Heroine's Journey

by Sarah Kuhn

  “I know,” I said, still giggling. “I appreciate the effort, I really do, but you looked so much like Calendar Sam just now, and I know the effect Calendar Sam has on almost every breathing Bay Arean who likes men, but I just . . .” I dissolved into giggles again, leaning back against the bathroom wall.

  “You truly know how to wound, Beatrice,” Sam said.

  I stood up straight, wiping my eyes. “I don’t need Calendar Sam. I actually can’t think of any instance wherein I would need Calendar Sam. But I’ll take Supportive Friend Sam.”

  “And what would Supportive Friend Sam do in this situation?” he said, cocking an eyebrow.

  “Drive me to the East Bay, of course,” I said, giving him a winning smile and sweeping toward the bathroom exit.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  THE GRAND LAKE Market is a mish-mash of stuff that doesn’t really go together. There’s food ranging from junky to artisanal, crafty knick-knacks, and a lady who sells nothing but obviously counterfeit t-shirts for big pop culture franchises. There’s also a seasonal carnival with its own separate entrance that sets up adjacent to the Market during the warmer months. It was chugging merrily along today, the bright, primary colors of the Ferris wheel pinwheeling lazily through the sky.

  By the time Sam and I reached Kathy Kooper’s booth, I had already purchased a tiny glass-blown unicorn for Charlotte, a t-shirt with the words STAR WARS plastered over a picture of a Klingon for Leah, and an elephant ear for me and Sam to share. In theory, anyway.

  “I’ve eaten almost all of this,” I said, waving the pastry under his nose. “Are you cutting carbs or something? Don’t want to mess up those muscles?” I poked his arm with my sticky, sugar-covered finger.

  “You crammed like eighty percent of that thing in your mouth so fast, I didn’t have a chance to get to it,” he said, giving me a look that was somewhere between amused and exasperated. “You are the worst food sharer in the history of ever.”

  “A-ha! Bea: 1275, Sam 1162,” I crowed triumphantly.

  “Anyway,” he said, rolling his eyes and gesturing to a booth across from where we were standing, “is this the place? Do you need to gear up emotionally before we approach?”

  “I’m all good,” I murmured, my eyes locking on the stand. I shoved the last twenty percent of elephant ear in my mouth.

  “Let me hold your . . . uh, stuff,” Sam said, reaching for the bag containing the souvenirs I’d gotten for Leah and Charlotte. “In case whatever she has for you requires both hands.”

  I took in the details of the booth as we walked up, trying to soak them in. I was hoping the visual of the booth would jog my memory, causing more visions of Mom to materialize. Kathy Kooper’s booth was a bit of a jumble, a collection of three tables pushed together in a “u” shape and covered with a rickety looking tent to shade everything from the sun. Her wares included jewelry made out of old buttons and keys, a collection of handmade glass vases, and some knitted scraps that looked a bit sparse and tuft-y. These were haphazardly spread over the colorful scarves that served as tablecloths.

  I had a flash of standing behind one of those tables as a kid, savoring the sugary goodness of an elephant ear and listening to Mom’s bright jangle of a laugh as she assembled her various crafts. I also remembered then that Kathy’s knitted wares were made of cat hair she gathered herself. Even as a kid, I thought that was kind of gross.

  Kathy’s booth was next to a stand selling giant pretzels—probably pretty good ones, as they had attracted quite the crowd. A dude in a giant pretzel mascot costume stood out front, passing out flyers.

  “Giant pretzels!” he bellowed, just in case the costume, the flyers, and the sign proclaiming GIANT PRETZELS SOLD HERE didn’t convey the purpose of the enterprise. “Come get a pretzel as big as your head!”

  “Let’s get one of those before we leave,” I said to Sam.

  “How are you still hungry?!” he countered.

  “Hey!” Kathy Kooper yelled at the guy in the pretzel costume. “Quit encroaching on my territory! You’re only allowed to have an out-of-booth mascot if you stay within the hundred-foot radius allocated to you by the Market.”

  “The crowd is taking up all the space where I’d normally stand,” Pretzel Guy sniffed. “It’s not my fault our pretzel delights are so popular.”

