by Ginger Scott
Turns out the answer was always simple—she was selfish.
“I think she was,” my grandmother finally answers, and it takes me a minute to remember what I asked. “I used to offer to send something along with my cards or letters. I’d offer to call your father and set up a visit. Oh…how we would fight about it. She was adamant that she had made her choice, and that your dad would never forgive her, but I don’t know.”
I don’t know either. If it were now, I think maybe my dad would be open to talking at least, but then…no. The wounds were too fresh.
“I think it was more than guilt that made her lash out at me. Your mom always had this idea in her head about what her life would be like, but that’s not how this works.”
“How what works?” I ask.
Her head waggles as she holds her palms out to her sides and says, “Any of it.”
No. I guess it’s not. If that’s how life worked—precisely the way a person wants it to—then I’d still have my leg, and Wes wouldn’t be…wherever. And my mom…
She’d probably still be gone.
“Some people are just built differently,” Grace says, her eyes shifting to the dark scene in the distance. “When your mom found out about the cancer…she walked out into the desert, and dropped a match.”
Arson.
“Your mom could be awful when she didn’t get her way. That…that’s why we didn’t get along. For years, I would just take the abuse—let her rail against me for everything. Every time she was the new kid at school, that feeling she would get—the fear of being new? My fault. When a boy she liked, liked another girl? My fault. Every single time we moved—my fault. I was a military wife, and that was just the way our life worked as a family. I couldn’t let it be Zeke’s fault. So…I let her blame me. And when your dad started drinking, and things started unraveling with their marriage…”
“That was their fault,” I interrupt.
Her eyes blink slowly above her tight-lipped smile in agreement.
“It was, but your mom couldn’t see it that way. She blamed me for every wrong turn in her life. And eventually, I refused to be her whipping post,” Grace says. Her shoulders rise and fall with labored breath. “I didn’t talk to her for years. I had no idea where she’d gone when she left your dad. I didn’t know Kevin at all. I had to let her go; let her try and force life to work the way she wanted it. And then she got sick. Kevin took a job in town, I think, so she and I could be close.”
“She came to you,” I say.
Grace nods.
“I think maybe it was the first time she felt utterly powerless against something, so she took it out on God. She burnt his beauty to the ground. The official report blamed it on lightning from one of the monsoons, but I found her rocking in the garage, dirt on her boots, and the box of matches in her hand. I never told anyone. Not even Kevin.”
Grace’s gaze drifts beyond me, and after nearly a minute of silence, her eyes still lost in nothing, I start to worry until she finally speaks.
“Your mom was convinced that she was born to be the villain,” she says, her focus sliding to me until our eyes meet. She leans forward and pushes the tin toward me again, then stands and moves toward the door, stopping to turn her head before moving inside.
“I’m going to run to the store, pick up a few things for you and your friend, for your trip in the morning. Maybe look through that while I’m gone,” she says, her fingers rapping on the wood frame of the doorway. “I’ll tell you anything you want to know.”
I watch her disappear before turning my attention to the tin in front of me. I lean forward and snag the edge with my fingertip and drag it closer, then sit, frozen while I breathe and wonder what else I could possibly ever want to know.
“You all right?” Kyle’s voice is soft and sleepy. I shouldn’t have dragged him through this with me, but I was too scared to do it alone.
“I’m not sure…I think maybe…no, I’m not,” I say, scrunching the shoulder closest to him.
“What can I do?” he asks.
I tip the container forward slightly, and the photos and trinkets inside all slide toward me. In a short time, Grace managed to pack a lot of things into this tiny box. Funny how they look different to me now, though. The specialness is all worn off.
“Why don’t you get a little more rest in my room?”
Kyle waves off my suggestion, acting tough, but I know he’s tired. And he needs to drive several miles tomorrow, and I’m not entirely sure where we’re going.
“You know you slept like shit on the floor last night,” I say, pointing as I catch him mid yawn. He contorts his mouth into a smile, but a guilty laugh breaks through.
