by Mere Joyce
Thomas joins his brother and pulls out the final box. I walk over to them, prepared to open the flaps and find bulky sweats and snow pants folded away for the cold temperatures of the coming months.
The boxes have no descriptions on them, save a name on the top of each written in a careful, though still messy, hand.
Julie.
“Who’s Julie?” Kayla asks.
Forrester shrugs, looking more perplexed than before. “I have no idea.”
He bends down next to one box, pulling at the edge of the tape sealing it shut while Thomas uses his keys to pry off the tape on the second one and Allison uses some kind of penknife to slice open the third. Inside of all three boxes are clothes — women’s clothes, which makes sense, given the name written on the top.
“I don’t know any Julie,” Forrester says as he paws through the clothing.
Whoever packed these boxes didn’t do so with order in mind. T-shirts, jeans, sweaters, shorts, an old nightshirt, a bathing suit, and a pair of running shoes are mixed together without rhyme or reason. In the third box, there is even a pink teddy bear and a small wooden jewelry chest that seems to have lost its key.
“Could she have been, well …” Allison trails off and looks at her brother.
“A girlfriend of your dad’s?” Eli finishes.
Forrester’s quick to shake his head, his brows drawn low.
“No,” he says. “Dad didn’t see anyone after Mom left. Romance wasn’t his area. And if he did have a girl up here, he would have told me. Wouldn’t be any reason not to. We didn’t keep secrets from each other.”
“Unless he had a reason for keeping it to himself,” Kayla says, her voice unsure.
I look at the clothing and shake my head as well.
“No,” I say, bending down over one of the boxes. “Look at all this stuff. It’s old.” I pull out a large T-shirt with a cartoon moose on it. “These have been well worn — and look at the jeans.” I grab a pair of faded jeans, the waist small, the hips wide, and the pant legs straight. “These look like something from the early nineties.”
“So, what is it doing up here?” Kayla asks.
I take out a sweatshirt from Canada’s Wonderland, a pair of jean shorts, and a shirt with a flowered design on it.
“Yeah, why keep a bunch of old clothing from someone we don’t know?” Thomas murmurs.
“Could it be someone from your mom’s side of the family?” Nolan asks.
“Mom’s an only child,” Forrester mutters. “And her mother’s name is Vera.”
“Well, maybe it was a friend,” I offer. “Someone your parents knew, maybe someone with a cottage up here. They could have been storing the stuff, and then it could have just been forgotten …”
My words taper off as my eyes take in the brown and green wool sweater Thomas has pulled from the second box. I drop the shirt I’m holding and sink to my knees, landing too hard. Pain throbs through my kneecaps. I’d let loose a few curses if I wasn’t so stunned.
“What’s the matter?” Allison asks, looking between us.
Thomas holds the sweater up, showing it first to me and then to Kayla. Once more the image we ignored for so many years reappears, and along with it comes the fuzzy static of my other memory, the fluorescent lights and giggles I still can’t place.
“The woman,” Kayla says, sucking in a breath.
“What woman?” Forrester asks, his words sharp with impatience.
“The screamer,” I mutter, and then the others understand, at least as much as they can without the memory to aid them.
The woman from that Christmas, the one in the photos we found earlier, was Julie. And for some unknown reason, Julie’s clothes have been stuffed into boxes and crammed into the corner of a cottage attic. A cottage owned by a man now dead. The clothes aren’t modern, and the boxes they are packed in are coated with a thick layer of dust. They’ve been up here a long time.
But these newest pieces of information explain nothing — only make everything about as clear as the mud we used to track in from outside. I hate mud, and I hate knowing fuck all about what’s going on.
“It still doesn’t explain anything,” Nolan says, reading my thoughts. Reading probably everyone’s thoughts.
Thomas drops the sweater back into the box and folds the flaps shut.
“No, except it’s obvious Julie meant something to this family, something more than any of us understands,” he says, sounding angry. He stands and grabs one of the boxes. “Let’s bring these downstairs.”
