by Sarra Cannon
The one thing no one would say, but I had found myself often thinking, was how William Blake was apparently a damn good actor, because even I didn’t know how bad everything was until a few months ago, when he decided to stop treatment. It wasn’t that I didn’t know about his cancer, because I did. I had been the one to take him back and forth to his appointments, to feed him applesauce or Jell-O when nothing else sounded good and he was too weak from the radiation to lift his arms. I had been there when he decided to shave his head completely bald so no one would be the wiser when it all fell out anyway. He never complained, so I assumed he was fine. I assumed he would pull through, unscratched and smiling.
The good guys are supposed to win. Always.
But he didn’t. My father was stripped from this world too soon, leaving behind a hole in my heart and boxes filled with his things nobody besides me would even give a damn about.
And now here I was, packing up his belongings because his assets weren’t enough to cover the remainder of the mortgage on the house, and I damn sure didn’t have the money to pay it off myself. The property was going on the market immediately.
While I had been told I still had a few weeks until I needed to clear the premises of his things, I didn’t feel as though it was right. If the lenders were that fucking heartless and greedy when it came to such things, then I wanted my father’s belongings out of there as soon as possible.
Wiping my damp cheeks and sniffling, I straightened my back. It was time to stop moping and pack up more stuff. I’d decided the week after my father passed that I would only allow myself five minutes a day to breakdown and mourn him, because he would be pissed at me for anything more. In fact, now that nearly two weeks had passed, he would tell me to get over it. My father was loving, but he also didn’t care for a whiner. God, I missed him.
Hoisting another box into the air, I started up the stairs toward my old room. It was the only room I had left on the second floor to go through. Oddly enough, I’d started in my father’s bedroom. My mind enjoyed working backward apparently. At least that’s what my best friend Bree had said. She claimed she would have saved his room for absolute last, because it would be the hardest. Me, I wanted to get the hard part out of the way as soon as possible. So far it had worked out for me.
Gripping the doorknob, I turned and then stepped inside my old room. Flipping on the switch, the room became bathed in light. It reflected off the mint green walls and white furniture. The hint of a smile twisted the corners of my lips as I scanned the room I hadn’t set foot inside in so long. I’d moved out a few years ago, right after high school graduation, and unlike some of my peers, I hadn’t ever been forced to move back.
Setting the cardboard box on my old bed, I turned toward the bookshelf that still harbored some of my childhood favorites. As I skimmed through my tattered copies of R.L. Stine books, my cell vibrated from in my back pocket. It was Bree.
I’m here. Where are you?
I hung my head back and sighed. Shit. I was supposed to meet her for a late dinner, but I’d gotten caught up in packing and lost track of time.
I’m sorry. I forgot. I’ll be there in fifteen. ~ Kenna
Thursday nights were always our girls’ night out time. I wasn’t sure how this little tradition had slipped my mind. Bree had sent me numerous text messages checking on me all day and reminding me about dinner. She wanted to help me pack my father’s things, but I’d declined every offer as nicely as I could. It was something I preferred to do alone.
Tossing one of my many Fear Street Saga novels into the box on my bed, I flipped off the light behind me and darted down the stairs. I raced through the house, turning off lights as I went, and quickly grabbed my coat from the back of the couch before bolting out the front door. Something caught my eye the moment I pulled the door open—a black envelope resting in the center of the worn-out welcome mat.
Bending at the knee to pick it up, I glanced around, searching for whomever had left it. A cool breeze blew, rustling the fallen leaves and making the bushy evergreen trees in the front yard wave and sway. There was no one there, at least not that I could see.
Chewing along the inside of my cheek, I eyed the envelope in my hand. My name had been written in thick red letters along the front. To anyone else, this would have been the most bizarre thing ever to happen to him or her. For me though, it wasn’t. The handwriting had been all I needed to know who the letter had come from. How she’d managed to set it on the doorstep without me hearing her car pull up was beyond me though.
The letter was from my absentee mother, Mara Valmont.
Usually I received gifts and cards from her on birthdays and holidays, a random envelope delivered just because, however, was a rarity. Silently, I wondered what the occasion was. Had I missed a holiday? Halloween was Saturday. Did that count? Or had she heard of my father’s passing and decided to console me in the form of a letter?
Flipping the envelope over, I debated whether I should open it. Did I really care what she had to say in regards to my father’s passing? Had she even known about his cancer? I wasn’t sure if the two of them had remained in contact after she left when I was five. My father never talked about her, except when I asked him to. Over the years, my asking had become nonexistent simply because I’d vowed not to care about her, mimicking the way she so blatantly didn’t give a shit about me. Remembering my birthday and sending something every holiday didn’t make her a mother.
Not in my book.
Biting my bottom lip, I stared at the envelope. Curiosity would eat at me until I opened it, but I wasn’t sure I could handle a sob letter from her. If that’s even what it was.