“Fine, you’re right. You all right alone?” he says, standing up from the wicker sofa. It crackles with the release of his weight.
I tap my finger on the tin.
“I think I’m gonna go through more secrets and memories,” I say.
“Right,” he nods, leaning forward and kissing the top of my head. “Wake me up after an hour or so. I don’t want to throw my body’s clock out of whack.”
I nod yes and wait until I’m sure I’m alone to bring the tin into my lap. The first thing my eyes notice is an old leather keychain—Volkswagen. I pull it out and rub my thumb into the logo patch, noticing the places where it’s worn deepest. My touch on top of hers—our fingertips the same size.
When I drop the keyring back into the box, it lands on another photo that slid sideways, the edges poking up. I pull it out next wanting to make sure it isn’t bent, and I nearly dismiss it as another family photo taken on the day I was born, when a face catches my attention.
The eyes are the same, and the smile. I could chalk facial features up to a coincidence—so many of us have near twins out in the world. But it’s the cane—the one he’s using to stand while he holds me in his other arm—that won’t let me move on.
My gut tells me the man in this photo is Shawn Stokes. He knew me. He was there—on this day. I stand, carrying the tin with me inside and setting it on the kitchen counter, moving to the best light to study the photo more closely. The longer I look, the more positive I am it’s him.
Within minutes, I begin to pace, waiting for my grandmother to come home. I only hope that of all of the things Grace said she would tell me, this is one she can.
Two
“How did my parents know Shawn Stokes?”
Grace is barely inside the house before I pelt her with my question. Her body shielded by a half-dozen plastic grocery bags hanging from her arms, I can’t read her face, but the way she’s paused—frozen—speaks volumes.
“Why is Shawn Stokes in a picture with me and my parents?” My question lingers a second time, and I wait until Grace begins to move again, taking a few of the bags from her arm as she ambles into the kitchen.
I wait impatiently as she begins unpacking bags of chips, bread, snacks, and other essentials—things she’s bought for Kyle and my road trip, and I want to appreciate how kind she’s being, but all I can do is bounce on my legs, anxious to know what that photo means. She’s working on the third bag when I tug it away from her.
“Grace, please,” I say, my heart now pounding so hard my hands tremble with the beat. I know I’m not adopted. My dad had a paternity test done after my mom left, and I’ve seen photos of her pregnant with me. I’ve heard the story about the long hours in labor. I’m theirs…genetically. But then how does Shawn fit into our little family photo?
My grandmother pulls a chair out from the table, patting the one closest for me to join her. For the first time since I’ve been here, I notice her eyes fall to my leg as I slide into my seat.
“That was from the bridge.” Her eyes flit to mine waiting for my confirmation and back to my leg.
I nod.
“I saw it on the news, and I called your dad. He gave me a few updates as you recovered,” she says.
“I’ve learned to live with it,” I shrug. “I’ve been working with a
trainer…to compete again. I play softball.”
Her lips stretch and curve on the ends, and I’m suddenly filled with this need to defend myself, to explain that it isn’t just a cute hobby for me. Competing is life.
I lean forward on my elbows and look at her sideways, square in the eyes. “I’m good.”
The curve of her mouth pulls into her cheeks and her eyes crinkle at the edges.
“I hear you’re really good,” she says, sliding her hand palm-down along the table closer to me.
I’m not used to affection like this, and my reciprocation is slow and awkward, but when her hand grips mine, my fingers seem to automatically know how to hold her back. Her hand is cool, her skin soft, age spots and blue from veins coloring the top. I wonder if this is how my hands will look one day.
“I promised you I would tell you everything I could, but some things might be better left in boxes,” she says, holding my hand a little harder, perhaps feeling my urge to run. I don’t blink as I stare at her eyes—this piece of the puzzle is too important to forgo just because of a little pain.
“I’m prepared,” I say.
