I didn’t tell her I wanted to live with Andie and finish out the school year. But I was dying to.
“It’s going to be quite an undertaking getting this house packed,” she continued. “Each day we’ll do something big. Starting today.”
I should have known. When Mom made up her mind, she pushed forward with all her might to attain her goal.
“After you shower and rest up, you could start sorting through your own closet,” she said. “You’ll find flattened boxes in the attic.” She got up and went to one of the kitchen drawers. Pulling out a roll of packing tape and a scissors, she handed them to me. “The boys’ll be around to help if you need it.”
I won’t cry—I won’t, I thought as I trudged up the steps to my room, tape and scissors in hand. This house, and everything in it—well, almost everything—reminded me of Daddy. It had been over five years since he’d left. Still, I loved the memories. The nights he read to us till we fell asleep, the summer evenings we spent swinging on the front porch, the jokes he told around the supper table. All were memories he’d made with us here.
Gathering up clean clothes, I headed for the bathroom. As I showered, I thought of my short time in Dressel Hills. Fourteen years had come and gone. The water beat on my back as I cried. No one could hear my sorrow. No one could see my tears. For the first time in my life, I felt totally alone.
After showering, I headed to my room. With a heavy heart, I stared at everything as if for the last time. My comfy bed. My droopy-eyed teddy bear, snuggled onto the lavender window seat next to a pillow. No room could ever be like this one.
I took out my journal, hoping that writing would help me to feel better.
Saturday, March 26—The worst thing happened to me yesterday after school, and it wasn’t the blizzard. I found out that Uncle Jack’s backup plan flopped. The guy he was trying to get for the Denver office turned down the job. So we’re moving to Denver, and Mom’s not even trying to do anything to stop it. I can’t believe it. I always thought she loved Dressel Hills as much as I do!
More horrendous things: Jared and I are finished. Partly my fault, because I didn’t handle things very well and Jared misunderstood. He got real mad and said some horrible things to me. The worst part is he sent a note to me (delivered by none other than Amy-Liz!), and he wants me to think about what happened—like I’m the one who should make the final decision. I really hate this!
I closed my journal. Whether I liked it or not, it was time to get started on packing.
I headed for the walk-in closet in Mom’s bedroom. The ladder to the attic hung down from the ceiling in the far corner of the closet. I remembered hiding up there as a kid. Andie and I had written some of our first Loyalty Papers in our attic. Everything in this house seemed to call out to me—to remind me that I was leaving against my will.
At the top of the ladder, I pushed the wooden door open and poked my head through. The attic was cold, dark, and quiet—like a cave in the snow. Looking around, I shivered. Not much had changed, except there were a few more boxes stacked in neat piles against the wall. Probably Uncle Jack’s stuff.
The attic floor creaked as I made my way to the pile of flattened boxes. A lopsided lamp, minus the light bulb, leaned against the wall, and a large gray trunk stood nearby. Kneeling on the dusty floor, I folded the cardboard along the indentations and made up three large boxes to take to my room.
As I finished the third box, I glanced up and noticed the initials SMJ just above the latch on the old trunk.
“SMJ…Susan Marie Johnson,” I whispered. “Mom’s initials before she married Daddy.”
Almost reverently, I touched it. Mom had used the trunk to haul her clothes and books to college. It was special. Even doubled as a coffee table in the early years of Mom and Daddy’s marriage before they had money for nice furniture. Before I was born. One of our scrapbooks showed them drinking tea on the floor, with a lighted candle perched on the trunk.
In the five years that had come and gone since Daddy left, this trunk had stored Mom’s reminders of him and their life together. Along with scrapbooks and their wedding album, we’d packed up old love letters. Most of them were from Daddy while Mom was completing college. Even the slightest memory brought a veil of tears. Mom had nearly grieved herself sick.
I blew away some dust and slowly, gently, opened the lid.
