting her.
<
br /> Tonight, the doctor’s words were too faint against the roar of so much more than greeting cards. One nosy neighbor could start a CPS nightmare. The steady creep of the lease deadline. A grandmother’s manipulation. This dusty, hideous home.
“Your best doesn’t pay the bills!” I flung the notice across the counter. “Your cataloging...” I reached into the tub and grabbed the biggest pile I could hold, chucking them to the ground. “It doesn’t do anything for anyone but you!”
“Oh,” she said through a breath, absorbing a jolt like the clean shock of a gunshot wound. One...two...three seconds ticked as my heartbeat knocked against my ribs. Her hands flew over her mouth as she sank to the ground.
Trembling spread across my fingers, palms aching with heat. I’d finally said it: the perfect comeback that captured everything I’d been feeling for so long.
The aftermath felt anything but perfect.
Andrea Wells chose one of the scattered cards. It had a yellow bunny with a colorful straw basket. “Easter Sunday when Darcy was four.” Her voice was almost unrecognizable—too high, too strained and wheezy. “She wore the prettiest mint-green dress with white polka dots.” She laid it carefully in front of her.
“Mom.”
She didn’t answer, didn’t even look at me. She grabbed a card with glowing votives and a holly wreath. “Christmas when there was a heat wave and Darcy was twelve. We walked barefoot at Mission Beach after she opened her gifts.” She placed the card like a chess piece.
I could only watch as she attached old memories to the new cards, my eyes welling.
She spoke directly to a card with a pink-frosted cake and candy-striped packages. “Darcy’s second birthday, when she got strawberry icing all over her jeans and her hair was long enough for spiral pigtails.”
Salty tears rolled to my chin. It was like I wasn’t even there, only snapshots of me. The chapter at my feet was too raw and overwritten, and I never wanted to read it again. But oh, I could make it stop. I could close this book, leave behind the stress, the clutter and frustration. When the clock struck eighteen, I could pack my life into the blue Honda and escape into the storybook room in Grandma Wells’s house.
But the same me couldn’t leave this scrap of carpet as my mother continued scrolling through holidays. Card after card arced into a rainbow of memory. I remembered, too—the streamers and banners that once flew over this growing hoard. Candles and dyed eggs and Halloween cat costumes.
I saw it then. On the floor wasn’t only the perseverating motion of illness, the eerie panic over a bill, soaring out of reach like a loosed balloon.
I saw a person. A mother—my mother—whom I could not, would not abandon.
Six
Treasure and Thief
“We must go on, because we can’t turn back.”
—Robert Louis Stevenson, Treasure Island
My decision meant I had to find a way to replace Grandma’s checks. I’d previously approached Mr. Winston for a few more shifts or longer weekend hours, but “Mr. Cheaperson” said he was already extending himself with the time I currently worked.
However, I still had Plan B—Tops Wig Emporium. The next day, I shuffled over from Yellow Feather during my late-afternoon break, spotting one of Tess’s favorite wigs before I all-the-way spotted her. She whirled around at the sound of my footsteps. Her long black locks mirrored the sinuous movements of her Pilates-toned body.
“Ah, right on time.” Tess dragged over an extra stool and patted it. “Be right back with our goodies.”
I sat wearily. Last night’s greeting card incident still throbbed. Mom refused to return to therapy, but maybe she’d consider another tool if I brought it up carefully, at the perfect time. I pulled out my phone, tapping in a note to research support groups later on. Surely there had to be a group in San Diego for compulsive shoppers? For...hoarders?
Tess appeared with two teacups and saucers from her collection—hers, blue with an ivory lace design. Mine was white and trimmed with pink cherry blossoms. She went back for a plate of shortbread cookies.
“Thanks, Tess.” I politely sipped her customary green tea, masking the strong earthy taste with a buttery cookie.
My companion lowered her cup and shot up again with twice the energy I could ever locate. “So, what will it be today?” she asked with a sly grin.
My insides cringed. Tess scooted to her small section of secondhand and discount wigs. We never played with the brand-new models on the wall, keeping them pristine for customers. She eyed me, holding up a shocking pink curly number.
God, please no.
“Thrilling, but we can do better,” she decided. “This one clashes with your red top.”
Yeah, that’s exactly why it was all wrong.
Next, she brandished an electric-blue, shoulder-length monstrosity with straight bangs. “Perfection!”
“Oh, we really don’t need to.” Really, really.
Too late. The wig expert already had the itchy decoration arranged on my head. For kicks—hers, always hers—she added two rhinestone clips on one side.