She reaches forward with her other hand, and I mimic her movement, turning in my chair until she’s holding both of my hands. It’s the most uncomfortable position I’ve ever been in, being touched like this, but I think maybe it’s more for her than me, so I breathe deeply and take it.
“I shouldn’t have put that photo in the box. I didn’t realize, but I suppose…I suppose it’s too late. And maybe you really should know the full story. I take it by your question, you remember Shawn?” Her head falls to the side and her eyes soften.
“He’s…” I’m not sure what he is—he’s important; he’s a clue; he’s Wes’s uncle…sort of. “It’s weird, how I know him, but he was the caseworker for a guy I know that was adopted. He’s also the boy’s uncle…his brother adopted my friend.”
She nods, almost as if she already knew this part.
“Am I…adopted?”
The question stumbles from me sloppily, sounding ridiculous in my ears, but I’m relieved when my grandmother laughs in response anyhow. The breath I had been holding rushes out, and I laugh sadly with her.
“Sweetheart, no. Though, perhaps after the things I’ve told you today, you wish you were,” she says, letting go of my hands and leaning back, her eyes still on mine. “No…you weren’t adopted. But…those first few years…they were…rough.”
My brow draws in.
“I think your mom thought having you would be the missing piece…solve all of her problems, end the fighting with your dad,” she says.
Except for that last argument, I don’t have vivid memories of my parents fighting. I recall yelling, sometimes. I’d usually busy myself, or go outside. I was avoiding without even realizing it. There were a lot of times when the two of them were apart, too—my dad working late, my mom going to bed early. And there were periods where they wouldn’t talk to each other at all—sometimes for days. They were good at pretending for me, I guess.
“Shawn was your neighbor, at least until you were about two, maybe three, and you spent almost every day during that time at his house.”
I scratch away inside my head, desperate for something that recognizes what she’s saying, but I can’t find a single thread—I don’t remember anything from then. The photo of him, his face—it isn’t familiar because of those years, it’s only familiar because of now.
“It was a long time ago.” She chuckles. She must sense my frustration at not remembering.
“Didn’t he go to work? Did I go with him? Did I sleep there?” I ask my questions in a rush.
“Sometimes,” she says, applying that word to all three. “He had an extra room. You liked it when he had other kids, clients that he needed to find homes for. There was this one boy…”
She leans back and shuts her eyes, tilting her chin to the ceiling, smiling through a breathy laugh, and I know...
“You were both maybe two, and you fought over every toy that man had in his house. But you’d cry, and that sweet boy,” she pauses to chuckle again. “He’d always give you your way.”
Everything inside my chest is heavy, doing a slow slide down my ribs on the inside, my body sinking, my shoulders falling. I feel sick.
“Do you remember his name?” My pulse pounds in my ears.
Grace’s mouth scrunches just before she speaks. “Josselyn, I hardly remember what day of the week it is.”
My pulse stops.
“But I’ll tell you this…I’ve never seen a pair of bluer eyes on a child in my whole life.” Her hands flatten to pat the table to punctuate how special this boy’s eyes were before she gets up and busies herself putting away her own groceries and packing a travel bag for us.
My lips quiver with his name, and I almost don’t want to say, because it would be just one more strange thing, but at the same time—I have to know. “Wes,” I hum.
My eyes wide on her back, I wait for any sign that I’m right. She keeps unpacking and moving things from one bag to another, and disappointment starts to wash through my veins when she pauses and bunches her brow, a box of crackers in her hand.
“You know, maybe…that sounds right. It was something short like that. How amazing that you could remember!” She titters, returning to her work.
I don’t remember. It doesn’t mean I don’t know it in my gut, though.
“Do you know where Shawn moved to?”