Pursing my lips together into a thin line, I tapped the coarse-papered envelope against the palm of my hand repeatedly. God, this was a moment my dad would say his famous motto with a large shit-eating grin. I could picture it clearly in my mind’s eye. The way his lips would twist at the corners as he locked eyes with me and said, “Choose your own adventure, sweetheart.” Then, he would toss his hands up in surrender.
“Screw it,” I muttered, and flipped the envelope over. “I’ll just open the damn thing.”
Sliding my nail along the top, I cut it open. Reaching in, I pulled out a thick piece of paper, which was roughly the size and feel of a postcard, and read my mother’s message.
The time has come, my sweet girl, for you to find out who you really are.
The Kiss of Awakening is upon you.
Love, Mom
Attached with the postcard was a plane ticket stamped for New Orleans. Skimming over the ticket, I noticed the departure time was for tomorrow night at seven. My eyes dipped back to the postcard. Arching an eyebrow, I stared at the blood red letters, wondering what my mother had meant. An eerie sensation slipped along my spin as I reread her first sentence. What I really was? What the hell did that mean? Flipping the card over, I noticed more writing.
New Orleans, The Bourbon Orleans Hotel
I was completely confused. Apparently Google was about to be my best friend, because that was the only thing that popped into my head next—how I was going to Google the heck out of that place in search of some answers.
CHAPTER TWO
Turning into the parking lot of the Sandburg Café, I spotted Bree’s tiny car and pulled into a spot available near it. My stomach churned as I wondered if I should mention anything about my mother’s creepily cryptic letter to her. Generally, when my birthday or a holiday rolled around, Bree always seemed eager to know what my mother had sent. I attributed this to the fact that my mother’s gifts were never something anyone remotely sane would consider as a gift for that specific event.
When I was younger, my dad had always said that my mother was a free spirit and that it was reflected in her gifts. He’d also said her being a free spirit was why she couldn’t be tied down with the two of us. Each year, her exotic gifts were always a reminder of that for me, a marker for how much distance she felt needed to be between us this year as op
posed to the last. One year, I received numerous scarves from Belize, the next it was hats from Paris, and then another it was bone jewelry from Africa.
Bree had always envied my gifts, never once thinking of them the way I did. She would be excited to learn something had come from her today, even if it was just a cryptic letter.
After stepping through the double doors of the Sandburg Café, I searched for Bree. I spotted her along the far wall, seated at a bistro table. Her blond hair was pulled back into a messy bun, and she was still dressed in her fancy clothes from the clothing boutique she worked at downtown. I smoothed my hands over my hair, and brushed some lint from my jacket, feeling frumpy and grimy from cleaning and packing all day in comparison to her.
“Hey.” I walked to where she was seated. “Sorry I’m late. I must have gotten caught up in packing stuff and just lost track of time.”
“It’s fine. Don’t worry about it.” Bree smiled softly. Her blue eyes held a sympathetic glare to them I didn’t like. “My offer still stands if you need any help, you know. I hate that you’re doing this all on your own, Kenna.”
“I know. I—” I started to list my reasons as to why I preferred to handle it all on my own, but she cut me off.
“You would rather do it yourself; it’s your way of closure,” she finished for me. “I don’t get it. In fact, I think it’s the unhealthiest way to go about it, but I’ll respect your wishes. I guess.” She sighed.
“Thanks.” I leaned back in my chair, and folded my hands in my lap.
Bree and I had known each other since we were little. We’d been best friends for as far back as I could remember, and at times, I thought of her as more of a sister than anything else. When I first found out about my father’s cancer, she had cried nearly as much as me. And when he passed away, she was the first person I called.
Bree knew everything about me.
If anyone could understand why I insisted on taking care of packing my father’s things on my own, it was her. I had always been the strong, independent type when it came to even the smallest things. Bree knew this about me, even if she didn’t understand it at times.
“So, what are you ordering? I’m starved.” Bree swiped the laminated menu off the table and glanced at it, even though she had long ago memorized everything on it—same as I had.
“What I get every time—chicken caesar salad with a vanilla chai latte,” I said without bothering to glimpse at a menu.
“That’s still such a gross combination to me.” She wrinkled her nose. “I don’t see how those two could possibly taste good together. You’re so weird.”
“Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it,” I said. “And you have no room to talk, Ms. I-enjoy-ranch-dressing-on-my-pizza.”
A slight chuckle drummed between us. It faded out too soon though, leaving us trapped in an awkward silence. Things had been a little strained between us since my father’s passing, and I hated it. I’d attempted to remedy it when I could, but it was exhausting at times. As I debated on mentioning the letter from my mother to her, our waiter sauntered toward our table. I couldn’t have been more thankful for the shift in tension between us.
“Hey, sorry I haven’t taken your drink orders yet. This place got a little busy for a minute.” He smiled as he reached to scoop up our menus. “Are you ready to place your full order, or do you ladies still need some time?”
“Nope, we’re good.” I leaned my elbows on the tabletop. “Chicken caesar salad and a vanilla chai latte, please.”
