We both drop to our knees before it. I pull the box toward me. Its corners are worn and weak, bending easily beneath my grip.
A manila folder is tucked inside the box, along with loose papers, envelopes with broken seals, postcards with bright illustrations. A notebook with a thick black cover, a swollen middle.
I flip the manila folder open. It’s filled with more modeling head shots. Multiple takes of the same poses, including the one Serenity is holding, as well as others. The familiar woman gazes directly at the camera, unsmiling. She looks off somewhere in the distance, her eyes unfocused, faraway. She gives a small, private smile as she glances to the side, her chin tucked down to her shoulder.
“Is she famous?” Amelia asks. “Only actresses and models have head shots like that. Was she an actress?”
“I don’t know.”
Amelia points past my shoulder. “Those are postcards from California! She must have been in Hollywood.”
Serenity gasps. “Edie,” she wheezes. “Look.”
She points into the box. Amelia gasps, too, claps her hands over her mouth. I’m unable to make a sound.
We’re staring at an open letter. I reach into the box, carefully lift it up. It’s crinkly and thin beneath my fingertips, and lined with several rows of inky cursive.
The date at the top is December 14, 1973.
The message is somewhat short. I skim straight down the paper, seeing these words without really reading them, because the phrase that matters most is penned at the very end.
Two words: Love, Edith.
5.
E for Edith, E for Me
July 5
“That can’t be a coincidence,” Serenity says. “Edith isn’t a common name.”
“For real,” Amelia agrees. She glances at me, and I see concern and curiosity in her eyes. “Whoever she is, she must have been important to your parents.”
I’m at a loss for words. The letter feels limp in my hands. I’ve never given my name much thought. I know what it means (“prosperous in war,” which has always seemed a bit odd to me). And I know that it’s rare, old-fashioned (Libby—the meanest girl in our grade, and possibly the entire school—used to call me “Granny,” because she thought Edith was a “grandma name”).
But I didn’t think my name was an inheritance. My parents have never mentioned any other Ediths. As far as I know, none exist in our family tree.
So who is this woman? Where did this box come from? What does this all mean?
Amelia places a gentle hand on my knee. “It looks like your parents have been keeping secrets from you.”
Mom and Uncle Phil aren’t related by blood. Grandma and Grandpa Miller brought her home from an orphanage when she was only a few months old. This is the story I know about where Mom came from, and how she fits in with the Millers.
Aside from the fact that she’s Native American, of course. That part has never been a secret. But it’s never been elaborated on, either.
“Don’t you know anything about your mother’s biological family?” Serenity leans in, focusing on my face. “Your mom must have learned something about them.”
“I think it’s safe to say she did. I mean, again”—Amelia gestures meaningfully at the photographs—“just saying.”
I nod. Fold the letter along its creases. Tuck it back inside the box.
Serenity asks, “You okay?”
“Fine.” The word sounds false. “I’m fine.”
My two friends are watching me closely. They both know how much I wish I had a big family. I have no siblings, no cousins. No aunties to visit in Hawaii or California, like Amelia. No elders to bake cookies with during the holidays, like Serenity. (All of my grandparents had passed by the time I was four years old.) I love my parents and Uncle Phil very much, and I know I’m lucky to have them. Still, I can’t help but wonder how different my life would be if I had a little sister to play with, or an older brother to look out for me. Or grandparents or great-somethings, to tell me stories from “the old days.”
Where are you from?
A bitter taste fills my mouth. I’m staring at letters and photographs from a woman who potentially could have answered that question. This is proof that my own parents might hold the answers.
Why didn’t they ever tell me about her? We’re close; we share everything.
Or so I thought.
Amelia asks Serenity, “Is she in shock?”
“I think so,” Serenity answers gravely.
And then from downstairs: “Edie? Hello?”
Our eyes widen. All three of us exchange frantic glances.
“Sweetie?” Mom calls from the hallway below. “What are you doing in the attic?”