The awful smell of mothballs brought back memories of the day we had packed this trunk. At age eight, I was too young to care much about love letters. But now, in the depths of my sadness, I wondered if they might hold the answer to The Question—that thing I could not bring myself to face. So deeply buried was The Question, that even though I felt close to my father last Christmas—and had been with him in the quiet of his study, the two of us, alone—I could not force my lips to shape the words.
Deep and dark, The Question stirred within me. Find the answers, it urged. But layers of pain concealed The Question. The pain of divorce, the lonely years without Daddy. Mom having to work full time while juggling office and family. The pain of an empty porch swing on cool summer evenings. Baking snickerdoodles without him.
The old days and Daddy—gone forever. And now I was facing another change. One almost as painful as my parents’ divorce.
Reaching into the dim chasm of the trunk, I found three shoe boxes labeled according to month and year. Mom had allowed me to read a few of the letters kept inside. I opened the one on top and read it for old times’ sake. Smiling, I folded it and slipped it into the envelope. My father certainly had a way with words. He could sweet-talk Mom into almost anything.
I put the letter back in the shoe box and spotted something new—a cluster of cards and envelopes secured with a rubber band in the far right corner of the trunk. Where had they come from?
I hesitated, almost afraid to delve into possible secrets of the past. Taking a deep breath, I lifted the stack out of the trunk, purposely holding it away from my eyes, struggling with the temptation to snoop. Snooping was one of Mom’s pet peeves. Mine too. I thought about Carrie and Stephie sneaking around, snooping in my journal, driving me crazy.
But my curiosity won out. I removed the rubber band and held the first letter up to the light. It was addressed to Susan Meredith; the handwriting was unmistakable. The letter was from my Grandma Meredith.
I sifted through several more envelopes to verify my suspicions. Sitting down on a torn hassock, I discovered that Mom had been corresponding with Grandma Meredith, Daddy’s mother, after he moved out. But why? According to the postmarks, there were several years’ worth of letters and cards here.
The Question raised its ugly head. And I trembled as I began to read the first letter.
GOOD-BYE, DRESSEL HILLS
Chapter 13
Dearest Susan,
We received your letter yesterday, and our hearts are deeply saddened by the news of your recent separation. How we pray something will stop this needless tragedy.
These many years, we have felt our son’s work has been far too important. Insisting on you and the girls moving to the West Coast, especially when he knows how much you dislike big-city life, seems nothing short of insensible.
How are Holly and Carrie, our little darlings, handling the situation? We want to help you out in any way we can. Please let us know if you need anything. Tell our granddaughters how much we love them.
Take care of yourself. We love you, Susan.
—Mom and Dad Meredith
My heart pounded fiercely as I held the letter. The contents of Grandma Meredith’s letter to Mom shook me up. It actually sounded like Mom had refused to move to California when Daddy wanted to be where the action was for his work. Somehow I was sure she would have followed a more submissive route if she’d been a Christian back then.
My thoughts wandered back to Uncle Jack and his career move. Wait a minute…Was this the reason for Mom’s very supportive position?
Just then I heard footsteps. Someone was coming up the ladder. I
hurried to hide evidence of my snooping. Fumbling to refold Grandma’s letter, I slid it back under the rubber band without the envelope.
The footsteps were coming closer. I heard Stephie’s voice. Was Mom with her?
Trembling, I threw the small bundle of letters into the trunk and slammed the lid. The envelope flew onto the floor.
Bam! I covered it with my foot.
“Whatcha doin’ up here?” Stephie asked.
I peeked around her. “Where’s Mom?”
“Sorting junk in the kitchen—some stuff we never use.” Stephie pushed her chin-length hair behind her ears, then picked up a medium-sized box. “Can I have this?” she asked.
“Sure.” My mind was still on Grandma’s letter. Furtively, I wiped a tear away.
“What’s wrong?” Stephie asked, putting her hand on my shoulder. I forced a smile. “I’ll be fine.”
“But you’re crying.” She squatted down on the dusty floor beside me.
