“Uh oh,” my mom squeaked. “I’m about to pee my pants!”
She ran out of the room, still laughing.
Later, I asked her why she kept trying to sew as long as she did. “I always ask myself what I’d regret more,” she told me, “wasting time trying or never trying at all. In the end, the answer’s always the same. It’s worth it to try.”
I pick up the scarf and hug it to myself. At least she died without that regret. I wish this had been in the coffin with her. I’m glad the rings weren’t, but this is the kind of thing that defined her.
My eyes drift back down to the box. I am a pirate, and this is my bounty. The chest is so full of treasure, I wonder if I’ll ever be able to leave the basement again. I don’t even notice the smell anymore. In fact, the only scent I take in comes from the box. I can’t place it. It’s not one of the top five smells on my list, but it makes me feel her around me. I sniff the scarf, but that’s not where the smell is coming from.
The box is filled with things of all shapes and sizes. Nothing seems organized, but a lot of the stuff is in smaller boxes and some bags. The next thing I pick up is a plastic bag. It’s folded around something, and I open it carefully. It’s filled with greeting cards. I reach in and slide out a pink one. Big purple letters read Happy Mother’s Day!
I don’t remember this one. Paige wrote a nice message inside, but I apparently just scribbled something. There are Christmas cards and birthday cards, thank-you notes and Easter greetings. But at the very bottom, I see a stack of letters that have been tied together with pretty yellow ribbon. I gently pull on one end, holding on to the pile so they don’t spill out on the cold damp floor. From the way they’ve been tied together, I can tell these are special.
They’re all from my dad. A history of their relationship. Love letters. Anniversary cards. Some pictures of the two of them at special dinners. One from their honeymoon. My favorite is a picture he had taken of her when we went camping one summer. She sat at the edge of the lake. She must have just turned toward him or something, because she has a What? expression on her face. The light caught her blond hair at just the right angle, and she almost looks like an angel.
I turn the picture over. In that trademark scrawl, my dad had written, This is the reason.
For what? I wonder. It’s like they were having a conversation. It must have been a good answer to an important question for her to tuck it in this pile.
At first I’m surprised my dad would hide all of these treasures down here in the basement. Why wouldn’t he want them close by? Wouldn’t he want to see them? To remember?
But then I remember his tantrum in their bathroom, and I think more about what these cards really say. He loved her so much. Probably even more than I ever knew. Maybe even more than she did. He was definitely more romantic than I would have guessed. It instantly reminds me of the person he used to be. Maybe he did lose more than my sister and I did. We talk about losing a parent like it’s the worst thing in the world, and for me it is, but maybe it’s worse for him. Not worse exactly, I guess. Just different.
I keep thinking of all the things my mom will miss out on in my life—high school and boyfriends, proms and graduations, weddings and babies. But that’s the thing. I still live my life, going forward to the very things my dad thought were settled. Weddings and babies. This is his life, and maybe it feels less like something is missing from it for him, and more like it’s actually over.
It’s such a heavy thought, my head falls. I’m not sure I want to keep looking. My dad packed these memories away for a reason. Maybe he had the right idea—it’s like a lake. Shimmery and smooth like glass on top, but if you start to dredge, everything gets murky and nasty.
I’m considering shutting up the box when my eyes are drawn to a bright pink string. I have to move a few things to see that the string draws a cloth bag closed. Reaching in, I figure out what the scent was; a crumpled dryer sheet falls out when I lift the bag up. No surprise. I swear my mom put them in everything. She liked the way they smelled, so she used them like an air freshener.
Inside the bag, I can see the outlines of books, and the bag is so heavy that I have to use both hands to pull it out. When I tug loose the opening, I still have no idea just how valuable this box is.
Chapter Twelve
I gently open the first book I pull out, and I see two dates: June 8, 1999, and September 16, 2011. The first date is written in black marker and the second in blue ballpoint pen. I turn a page, and the next is filled with her tall cursive loops. I read the line across the top: Andie just turned one, so naturally, I’m going insane and loving every second of it. My eyes burn with tears. I close the book before any fall on the page.
How did I not know these exist? My hands shake and my heart seems to be trying to escape my body by jumping out of my throat. My mom kept journals. Most of them are identical brown Moleskine books. I try to count, but my brain can’t even handle the simple math. There’s a bright pink one with daisies and another that’s covered in green and blue stripes.
All of the bacon in the world has nothing on one sentence of her words. I feel like my mom is sitting right here with me. I’d almost forgotten what her voice sounded like, but now it sings in my ears, making my whole body dance.
What do I do with these? I can’t read them all down here. I know I shouldn’t take them upstairs though.
I know I shouldn’t.
I work fast, putting all of the journals back into the bag, then setting the bag down on the ground beside me and closing up the box. It’s much lighter now without the journals, easier to push up to the top shelf. After returning the ladder back by the furnace, I hug my precious cargo and tiptoe back up the stairs. Glancing at the clock on the microwave in the kitchen, I discover I’ve been down there longer than I thought. It’s three thirty in the morning. Just as I shut the basement door behind me, I hear the garage door start to open. I gasp and run as quietly and as quickly as I can to my room. I shut the door behind me, turn out the light, and hop into bed, still clutching the bag of journals. I tuck them in beside me and pull my covers up to my chin. My breath comes fast and my heart beats like a woodpecker.