Amelia grips my shoulder and whispers, “What should we tell her?”
I feel breathless. “I don’t know,” I say. It looks like your parents have been keeping secrets from you. “I don’t—” Your mom must have learned something about them. I shake my head over and over. “Not this,” I squeak. “Something else.”
Mom yells, “Edie! Are you up there?”
I can feel my pulse in my neck. “Yes, Mom,” I call back. “We’re here. We were just—” Amelia’s hand tightens on my shoulder; Serenity’s eyes widen. I shake my head again, feeling helpless.
Then Amelia shouts, “We were looking for your Popsicle molds, Mrs. Green. Do you know where they are?”
“Oh,” Mom says. She gives a small, breathy laugh. “I know exactly where those are. I stored them in the cupboard above the fridge. Why don’t you girls come down, and we’ll make some? I have fresh strawberries and blueberries you can use.”
Amelia says, “Sounds wonderful, Mrs. Green! Thanks so much, we’ll be right down.”
“I’ll be waiting,” Mom says. Her footsteps move down the hall, toward the kitchen.
Amelia releases my shoulder. “You okay?”
I nod. “Thank you.”
“I think you did the right thing,” Amelia says. “Keep this discovery a secret, at least for now. Serenity and I can help you do some research and go through the box. We’ll figure out who this other Edith is on our own.”
Serenity glances back and forth between us. “Maybe Edie should be honest with her mom.”
I swallow. “My mom wasn’t honest with me.”
“She’s right,” Amelia says. She eyes the box. “Something’s going on here. And if Edie’s mom didn’t tell the truth before, why would she start now?”
6.
Origins
July 5
The Popsicles are still in the freezer, but my friends are gone. Serenity had to meet her dad. Amelia’s mom called her home to do some chores.
And now I’m slumped on the couch, staring at nothing. My drawing pad is open on the coffee table before me, but the page is blank. I don’t know where to begin.
Love, Edith.
I want to go back to the attic and read that full letter. I want to learn more about who she was, and how we’re . . . related. I’m almost certain that we are. What else would explain the resemblance, the shared name, the existence of that box?
There is another Edith in my family tree. There are whole roots and branches I’ve never known before. I want to dig through the dirt, climb through these tangled limbs, inspect this gnarled trunk. I want to see who she is to me. I want to learn the names of who else was here.
Dad’s home from work. He has a bag of fast food clutched in one fist as he comes through the front door; the other grips his keys, which he yanks free from the doorknob.
His hair is mussed, his necktie is loose, and he’s already shrugging out of his sport coat. He wears fancy clothes to work, but I know he hates them. He looks like he can never take a deep breath in these outfits.
“Hey, sweetie,” he says. “How was your day?”
“Interesting.” I keep my voice vague. “How was yours?”
“Long,” he says. Which is always his answer after a full day of work. “Come eat dinner.”
&nb
sp; I follow him into the dining room, where he and Mom hug and greet each other. Her hands slide up and down his back. He presses a quick kiss to the top of her head. And they seem so sweet, so happy. Like they couldn’t possibly have anything to hide. Especially not from their only daughter.
The chair legs scrape as I drop into my seat at the table, and my parents soon follow.
Mom gives me a friendly smile as she sits. “Hungry, sweetie?”
I shrug in response.
Dad’s sport coat is gone, his necktie has been tossed aside, and his crisp white sleeves are now rolled up to his elbows. He retrieves a foil-wrapped burger from the grease-spotted bag.
“You know”— he groans as he sinks into his chair—“I really hate going back to work after holidays. It’s the worst feeling ever.” The foil crinkles as he pries the layers apart. “I should’ve become a math teacher. Then I’d have whole summers off, just me and my girls. Wouldn’t that be neat?” He brushes away some loose shreds of lettuce. Takes the burger in his hands, props his elbows up on the table. “Imagine all the great stuff we could do if I didn’t have to work all the time.”