I ignored her comment, grabbing at a box. As I did, my foot slipped, revealing the envelope.
Stephie picked it up. “What’s this?”
“Nothing much,” I said. Just what I don’t need right now.
Stephie opened the envelope. “Looks like something’s missing.” She eyed me suspiciously.
“Really?” I said, playing dumb.
Stephie stood up, her eyes dancing. “Are you snooping, Holly?”
I couldn’t tell her, I just couldn’t. She would tell Mom and…
“I did that once, after Mommy died,” Stephie began. “Daddy let me help him pack some of Mommy’s cards. She used to stick little notes on the mirror every morning. You know, love notes.” She giggled.
“How sweet,” I said.
“When we moved from Pennsylvania, Daddy put all of Mommy’s stuff in special boxes. Even some of her clothes. And when he wasn’t looking, I snooped.” She turned around. “There they are.” She pointed to the boxes stacked against the wall.
I was shocked. Aunt Marla’s things were packed away in our attic. “Does Mom know about them?”
Stephie nodded. Her bright eyes sparkled for an instant, then suddenly turned sad. “I think so. But I wish Daddy would unpack some of it.” Without warning, she burst into tears. “Because I can’t remember my mommy’s face anymore.”
I wrapped her in my arms and hugged her tight. “It’s okay, Stephie. It’s okay,” I said, trying to soothe her. “You have pictures to remember her by.”
“I don’t ever want to forget her,” she cried. “I miss her so much. Why did she have to leave us? Why did she have to die?”
In the recesses of my being, a dam broke, spilling out the pain, releasing The Question. I began to sob along with the little girl in my arms. And with the little girl inside of me—that girl who, for five long years, could never bring herself to ask.
Into the dimly lit attic, I let The Question pour out of me. “Why did you have to leave us, Daddy?” I cried into the stillness. “Why?”
GOOD-BYE, DRESSEL HILLS
Chapter 14
My pain mingled with Stephie’s, like the tears on our faces. And now that I had voiced The Question, I was determined to find The Answer—even if I had to snoop in Grandma’s letters to find it.
Slowly, Stephie calmed down. She stopped crying and took some big breaths. I hugged her to me. “Are you okay?” I asked gently.
She nodded and rubbed her eyes. “Thanks, Holly.” She looked up at me, her eyes still wet with tears. “I always wanted a big sister. It was no fun being the only girl in the house.”
“Well, I love having another little sister,” I said, suddenly realizing just how true it was. I did love Stephie. Like I loved my own birth sister.
Gently pushing me away, she got up to go. “You won’t tell Daddy I was crying, will you, Holly?”
“I promise.” I helped her down the ladder with her box.
At the bottom of the ladder she whispered up to me, “Don’t worry, Holly. I won’t tell your mom, either. About the letters—or anything.”
“Thanks,” I said.
For several seconds I stood silently, absorbing everything. Sure, I had lost my dad. But Stephie and her brothers had lost their mother—to death. And think of Uncle Jack—he had lost his wife….
But I wasn’t ready to feel too sorry for him. Not yet.
Snapping back into action, I hurried back to the trunk. And to the empty envelope on the floor. My heart pounded as I reached for the lid on the gray trunk. I pulled, but it wouldn’t budge. I tried again. Stuck!
Then I looked at the latch with Mom’s old initials engraved on it. Unknowingly, I had slammed the lid when Stephie came looking for boxes. And now it was locked.
There was nothing left to do but stuff the evidence in my pocket. I figured if Mom was in the kitchen packing, it would be a cinch to find the trunk key in her bedroom. I thought about places she might hide a key like that and came up with several options. Mom had an odds-and-ends drawer in her vanity. Could be there. And the jewelry case on her dresser was another possibility.
Ready for the challenge, I descended the attic ladder. I peeked around the corner into Mom’s bedroom.
All clear!
Hurrying to the door, I peered down the hallway. No one in sight. Perfect. Soon I’d have the key in my hand, and no one would ever know about my snooping.