  “No, but it is your fault you’re such a freakin’ pill,” Kathy muttered.

  “Um, hi . . . Ms. Kooper?” I said, as Sam and I approached.

  Kathy turned away from the pretzel man and goggled at me, her eyes widening. “Is that tiny Beatrice?” she exclaimed. “Oh my goodness. You’ve grown up so much! And please call me Kathy. We’re all adults now, aren’t we?”

  “Yeah, I guess we are,” I said. “Thank you.” Thank you? What the hell. What was I thanking her for? I suddenly felt ultra awkward, like I didn’t know what to do with my hands or my feet or my whole entire body. How are you supposed to act around your dead mom’s friend?

  Kathy was another part of my mom’s life I remembered in flashes, but seeing her in person helped make the picture a little more clear. She was a tall white woman with long scraggly blonde hair, piercing blue eyes, and a tendency to wear a lot of velvet and whimsical hats. I recalled her being loopy and scattered, and she hadn’t cared much for kids, keeping Evie and me at arm’s length most of the time. But she and Mom had been close—another wisp of a memory danced through my head, Mom murmuring to Dad that Kathy didn’t have many other friends. Her cats, her crafts, and the booth at the swap meet were her whole world.

  I realized then that I hadn’t said anything for several seconds, leaving a gulf of awkward silence between us. Kathy didn’t seem terribly affected—she was still beaming at me. Maybe she felt more comfortable around me now that I was a (sort of) grown-up.

  “I’m Sam,” Sam said, stepping forward and holding a hand out. “Bea’s friend.” He flashed a softer version of his heartthrob grin and gestured to the assortment of jewelry and knits on the tables. “I love your stuff, it’s all so creative.”

  “Oh, thank you!” Kathy said, her hands fluttering around. “I collect all the cat hair myself. Gives it that special artisanal touch.”

  “I can see that,” Sam said, grin still in place.

  “Mmm,” Kathy responded, flushing a bit. She gave Sam a not-at-all-subtle once-over.

  Oh, brother. I shot him a look. Did he really have to deploy that charm on everyone? It didn’t exactly seem appropriate in this situation. On the other hand, I guess he’d filled that awkward silence I’d left sitting there. And Kathy was certainly enjoying whatever show he was putting on, her gaze lingering on the way the thin cotton of his t-shirt hugged his broad chest.

  “So my dad came by with this key . . .” I said.

  “Yes! The key!” Kathy said, tearing her eyes away from Sam’s pectorals. “I’ve been holding on to Vivian’s box for you, let me go get it.”

  She shuffled over to a corner of the booth sectioned off by a janky cardboard partition, disappearing behind the cardboard then returning with a small, colorful container about the size and shape of a shoebox.

  “Here you are,” she said, passing it to me.

  I couldn’t help but run my hands over it reverently. It was covered in a rainbow of old wallpaper scraps, each one painstakingly glued in place and overlapping to create a collage effect. And on one side was the tiny brass keyhole, scuffed and weathered with age.

  “Wow,” Sam said, peering over my shoulder. “It’s beautiful.”

  I whipped around, ready to tell him to turn off the smooth-ass charm for two seconds, but then I saw that he was smiling at me openly and earnestly. No trace of smarm or beaucoup fromage.

  “Thank you, Ms.—Kathy,” I said. “Evie and I really appreciate you holding on to this for so long.”

  “Of course,” she said, smiling at me. “It’s something Vivian had ask
ed me to give to you girls, back when she was in the hospital. Then I misplaced it, couldn’t remember where I put it for so many years. I’m sorry we fell out of touch, Beatrice. I’m just so busy here, it’s hard for me to have a social life. But perhaps now we can reconnect.”

  “Yeah,” I said, hugging the box to my chest. “That would be nice.”

  “I know you’re probably dying to get a look at what’s inside, so . . .”

  She made a little shooing motion, as if to say: You don’t have to hang around and make small talk with me instead of doing what you actually want to do, and I totally get it.

  I felt a rush of warmth for her.

  “Nice lady,” Sam said, as we headed out.