The clock on the wall tick-tick-ticks in a brisk, even beat. A bead of condensation drips down the side of my milkshake, settling at the base of the plastic cup. A warm breeze wafts through the open windows behind my parents, shifting the white cotton curtains.
“Maybe I could get a job,” Mom offers gingerly. “And you could take some well-deserved time off.”
I slurp at my milkshake. Dad shakes his head, swallows his mouthful with a forced gulp.
“No way,” he says. “I mean, if that’s what you wanted, you absolutely could. But please don’t let me guilt you into thinking you should work outside the home. I know I complain sometimes, but really, I wouldn’t change a thing about our situation. I’m happy to support my family.”
Mom flushes. Smiles down at her chicken burger. “And I love being a stay-at-home mom. Despite the weird politics at PTA meetings.”
A short silence follows as we all dive into our meals.
Then Dad crunches a french fry and says, “When we learned your mother was pregnant, that was one of the first decisions she made. She quit her job and didn’t look back. She knew that raising a child is the most important work in the world, and she wanted to dedicate all her time and energy to you.”
My heart gives a subtle thud.
Honestly, this isn’t unusual. My parents always share stories and memories about me as a toddler, a baby, a “bun in the oven.”
But they’ve never shared where my name came from.
Not once.
“Well,” Mom says. “It’s also a tremendous privilege, to be a full-time parent. Not all mothers or fathers get the chance to do this.”
“True.” Dad’s voice goes soft and solemn. “That’s very true.”
I drag a french fry through some ketchup. My stomach feels too queasy to eat a full burger right now. I’m stalling with tiny nibbles.
“Edie,” Dad says. “Is everything okay? You’re quiet tonight.”
Another breeze whispers through the windows, fluttering the curtains.
“Yeah, I’m fine. Just thinking.”
“About?”
I clasp my milkshake, draw out the silence with a long, cold sip. Mom and Dad wait and watch me without touching their own food. Finally, I swallow and sit up.
“I guess I’m just wondering where, um—where my name came from?”
Dad gives the smallest flinch. Mom’s face doesn’t move; she doesn’t seem to breathe.
“Why am I Edith?” I ask. “Why not Emily, or Ella? Where did—” I breathe in. Brace myself. “Where did my name come from?”
For a second, it’s as if my parents have turned to stone.
They sit with stiff, awkward postures. Their gazes turn distant, faraway.
“And it’s so old-fashioned,” I add. “I don’t know any other Ediths.”
Dad blinks. Focuses his attention on Mom, even as he asks me, “Where’s this coming from, sweetie? Is that girl from school bothering you again?”
Now it’s my turn to flinch. I forgot I told my parents about Libby’s teasing.
“No,” I say. My face burns as I spin a quick lie from half-truths: “Amelia and I were talking earlier about how she was named after her mom’s favorite aunt. And Serenity said she was named after a prayer. They both wanted to know where my name came from, and I didn’t know what to tell them.”
I can’t look at either of my parents as I say this.
Mom laughs, but it comes out airy and strange. “Well, honey. You have a vintage name. It’s classic. Timeless.”
My stomach plummets. “Is that why you chose it? Because it was . . . vintage?”
She shrugs. “We gave you a name you could grow into. Something meaningful.”
“So, you wanted me to be ‘prosperous in war’? That’s the literal meaning of it.”
“Not necessarily, just—” She waves one hand. Squints at the tabletop. “Prosperous. Happy. Despite anything and everything that gets in your way.”
“Huh.”
“You haven’t touched your burger, Edie. Eat.”
I take a mechanical bite and chew without tasting.
My mother just lied to me, so easily. Like it cost her nothing.
7.
Golden Gardens
July 5
We go to Golden Gardens after dinner, which only makes their guilt more obvious. There are certain things my parents do whenever something is wrong and they want to make me feel better: they feed me tons of sugar, they buy me new art supplies, or they take me here.