First, I checked the junk drawer in Mom’s vanity. Everything imaginable was scattered in there. Old thimbles, a paper clip, two pocket-sized Kleenex packs, and even some ancient postage stamps. But no trunk key.
Next, I searched her jewelry case. It was filled with dinner rings, bracelets, earrings, and necklaces. But no key.
Now what?
I dashed to my room to think. A backup plan—that’s what I needed. As I contemplated the situation, the phone rang.
Mom called to me, “Holly, are you up there? It’s for you.”
I answered the phone in the hall. “Hello?”
“Holly, we have to talk.” It was Jared. He sounded miserable.
“I don’t know what to say to you,” I replied quickly.
“Got your limerick,” he continued. “You’re angry with me.”
“You got that right.”
Jared didn’t say anything to that. It was weird trying not to breathe too loudly into the phone. But I was really nervous. And, yep, still mad.
Finally he broke the silence. “Maybe we oughta talk face-to-face.”
“I…well, maybe it’s not such a good idea.”
He pressed on. “How about after Sunday school tomorrow?”
“We’ll see,” I said. “You know we’re definitely moving.”
“Yeah, Stan told me.” There was another long silence.
“Well, I’ve got to help my mom with the packing,” I said. “Talk to you later.”
We said good-bye, and I hung up.
Settling down on my window seat, I thought about Jared and what it would be like trying to hang out with him again. After all the things he’d said yesterday, and how he’d flirted with Amy-Liz, like it was no big deal. Why did he want to hang on to me like this? Moving to Denver with a cute boy to write to had its advantages—for me. But I couldn’t see how it would benefit Jared.
I left the window seat to locate my journal. It was definitely time to record my true feelings about Jared. About Daddy, too.
Saturday afternoon, March 26—Even though I can think of all sorts of reasons NOT to give Jared the time of day, I think I know the true and only reason why I don’t want to have anything to do with him. It’s because Sean Hamilton is coming from California with Daddy and Tyler next Saturday. I want to be able to hang out with Sean—and other guys, too—without worrying how Jared might feel.
I glanced up from my journal. “That’s it,” I surprised myself by saying. “That’s the reason. I really want to see Sean again.” No way would Jared want me to spend the day skiing with another guy if he was my boyfriend again. Not in a zillion years.
I continued writing in my journal.
I think I found some answers to my questions about why Daddy left. It must have something to do with moving to California. According to Grandma’s letter, it sounds like Mom purposely stayed here in Dressel Hills with Carrie and me. I know they were separated for a while before Daddy made it legal. I still don’t know what happened to make him file for divorce, though.
Grandma Meredith’s letters hold the answers somehow, I just know it. But now I’ve got to find the trunk key. Before we move. Who knows when I’ll have a chance to snoop around again once we get to Denver.
I closed my journal and tucked it into its hiding place. Then I turned my attention to the mess in my closet. If I didn’t hurry and get some of this stuff sorted, Mom might wonder what I’d been up to all afternoon.
Going through the closet shelves, I found piles of school papers, scrapbooks, old shoe boxes filled with embroidery floss from fifth grade when I was a cross-stitch junkie, and a bunch of other stuff.
By suppertime, I was finished. And even though Mom had made her fabulous meatloaf, I only moved it around on my plate. Uncle Jack’s excitement bugged me, took my appetite away. Stubbornly, I tuned out his moving talk, refusing to make eye contact with him all the way through dessert.
In the middle of the night, I felt icky. After a drink of water, I went back to bed. But by morning I felt even worse. Mom let me stay home from church, and it was a good thing, because I slept nearly all morning.
When I finally woke up, my first thought was of Jared. He’d probably think I was playing sick to avoid him. I hadn’t planned it this way, but it did buy me some additional time.
I showered and dressed in a fleece shirt and clean jeans. I snickered to myself as I headed for Mom’s bedroom and the walk-in closet. Perfect timing. Now…how to open that trunk?
Holly's Heart Collection Two Page 15