“Got it.” The waiter nodded as he jotted down the abbreviations for my meal. He shifted to Bree. “And for you?”
Once Bree placed her order, and the waiter had walked away, her attention shifted to me completely.
“Spill it. What’s bothering you?”
I pursed my lips together, and swiped a crumb off the table onto the floor. I had never been good at hiding things from Bree. “Nothing really. It’s just that something sort of strange happened to me today.”
“Like?” she prompted.
My teeth sank into my bottom lip as I thought of how to phrase what I was about to say next. “My mom left me a letter on the doorstep at my dad’s.” The words fell from my mouth without a hint of hesitation once I had committed to saying them.
“Woo, a mysterious letter from the infamous Mara Valmont?” Bree’s eyes flashed with excitement, exactly like I knew they would.
To her, my mother was a sexy, mysterious presence that was unpredictable—the type of things characters in fairy tales are created from. To me, she was selfish and atrocious. I hated everything about her, even though I knew little. My mind had made up all the gaps and chunks of things I didn’t know by replacing them with vial things and characteristics I thought she would have, because anyone who abandoned their child had to be evil, right?
Bree seemed to worship someone I had often despised. The current expression on her face was proof of that.
Digging in my purse, I searched around for the black envelope. When I finally found it amid the sea of pens and random receipts that made up my purse, I handed it to her. Her eyes brightened tenfold as she took it from my fingers.
“Look at this paper stock,” she said. “This shit is expensive. Shanna prints off the business cards for the clothing store on something similar, and it costs a freaking fortune every time.”
Awesome. My mother couldn’t visit me—ever—but she could spring for the most expensive paper imaginable. Bree mumbled under her breath as she read the note to herself. She’d never been one to read silently. I always joked that it was because she loved to hear herself talk too much. When she was finished, she slapped the card down onto the tabletop.
“What the hell is all that supposed to mean?” she asked.
I shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine.”
The waiter paused at our table with our drinks just then. He set Bree’s Coke down in front of her, and flashed me a smile as he carefully placed my latte in front of me.
“Your food will be out soon.” He did this little head move that shifted his surfer-style hair from his eyes, and flashed me a kilowatt smile I was sure he’d practiced for years before being able to execute it smoothly.
“Thanks.” I gripped my mug and pulled it closer without giving him the reaction he was obviously going for.
Clearly a little mystified by my lack of reaction to his charming ways, he tucked the tray he’d carried our drinks on beneath his arm and walked away.
I was used to people being overly nice to me—I’d been told numerous times it was because my big brown eyes seemed innocent and doe-like—but damn, this guy was laying it on a little thick with his staring and constant smiling.
“Wow, chalk one up for Kenna!” Bree chuckled. “That guy is totally crushing on you.”
I rolled my eyes, even though I knew she was right. “Please, he’s just being nice.”
“Whatever, I saw him undressing you with his baby blues the second he walked up to the table to take our order.”
“Anyway…” I attempted to change the subject. “Thoughts on my mother’s mysterious letter? What about the plane ticket?”
“Plane ticket?” Bree opened the envelope all the way, and pulled out the plane ticket for New Orleans.
“Yeah, you should flip the postcard over and read the back too.” As I said this, Bree read the ticket.
“Holy shit! New Orleans? I’ve always wanted to go there!” she shouted.
I laughed at her excitement, but deep down, I wondered why I hadn’t felt something similar upon opening the envelope and finding the ticket.
“Me too,” I said.
I’d always felt a pull to New Orleans. There was something about it that called to me, something mystical and captivating that brushed against a deep-set yearning to visit. Every novel I read, every TV show or movie I watched where New Orleans was the setting made me crave to visit that much more.
Now that I finally had the chance—and to do so for free, or so
it seemed—there was something tugging me back, something urging me to keep my feet planted firmly in North Carolina.
“I’m going with you,” Bree suddenly said, snapping me from my thoughts. “Let me just check and see if there’s another seat on your flight.”
“What? I haven’t decided if I’m even going yet,” I insisted. My stomach tightened into knots as my mind raced through reasons as to why I should stay home as well as why I should go. “I need to figure out if I can afford to first, and then talk to my boss.”
Bree set her cell down on the table, and glared at me through her long lashes. “Are you freaking kidding me right now? It looks like everything has been paid for except your food, and your boss will let you off the hook for the weekend to clear your head. Most of the time companies have a grieving period you’re allotted when someone close to you passes away. Since you haven’t taken one yet, I doubt there will be an issue. I’m sure he will completely understand, even on such short notice.”
Dropping my head back, I sighed. She was right. There truly was no reason for me not to go. Still, I attempted to toss a few more things out there.
“What if he can’t get someone to cover for my shifts this weekend?” I asked.
“Then he can run the damn bar on his own,” Bree said matter-of-factly. “It’s not like he hasn’t done it before, I’m sure.”
“I haven’t been there long enough to ask for time off,” I muttered. “The last thing I need is to lose this job.”