Golden Gardens is my favorite park in Seattle, and my favorite place to draw. It’s a public beach on the Puget Sound waterfront, with concrete trails and grassy picnic areas, huge stretches of sand littered with driftwood logs and chipped seashells. Beach towels are strewn across the lumpy seashore, striped umbrellas and plastic pails anchored beside them. Dogs crash into the water, splashing as they chase after sticks.
My drawing pad is open in my lap. I’m trying to focus on my work, following the lines across the horizon. I draw a little splash mark into one corner of the beach, with a shaggy form diving into it. I imagine Bruno here, running and playing like all the other dogs. I remember the soft pressure of his nose against my palm. His tongue lolling to the side as he watched me walk away.
Maybe I shouldn’t have walked away.
Somewhere in the distance, a ferry blasts its horn. The wind picks up, fluttering the pages of my pad, revealing the drawing of that purple flower in my mother’s garden. The sight of it frustrates me so much, I flip the page back too hard and accidentally rip its corner.
I breathe in through my nose, out through my mouth. I touch my pencil to the paper, willing myself to focus, to follow the ripples of light across the water. The textured tops of the evergreen trees. The rise and fall of the Olympic Mountains.
Why would my mother lie about my name? What’s the point of locking the other Edith inside a box in the attic? Who was she, and why was she important? Why is she top secret?
I really don’t understand.
And where is she now? How does the adoption factor in?
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it free, unlock the new message.
Serenity: you should ask ur parents about her.
I nearly drop my phone in my haste to hide her words. My parents are sitting on either side of me on the park bench. They’re both reading, focused on the open novels in their hands, but you never know. They might try to peek at my messages. I don’t know if I can trust them.
I shove the phone deep inside my pocket. Return to my drawing pad.
The tip of my pencil breaks. It leaves an ugly dash across my drawing, right through the middle of a lopsided mountain. It’s ruined. Completely ruined.
I snap the sketchbook shut and set it aside with more force than necessary. Mom notices, and I can feel the disturbance in our bubble of silence
. But she doesn’t say anything, which is fine. I don’t want her to.
Indigo mountains line the horizon in jagged peaks. The sun dips low, and a summit sinks into it like a thorn. Its fragile golden skin is punctured, and the sun bleeds oranges and yellows across the bottom of the sky.
I don’t think I’ll ever be able to capture something like this. No matter how hard I try.
8.
The Computer
July 6
Amelia: I have a brilliant idea to share with you. Can we hang out tomorrow?
Me: Sure.
Amelia: Awesome. And wait for me before you go through the box. I want to learn EVERYTHING about the other Edith.
I stare at Amelia’s words, conflicted. All night long, the box in the attic called to me, as if an invisible fishing line connected my fingertips to its cardboard edge. I felt a constant tug and pull, this sense that every time I opened my eyes, I was reaching for her through the dark.
Me: You can’t come over today?
My thumbs hover over the glowing screen. The phone vibrates in my palm.
Amelia: Sorry, no. Busy. Pretty pleeeeease can we do it tomorrow?!
I sigh. Me: I’ll wait for you, but I’m bringing the box down to my room. Don’t want us to go back in the attic while my parents are around. They might get suspicious.
She sends me two thumbs-up emojis.
I rise from the living room couch and inch past the doorway to the kitchen.
Mom knocks an egg against the kitchen counter. Its shell splits in two, and the raw yolk drops into the skillet with a slick-sounding thwick. Dad pours pale batter over our waffle iron. Bacon is sizzling on the stovetop; the coffeepot is gurgling in its corner. Both my parents are focused on their tasks, speaking to each other in hushed voices.
I hurry down the hall. Rise up on my tiptoes. Lower the ladder. It unfolds with a noisy creak, and I wince, but I don’t think either of them heard it.
Still. Need to make this fast.
I Can Make This Promise Page 3