I raise myself up and follow, closing a box and pushing it with my foot until it falls through the opening and crash-lands in the room below. Thomas leaves the attic first, followed by Allison, Eli, Kayla, and Nolan. When only Forrester and I remain, he looks at me with a face exhausted — but eyes alight with determination.
“I need to find out who she is,” he says as I prepare to head down the ladder.
I nod and lower myself onto the upper rungs.
I understand his desire.
I need to find out who the hell she is, too.
Thomas
UNDER THE DOCK, HALFWAY under the water, my world split between the quiet deep and the hushed voices still harsh against the natural mellow of the day.
“We could go west. Start close to home. We won’t go far. But …”
“She’s worse now, Simon. We can’t … this won’t help.”
“It will. We’ll be prepared. We’ll make arrangements for assistance, and we’ll map out everything before we leave.”
“But why now? Why not years ago, when it would have been easier?”
“Why do we wait for anything, Oscar? We don’t want to bother with the inconvenience — we’re afraid of what will go wrong — we think we have infinite time to spare. She almost died last month. They said it could happen again. We don’t have time to waste. We never have time to waste.”
Nolan
Me: Any news?
B: NO. Out with parents for a late lunch.
Me: Fuck. Okay, I’ll check back later …
Whatcha eating?
B: :) I knew you couldn’t resist. Burgers. What’s on your menu for dinner tonight?
Me: A full-fledged Thanksgiving feast, apparently.
My cousin promises she has culinary skills.
We’ll see if she’s right.
B: Sounds delicious/potentially lethal.
I smirk at my phone, tempted to respond to Brandon’s latest message but knowing if I do I’ll risk getting caught. Not that I think anyone would even notice. They’re all too invested in the sweater we found in the attic.
I’m not sure why it’s such a big deal, but I’d be lying if I didn’t fess up to being creeped out by it. Maybe it’s the screaming, whatever that means. That, and the way my brother — not to mention Kayla and Hailey — looked ghastly when he pulled the sweater from the box.
Who knew knitted wool could be so terrifying?
I put away my phone and help gather the stuff we threw into the guest room and take it down to the main floor, laying it out to be packed in Forrester’s car tomorrow. We bring the boxes with Julie’s clothes, too, but not to pack up. These we’re heaping onto the junk trailer. Whoever Julie is and regardless of the original purpose for placing the clothes in the attic, they’ve been there for ages. They’re also worn, so badly worn they’re not even acceptable for donation or costuming.
Forrester keeps the polished wooden box Hailey says is probably full of old jewelry. Eli suggests smashing it to see if there’s anything valuable inside, but Forrester says he’ll take it home and pick the lock when he’s got more time. Thomas takes the pink teddy bear from one of the boxes, too. I guess he figures if ever she were to want something from the attic stash, the teddy bear would be it.
“Do you want to look through the pictures
again?” Allison asks as we stuff handfuls of clothing into a garbage bag. “See if we can find something that might give us a better idea of who she was?”
“Not now,” Hailey says. “I’m hungry and sick of cleaning. Plus, I’ve got to get back to dinner. I think … I think we need to go over all of this shit. But later, okay? For now, let’s eat. We need a rest.”
“I think that’s a good idea,” Eli agrees. “Anyway, we’d probably have more luck asking our parents about it at home than we will looking through old pictures here.”
“Not bloody likely,” Thomas mumbles, crossing his arms over his chest. “Our parents wouldn’t tell us anything about the fight, so what makes you think they’d be willing to divulge information about this?”
“Regardless,” I say, putting a hand on my brother’s shoulder, “I think Hailey’s right about taking a break.” I give Thomas an earnest look he’s instantly suspicious of. “You owe us dessert, after all,” I remind him with a smile.
“Oh, I get it. You just want to put off our search so you can watch me embarrass myself, is that it?” he asks. He tries to be angry, but a grin still cracks through at the sight of my evil gleam.
“Precisely,” I say, pushing him toward the kitchen.