It’s been years, probably fifteen, but on the off chance…
“I didn’t know him very well. Your mom and he were pretty close, I guess. When she was at home while she was on bed rest, pregnant with you, he would stop by and check on her. It turned into a daily thing, and your dad didn’t really mind because Shawn…well, he wasn’t really the hunk-type, and your dad was so worried about her pregnancy—you, my dear, were not easy.” She glances over her shoulder at me, her mouth tucked in on one side and her eyes squinted.
“Nothing new there.” I laugh, standing from the table, fairly confident that I’m going to end this trip with the full picture of just how poisonous my parents’ marriage was, but not a single clue that will help me find Wes.
I leave Grace to finish in the kitchen and make my way to the spare room. I’m careful with the handle as I push it down and slide the door open, but Kyle’s awake on the bed, hands folded behind his neck, elbows out, knees bent as he rolls his head to the side to watch me come in.
“It’s creepy as shit in here. I think I was better off in that sewing room on the floor,” he says, scooting backward and propping himself up on his elbow. I lay down next to him in the same position, and he reaches up and tucks my hair behind my ear then lightly pinches my chin as he smiles at me.
“I don’t know what I was thinking with any of this,” I say, blinking once, my mouth a hard line to match my hardening heart.
Kyle squints at me, then rolls to his stomach folding his hands under his cheek, resting his head sideways as he studies me.
“You were thinking that you’d just do this all yourself,” he says.
I roll my eyes and puff out a breath.
“Do what myself?”
Kyle’s body rises with his deep breath, and the smile fades from his eyes and mouth.
“Nobody’s really looking for him. They’ve all given up. But not you.” Kyle reaches toward me again, giving my chin the same pinch as before. He leaves his hand there and stares at me through dozens of breaths. “I believe you.”
I suck in my lip at those simple words. I’d told Kyle everything I could remember, about how Wes caught the rock, about how strong he was, how he never had more than a scratch or two, and how I got the mysterious texts. It sounded insane as I spoke the words to him, and he never responded out loud. He just listened.
And he drove. He drove me here.
“You think he’s alive?” My lips quake when I speak, and my eyes pool, so I smoosh my face against the cool sheets to hold it together.
Kyle brushes my tangled hair away from my face again, this time cupping my cheek.
“I do,” he says. “And we’re going to find him.”
I reach my hand up to cover his and whisper, “Thank you.”
We were supposed to go to my mom’s grave today. I don’t want to anymore. I buried her a long time ago, really. This trip was more about Grace, I think. Or at least, it’s become more about her…her and me.
I sit up and rub my palms against my eyes, wondering if Kyle and I will ever get to sleep tonight before we wake up early tomorrow to start our trip to nowhere. I know Shawn doesn’t live far from Bakersfield, because he made the drive to pick up Wes’s things. I’m hopeful that asking around at a few places, maybe convenience stores in small towns, might give us a tip. I don’t really have a solid plan beyond that, but I’m going to keep looking for as many days as Kyle is willing to drive.
“Josselyn,” Grace says, her voice soft behind me, the tone delicate…cautious. She has something bad to say. I turn to see her standing in the now-opened doorway. She moves closer to me, handing me the small bag of toiletries she assembled. I take it from her and offer a crooked smile, my guard heightened behind my expression, though—waiting for the shoe to drop.
“Kevin,” she says. My body starts to tremble with adrenaline. “You should see him.”
“No.” I can’t even mask my cold, immediate response. I feel bad when Grace flinches, but no…Kevin is the devil. Forget my mom. Kevin is the villain.
I notice Grace’s eyes shift to Kyle. She exhales and bunches her lips in thought, and before I can shift my position enough to block her view, Kyle engages.
“Why?” he asks.
“It doesn’t matter, why, Kyle.” I swivel fast and my eyes bore into him, my teeth clenched so hard my jaw pops.
One blink and a tilt of his head only pisses me off more.
“We’re not seeing Kevin,” I say, drawing my line, which Kyle steps over immediately as he gets up from the bed and walks closer to Grace.
“Do you think he could tell her things, too? About her mom?” he asks.