  “So nice you had to flirt with her, though?” I cocked an eyebrow at him.

  “I was filling in an awkward conversational gap. You’re welcome,” he said, flashing his cheesy grin. “And by the way, that makes it Bea: 1275, Sam: 1163.”

  “I don’t know why you should get a point for that,” I said. “Come on, let’s get that pretzel before we leave.”

  The crowd around the pretzel stand had dissipated a bit, but there was still a line, which Sam and I dutifully got into.

  “Pretzels! Giant pretzels!” the guy in the giant pretzel costume bellowed right next to my ear.

  “Yes, we get it,” I muttered under my breath.

  “So are you gonna crack that open as soon as we get to the car?” Sam said, nodding at the box. “Or do you and Evie need to open it together?”

  “She said I could take a peek,” I said, clutching the box tighter to my chest. “Though I think honestly it’s because she knew I wouldn’t be able to wait.”

  “Pretzeeeeeeelllllllls!” yelled Pretzel Guy.

  “I don’t know if you heard, but they have pretzels,” Sam said.

  You don’t want a pretzel.

  What the hell? The thought popped into my head so unexpectedly, I jumped. Where the fuck had that come from? I was starving.

  Um. Yes, I do, I thought. My mouth is watering from the overwhelming scent of salty, carby goodness floating through the air. Plus, even if I didn’t want one before, listening to this costumed guy’s constant pretzel refrain has basically inceptioned the idea into my head.

  You don’t want a pretzel.

  The thought ran through my head again. It was a soft whisper, like maybe my subconscious was trying to tell me I wasn’t really hungry or something?

  But I am, I thought firmly. I’m totally hungry. That elephant ear was not at all filling.

  You don’t want a pretzel.

  What. The. Fuck.

  Where was that voice coming from? Why was I arguing with . . . myself?

  “Bea?” Sam nudged my arm.

  I blinked, like I was coming out of a trance, and realized we’d made it to the front of the line.

  “Um, yeah, can we get a pretzel, please?” I said to the man behind the counter.

  “Make it two,” Sam said. “Otherwise this is going to turn out exactly like the elephant ear situation.”

  I didn’t respond. I was stuck on this weird thought that had inserted itself into my brain. Even now, it was still playing underneath everything, a creepy, repetitive whisper.

  You don’t want a pretzel. You don’t want a pretzel. You don’t want a pretzel.

  “Yes, I do!” I said out loud.

  “What?” Sam cocked his head at me as the pretzel man passed us our salty treats. “Who are you talking to?”

  “Um, no one,” I said. “Sorry. Something weird’s going on and . . . You know what, let’s just get to the car.”

  We walked back to Sam’s car in silence, munching our pretzels. The anti-pretzel soundtrack in my head had gone silent once I spoke out loud, and it didn’t return. What on earth had that been?

  “Are you sure nothing’s wrong?” Sam said, as we got into his car and buckled our seatbelts. “You look like you’re somewhere else entirely. Or worrying about something really hard.”

  “Oh . . .” I tapped my forehead. “Crinkle?”

  “Crinkle,” he confirmed. “What’s up?”

  “This weird thing happened back there. I . . .” I paused, chewing my lower lip. I . . . what? Heard a voice in my head suggesting I wanted the opposite of what I actually wanted? Was I somehow projecting emotions onto myself now? I mean, I had been through a lot today. Maybe I was hallucinating? Like, hallucinating weird thoughts into my own brain? “I think I got too much sun,” I said. “I started feeling wonky while we were waiting in line.”

  “It’s always fifteen degrees warmer in the East Bay,” Sam said. “Well, make yourself comfortable. Our pretzel side trip took enough time that we’re about to hit the peak of Bay Bridge traffic. On the plus side, that means you have tons of time to explore whatever’s in there.” He motioned to Mom’s box, resting in my lap.

  I focused on the box, trying to brush off the weirdness of my pretzel moment. Now that I was about to actually open the thing, I felt a sense of momentousness. Like whatever was in there was about to reveal the deep, untold secrets of my ancestral past and change my life forever. I smiled at the thought. Evie would have teased me for being overly dramatic.