Thomas sighs, twisting one of his gauges as he approaches the scuffed counter. I have no actual desire to eat a pie baked by my brother, and I know he doesn’t think a break is the best idea right now. But as eerie and riveting as this strange mystery is, it’s not the goal of the weekend to hunt the ghosts of old girlfriends or whatever the hell else it is we’re aimlessly chasing. Half of our group wants to investigate. But the other half — with me included — wants to push through this weekend without any major time delays, so we can go home and deal with more pressing matters.
Like boyfriends and secrets and tests I’m desperate — and unprepared — to hear the result of.
I take a deep breath, fingers clutching my phone but not pulling it from my pocket. Instead, I focus on my brother, watching as he joins Hailey in the kitchen and grabs an actual can of pureed pumpkin.
“You’re using the oven, you know,” he tells Hailey after staring at the can for a dazed moment.
She’s clanging through the cupboards looking for a suitable pot to cook the potatoes in, but she pauses to glance back at him, both eyebrows raised high.
“Yeah, I know,” she says before returning to her task.
“Well, I have to cook my pie in the oven, and you’re using it. I can’t bake my pie if your stupid turkey is in the oven. And we can’t eat the pie if I can’t bake it. So, basically, Hailey, you’re ruining Thanksgiving.”
She struggles to keep a straight face as she stands with a deep pot clutched in her hands. But she starts laughing before she gets a single word out.
“You’re such a tool,” she says, the noise stuck between a giggle and a groan. “Why don’t you make the pie now, and when the turkey’s done, you can use the oven. That way, dessert will be fresh and hot when dinner is over.”
His stare is once again suspicious as he swivels back to his can.
“I suppose that might work,” he admits.
She shakes her head, filling the pot with water as Thomas searches for a can opener.
I twist away from the group, walking over to the wide windows overlooking the bay. Pretending to admire the beauty of nature, I fish out my phone and send Brandon another quick message.
Me: Thomas is baking a pie.
B: NO. You’re getting it on camera, right???
Me: If only. I’m not supposed to have my phone on me, remember?
B: Not fair. This is one disaster I’d love to witness.
Me: I promise I’ll give you a detailed re-enactment.
B: Okay. Also, maybe promise me you won’t eat any of it.
Me: Probably a wise decision.
“Where’s the pie crust?” Thomas asks, not more than two minutes after opening the can of pumpkin.
I twist back around to see Hailey standing beside her pot, one hand on her hip, the other shaking salt into the water.
“We didn’t buy a pie crust,” she says, keeping her back to him. “You have to make the crust.”
“What?” Thomas slumps against the counter, scrutinizing the can. “It doesn’t have a recipe for that.”
“You haven’t even made the crust yet?” Eli asks, sounding far more annoyed than Hailey. He sidles into the kitchen, brushing hair out of his eyes. “You know a good pastry crust takes a while to chill, right?”
“Nope, had no idea.” Thomas grins, his tone cheerful even though I can see the panic in his eyes. I bet he’s wishing hard he’d thought to buy a crust. Or given up all hope and bought a store-baked pie. I’m positive pumpkin-flavored cookies would have been sufficient by this point.
Eli sighs. “We’re talking at least an hour for a quality crust,” he grumbles as he steps up to my brother and takes the can from his grasp.
“Well, it doesn’t need to be quality. Just … edible, right?” Thomas asks.
The look Eli gives him rivals any of Thomas’s most angsty expressions, the ones he doesn’t frequent these days but that, a few years ago, made regular visits to his face. For the first time, I see a family resemblance between the two.
“No, not right,” Eli snaps. He nudges Thomas away from the counter and pulls a pair of black, plastic-rimmed glasses from the pocket of his plaid overshirt. “I’ll make the damn pie. But it won’t be ready for a couple of hours yet. Dinner will be long over.”
“Whatever,” Kayla says from the oak dinner table. “It’ll be a late-night snack.”
“Sounds good to me,” Thomas adds, stepping back to let Eli take the reins.