Maybe he didn’t notice my bedroom light was on when he pulled up.
But of course he did. He doesn’t notice there’s no food in the house until a social worker tells him about it, but at three thirty in morning, he decides to be observant.
A soft rap on my door makes me jump, even though I know it’s him. “Andie?” His voice is soft, cautious, almost like he hopes no one will hear him.
“Yeah?”
The knob turns, and he peeks his head in. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah.”
“Why are you up so late?”
“I couldn’t sleep, so I did homework.”
“You sure you’re okay?”
It’s dark, but light floats in from the streetlamp outside, giving his face a soft glow. He doesn’t look drunk.
“I’m fine. Really.”
“Well, you should get some sleep.”
“Okay.” He starts to close the door. “Dad?”
“Hmm?”
“Are you okay?”
I hear him exhale, but he doesn’t come back into the room. “I’m working on it.”
Once the door shuts, I lean over and grab the flashlight from the drawer of my nightstand. I’m used to reading all kinds of half-stupid and half-scary stories under these covers. I read because I can’t sleep, and then they freak me out so I really can’t sleep. Tonight, though, I read an actual ghost’s story.
I don’t like the freshly mobile stage in toddlers. I didn’t enjoy it with Paige either. Of course, that makes me feel guilty. Aren’t moms supposed to love every stage? Aren’t I supposed to clap and cheer at every milestone? But during this stage, I feel like I lose my freedom, hence my sanity.
Even with the pretty loops and her voice in my head, I have a hard time picturing her writing these words. How could my mom have felt
that way about Paige? About me?
I can’t leave her anywhere, nor is it easy to take her places. I get it. They just want to move at this stage, and they become outrageously frustrated if they can’t, but I miss plopping her in a Pack ’n’ Play so I could shower or make a phone call or pay a bill.
What if these don’t get better? What if I have hundreds of pages of my mom complaining about being a mom? I don’t know if I should read more.
But I can’t not read more.
If I complain, Dave—the original Mr. Fix-It—says, “You can go back to work.” But he doesn’t understand. That’s not an option, because as hard as it is to be with her all day, not being with her would be a thousand times harder. There’s nothing quite like being the center of her universe.
Oh, there she is. Relief washes over me, and I smile. That’s my mom.
My eyes droop. I never want to stop reading, but sleep wins the battle. I tuck the book back in the bag and put the whole thing under my bed where no one will see it. I drift off into dreams of laughing babies and lullabies.
My eyes pop open at ten. For a second I wonder if I imagined everything from last night, and I roll over and reach under the bed. When my fingers feel the cloth, I sigh with happiness. I want to rip open the bag and read them all right now, all day without ever stopping, but my stomach growls and I have to pee, so I toss the covers off and race to the bathroom. When I go downstairs, my dad is watching television, back in his usual recliner.
“Hey there,” he says.
“Morning.”
“You must be tired today.”
“Nah, I’m okay. Just hungry.”
He nods, and I rush into the kitchen, grab a Pop-Tart and a glass of juice, and hurry back toward the stairs.
“So what’s on your agenda today?” my dad asks as I pass by. I pause with my food in hand and shrug.
“You want to go see a movie today? Since we failed with Dune?”
I can honestly say that before I went to the basement, the idea that I might be faced with the dilemma of spending time with my dad or reading my mom’s journals would have made me happy, but I’m torn. On one hand, I can’t give up this chance with my dad. Isn’t that what I’ve wanted? Him to be normal again? But my mom’s words? I need them.
My indecision must register on my dad’s face because he says, “It’s no big deal if you’ve got something else to do.”
It’s his face that seals the deal. “A movie sounds good, Dad. What time?”
He reaches forward to the coffee table where the thick Sunday newspaper lies neatly piled. “I have the times right here. Looks like there are a couple of good options around twelve thirty or again around three.”
Inside I dance a crazy jerky happy dance. “How about three? I’ve, um, got to work on my project for school. I was thinking about going to the library, and they close at two on Sunday anyway.”
I tell him I’ll walk, and he agrees to pick me up so we can go right to the theater. I start to take the stairs two at a time, but my juice spills, so I slow down. I eat and get ready in a flash. Then I take out all of the ghost research in my backpack and replace it with the entire bag filled with journals. There are a lot of them, but I want them to stay together, like somehow she’s more whole if I have all the journals in one spot. Plus, I don’t know where to start. I like knowing I can pick a different one if I come across a bad year or something. It makes my backpack heavier than usual, and I groan when I throw it on my back. It’s going to be a long walk to the library, but it’ll be worth it. No interruptions. No fears of getting caught.
This secret on my back weighs me down. Not just because it’s heavy, but because not being able to share it makes it feel like it’s wrong. It can’t be, though, can it? Bringing my mom back into this house is already helping, isn’t it?
Before I leave the house, I decide I need to escalate things. My dad and Paige need more. I want more.