  As Sam started the car, I fished the key out of my pocket and inserted it in the tiny lock. The whole contraption felt creaky as I twisted it, like the key would break off and get stuck in the lock if I made a wrong move. Yes, I guess I could have just busted it open. But ruining Mom’s careful wallpaper collaging seemed wrong—and given that I had so few tangible memories of her, I wanted to preserve as much as I could. The box made an ominous squeaking sound as it opened.

  “It’s . . . wow. It’s a bunch of letters,” I said, sifting through the pile of paper that greeted me. “I think . . .” I plucked one free and studied it, making note of the names at the top. “I think these are for us. For me and Evie. Mom must have known she was terminal at this point and . . .” I trailed off, swallowing hard, the words on the paper blurring as my throat clogged and tears filled my eyes.

  Sam didn’t say anything. Just reached over the gearshift and put one of his hands on top of mine.

  “Ugh.” I pulled away and scraped a hand over my eyes. “Sorry. I don’t know what I was expecting, but it wasn’t this.”

  I looked at the letter again, determined to actually read it through.

  My darling Evie, my darling Bug,

  I want you both to know that I’m mostly at peace with being near the end. My life has been a great adventure and the best part is how joyful it’s been—how every corner was packed with so much happiness. My one regret is that I won’t get to see you become the brilliant, beautiful women I know you will be. I hope you both remain as strong-willed as you are now—that you travel the world, find great love, and live life to its fullest. And that you also live with so much joy and with few regrets. I will love you both forever no matter where my spirit ends up. Love, Mom

  I wiped away more tears. The writing looked so familiar. I’d thought I didn’t remember my mom’s writing at all, but maybe I did. Maybe I had the same hazy memories of her writing as I did so many other things related to her. But . . .

  I frowned, scrutinizing the letter further. This was a different kind of familiar. It was the kind of familiar where you’ve just seen something, so it’s fresh in your mind, and it’s sort of weird that you’re seeing it again so soon. Like when you see the same random stranger at the movies who you saw earlier when you were out shopping.

  And all of a sudden, it hit me.

  I gasped, my heart seizing up like I’d just been stabbed in the chest with an icicle.

  “Sam.” My grip tightened on the letter, making the paper crumple. “We have to go back to the bookstore.” I brandished the letter at him, forcing myself to say the words I couldn’t quite believe. “This handwriting. It’s . . . it’s
the same as the handwriting on the weird message in the bathroom.”

  “The one from your possible stalker?” he said.

  “Yes.” I shook my head at the letter, trying to come up with a scenario where any of this made sense. “Apparently my dead mother is stalking me.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  I BOLTED FROM the car as soon as Sam parked, zipping through the front door of the bookstore and into the bathroom.

  “Hello to you, too!” Leah yelled after me. Pancake barked in agreement.

  I flicked on the light and crossed to the craft wall. My hands shook as I held up one of Mom’s letters next to the message from my mysterious stalker. On the drive back—which had been a frustrating exercise in bumper to bumper traffic and that special brand of Bay Area aggro that only seems to surface during rush hour—I’d studied that same letter over and over. There was a huge pile of letters to explore, but I couldn’t seem to get beyond that first one. Not until I got back to the It’s Lit bathroom and confirmed this complete and total weirdness. My brain was stuck in a holding pattern, unable to process anything beyond that.

  But now there was no question. The letter I was holding up was an exact match to the stalker message on the wall. There was that swooping curlicue at the bottom of the “S,” that angular corner on the “E.” My chest contracted, and my stomach twisted itself into a knot. My whole world felt like it was tilting on its axis.

  What the frakballs fucking fuck.

  “Bea!” Sam hustled into the bathroom. Leah was hot on his heels, Pancake cradled in her arms. “Well?” he said, as they crowded around me.

  “It’s the same writing,” I said, my voice faint. I held up the letter. My hand was still shaking, and Sam reached over and gently extricated it from my grasp. “Someone with my mom’s exact same writing left me a freaking message on the bathroom wall.”

  “Okaaaaay,” Leah said slowly. “Let’s calm down for a minute. Bebe, try those breathing exercises I showed you the other day—”