Hailey stares at Eli with something close to shock, but as my brother passes by her — his eyebrows raised in surprise — she smirks.
“You stay,” she says, grabbing his arm before he can escape back to the living room. “If you’re not making dessert, you can carve the turkey. You’re the head of this household, after all.”
“Am I?”
“Well, you’re the oldest. That’s close enough.” She shrugs.
She says it all with casual ease, but even from across the living room I can tell the effect on Thomas is weird. I know my brother well, and he doesn’t buy the idea he’ll ever find the “right” person and decide to settle down. He told me once that all girls are the “right” girl for him — it’s all a matter of the right time, right place, right feeling. He likes the infinite possibilities of all the beautiful women he’s yet to meet, and while I think his views are depressing (and occasionally gross), I’m certain they’re not the ramblings of a lonely guy trying to pretend he doesn’t need someone in his life. Thomas has an insatiable thirst for adventure. His yearning for discovery extends to continuously meeting new people, too.
Family’s important, and I think he understands that. But head of the household is not something I ever expect he’ll be in any situation other than this.
Still, he must decide to enjoy the moment while it lasts, as he sets about getting the turkey out of the oven with a proud smile on his face.
With an ache in my chest I sigh, turning back to the window so I can tell Brandon that the near catastrophic dessert situation has been (disappointingly) averted. Then I return to the kitchen before anyone suspects what I’m doing.
I’ve got to give it to Hailey. The turkey is cooked, its skin brown and crisp, the wafting aroma as Thomas sets it on the stovetop drawing the rest of us like moths. We crowd around the table and the counters, breathing deep and smiling.
“After dinner’s over, we can go down to the basement,” Forrester says as Thomas hunts through the drawers for something to carve with. “The TV’s still down there. There’s no cable or anything, but we could watch a movie.”
“I want s’mores,” Hailey says from over
top the stuffing pot.
“I thought you wanted pie,” Eli says as he takes the dough he’s formed into a cling-wrapped ball and puts it in the fridge. I’m impressed with his skills. I’m even more impressed the pantry had the ingredients necessary for pastry.
“Thomas wants pie. I want s’mores,” Hailey corrects.
“Hate to tell you, there won’t be time for s’mores,” Allison says. “Rain’s coming. A whole storm. It’ll be here by the time dinner’s over.”
“Well, dinner’s about to start, so it’ll have to hurry up,” Thomas smiles, slicing into the meat. The knife cuts smooth. The turkey looks delicious.
While Thomas slices, I help to set the table. We pile plates and utensils next to potatoes and stuffing and green beans. Hailey mixes the gravy and sets it out in a handmade purple coffee mug. Thomas heaps slices of turkey onto a plate and brings it to the table once everyone’s picked their beverage of choice and has settled down, ready to eat.
We’re eager, all seven of us, for the first time this whole day. I don’t know what the others are thinking, but I’m starving, and before us is a perfect Thanksgiving table complete with mismatched plates and hungry expressions all around.
Thomas begins dishing out the turkey. And then we eat and drink and talk until we can all barely move.
Somewhere between my first and third helpings, the rain begins.
When dinner is over, I check my phone to find five missed messages from Brandon.
B: The test has been taken. The results are in.
B: Positive.
B: You’re not here, but I know exactly how you’ll react. You’ll mutter “shit, shit, shit” like it’s a mantra, and then you’ll ask me if I’m really, truly sure. So, I’ll save you the trouble. I’m sure. It’s positive. Pregnant.
B: And before you ask, no. I don’t have a fucking clue what we’re supposed to do now.
Hailey
AN UNQUESTIONABLE ADVANTAGE TO cooking is not having to clean up afterwards. Once the meal is finished, I leave the others to scrape gravy off plates and scrounge for containers to store the leftovers in while I go upstairs to brush my teeth. I don’t intend to stay up for long. I’m not one for being alone in places thick with shadows like this. But once my teeth are fresh, I can’t manage to pass all the dark doorways on my way back without first veering through one of them.