“Much better. If you come through my door with tired eyes and a Darcy-frown, you get a silly wig.” She sat across from me. “Now, tell me what’s going on.”
Where should I start? “Some...personal issues.”
Tess sipped tea, then said, “I’m sorry to hear that. When I was younger, I used to journal about those things. Especially the matters I couldn’t even tell my friends. It helped.”
Didn’t I already give my heartache to words and paper? “This is more of a money snag. I was wondering if you could take me on here for a few hours each week? Mr. Winston can’t give me any more shifts.”
At the mention of her ex, Tess’s nose wrinkled. “Oh dear, I’m afraid I can’t afford you either, honey. I can probably give you some temp hours around my busy time, though. Halloween’s coming. Already bumping up inventory.”
Well, it was something. But not enough to replace Grandma’s checks. I’d file it away for later, but I’d need to keep looking for a more permanent option. “It’s okay, Tess. I’ll—”
“All set, Ms. Winston.” Asher Fleet appeared in the archway leading to the rear storage rooms, the sleeves of his tan button-down shirt rolled up and a toolbox in one hand. Noticing me, his face ticked with... Disgust? Surprise? Simple recognition? I couldn’t even decipher it. Not with me sitting there with tea and cookies, looking like three-quarters of an American flag. Red boatneck tee, asinine blue wig studded with sparkly “star” clips. Apparently, I was doomed to humiliation every time I saw him.
Tess wedged herself between us, one hip kicked out. “Have you two kids met?”
“Yes,” Asher said, right when I said, “No.”
“Well, not formally,” Asher corrected at the exact time I squeaked, “Kind of.”
Tess grunt-coughed and glared at Asher. Was she trying to imply that, as a gentleman, he needed to introduce himself, already? Too late for gentlemanly manners, Mr. Darcy.
But Asher set down the toolbox and stepped close. He held out his hand and beamed tourmaline brown eyes right into mine. Half of his mouth jerked upward. “Asher Fleet. You’re still at Jefferson, right?”
He had to know the answer to that question, but maybe there were some manners buried under that nut-brown flop of hair, after all.
I accepted the hand; it wrapped around mine, warm and solid. A hint of sweat dampened the roots along his hairline. “Darcy Wells. And, yeah. I’m a senior.” With a ridiculous wig. Ugh, Tess.
Asher turned to the shop owner. “If you need more hair models, I’m game.” He smiled, cocking one brow at me. “Neon’s fine, but it’s a hard no on that rainbow clown model by the window. Oh, and you won’t need a new exhaust fan. I gave it a little cleaning, and now it’s working perfectly.”
Tess clapped her hands triumphantly. “Excellent.” She nudged her chin to the left wall of heads. “And the new shelves are fantastic. Thank you for pitching in.”
&nbs
p; Asher grabbed the toolbox. “Anytime.” He nodded once at me. Then he moved toward the door, only half turning when Tess called after him.
“Heavens,” she said. “I forgot to mention Darcy works next door at Yellow Feather.”
Over his shoulder, he caught my eye again. “Ahh, cool.”
Then he was gone, and I was trying to think of anything and everything but him, a boy with a girlfriend. A boy who hadn’t been rude this time, but... Friendly. Like a fool, my thinking parts didn’t tell my seeing parts not to notice his strong presence against the urban backdrop of University Avenue. He jaywalked with confidence, despite his slight limp. With a healing leg injury, plus a busy street, he didn’t use the crosswalk?
Tess’s oversize wall clock dragged me back to reality. “Thanks for the snacks, but I need to get back, or Mr. Winston will—”
“Yes, he will.” Tess cackled. “Hold up now, honey,” she called when I grabbed the door handle. She came around the counter and scurried over to me. Swift hands plucked the blue wig from my head.
“Oh,” I said with a nervous laugh. “How could I forget something like that?”
“I naturally come equipped with explanations for many phenomena.” She smiled a tiny bit crookedly with jewel-bright eyes. “But I might save that answer for your next break.”
I felt my cheeks blaze. Then a thought occurred to me. “Will you ever show me your real hair?”
“I might at some point.” She tossed her head, wig flipping. “Or I might not, on account of every girl needing one secret. One thing she keeps hidden, just for herself.”
Or more than one.
* * *
“No.”
This, spoken by my stylish chauffeur while she waited at our courtyard table that evening. I halted halfway down the newly rerailed staircase. “What do you mean no? It’s a beach party, not a fashion show.”
Dramatic hand splayed over Marisol’s heart. “Have I taught you nothing?”
I brandished my boyfriend jeans and navy blue sweatshirt. “Sand, bonfire and ashes...sand.”
The Library of Lost Things Page 5