My dad has set me up and he doesn’t know it. His iPod is on shuffle, plugged into the speakers in the living room, and I can hear his shower running upstairs. Please let it still be on there, I beg as I scroll down. He’s purged so much, there’s a good chance it won’t be anymore, but I pump my fist when I find the playlist I hoped for. My mom made it for their last anniversary. It’s a list of songs that reminded her of him. He thought they’d be all sappy and romantic, and a few were, but she also mixed in some humorous ones, like some old country song about how hard it was to be humble when you’re perfect.
I press play and duck out of the house before he gets out of the shower. As I’m closing the door, I hear this old song, “I’m Too Sexy,” filling the house with a different kind of ghost: the memory of laughter. My dad used to dance around the house in his robe and slippers lip-syncing. Paige would roll her eyes and groan. My mom would pretend to be mortified, but eventually she’d give in and double over laughing at him.
Chapter Thirteen
My favorite corner of the library is in the teen section. Yes, I have a favorite place in the library. My mom brought me here a lot. It usually kept me quiet and busy for a little while.
No one comes into this corner. It’s far from the windows, so it’s a little darker than the rest of the room, and instead of the big, brightly colored beanbag chairs scattered throughout the rest of the teen section, this corner has an old-fashioned high-back chair with red and orange flowers all over it.
A sign above the chair reads MS. FOSTER’S NOOK and goes on to explain that she was a major benefactor to the library. A long time ago she used to read to kids in this chair or something, and they had to keep it. But obviously they didn’t want it on display in the front of the library or anything. I always thought it was kind of sad how Ms. Foster got pushed to a back corner. Out of sight, out of mind. They got what they needed from her, I guess. The chair wasn’t the most comfortable one, but it always felt like the right place to read a book.
Once I’m settled into the chair, I open my backpack and pull out the bag. Just seeing all the diaries makes my toes tingle, like all the excitement is running through my body and it has nowhere to go but my feet. I’m faced with my second dilemma of the day. Where do I start?
I opt for the grab-bag approach, closing my eyes, reaching in, and pulling out a random Moleskine.
Flipping open the front cover, I find I’ve grabbed the same one I started reading last night. Okay, I get it. I’m supposed to read this one.
Once I start, my eyes don’t leave the page until I’ve practically memorized each and every word. The entries are sporadic. Sometimes she writes every day for several weeks in a row, and then six months pass before the next entry. A couple of the entries are only a paragraph long, or even just a sentence, describing her general mood or the passing of an event. Busy with Paige’s school these days or Celebrated another anniversary. Many are pages long, like once she got started she couldn’t stop. Mostly, the entries are just babble, really, and I’m sure it would bore most people, but I love it. It’s like watching a video recording.
Which makes me stop and think: we have video somewhere, don’t we? We must. I know my parents hadn’t been as good about pulling the video camera out over the past few years, really probably since Paige got old enough to run and hide every time she saw a camera coming, but still, there must be some. I make a mental note to search.
The last entry is tough to read. It’s sad. This journal ended just a week after 9/11. Mom describes what it felt like to watch the news, how hard it was to envision raising a child in this world. That’s not the hard part though.
It reminds me how quickly things can change. I always worry about losing my kids—doesn’t any parent? But watching the towers fall reminded me that I, too, am just as vulnerable. Dave and I haven’t updated our wills in ages, but I’ve put in a call to a lawyer. I went back through some of my journals and I realized I’m not saying much here. Maybe I need to try harder to leave something for the girls, just in case. But what do I say? What would someone want t
o hear if they lost a loved one too soon? Is it ever not too soon? Anyway, this is what’s keeping me up at night these days.
Suddenly, I can’t catch my breath. Her words press down on my chest, and I have to stand and walk around to get any air. She didn’t know. She couldn’t know. No one does; but she’d thought about it. She’d worried about it.
I think about that statement: Is it ever not too soon? Yes, I think, definitely. If she were ninety it wouldn’t have been too soon, right? Or maybe it would have been, but I sure wouldn’t have minded waiting to find out. I pull out my phone to check on the time. I still have about an hour before Dad will pick me up. I can read another one, but I’m torn. I want the words to last forever. Maybe it’s like a pan of brownies. I usually eat them so fast, and I’m disappointed the next day when they’re all gone. I should savor these. A few here and there. Let them last for months and months.
I feel selfish. I should share these with Paige, right? I know she would want to see these. She deserves to, but I don’t feel like I can do that until my experiment is over. I don’t want to risk her figuring out that I’m behind everything.
I start pacing the small hallway next to the chair. You’re not supposed to talk in the library, but it’s deserted back here. Plus, it’s Sunday afternoon in the teen section. No one’s around. I pick up my phone and scroll through the numbers. I put Isaiah’s number in last night. I don’t know why he’s the one I want to talk to so much. I scroll back through until I see Gisela’s name.
I’m relieved when she doesn’t answer. Weird.
I don’t even think as I hit call again. Isaiah’s answered the phone before I even register what I’ve done.
I hesitate, not sure what to say. “Um, it’s me. Andie.”
“I know who it is, silly.”
“Oh.”
“What’s up?”
“I don’t know.”
The Haunted House Project Page 8
