Summer of Supernovas

by Darcy Woods

  “You’ve got a right?” Gram rises, her displeasure polluting the air. “Your rights ended the second you stepped foot from this house last night!” Her fists land stubbornly on her hips. “Not another word on this tonight. But believe you me, starting tomorrow there’ll be hell to pay. Beginning with the attic.”

  How I’m not exploding under the duress of this injustice is an effing wonderment. And cleaning the attic? The cobwebby, musty, crusty attic? Good Lord, you’d think I committed murder! I toss up my hands. “So, I’m just condemned? No discussion at all?”

  “You wanna keep going? Because this can get a lot worse,” Gram snaps.

  I jerk open the screen door, then let it slam behind me.

  Balanced high atop the ladder, I jab and sweep the broom along the corner rafters, removing an abundance of webs that coat the bristles like icky white cotton candy. I got an early jump on cleaning this morning because come noon, it’ll be hotter than Mercury’s core up here. It’s not like I was getting quality sleep anyway. I spent the bulk of the night rehashing every traumatic detail of the Walkergeddon family dinner. Maybe today, if I wear myself out physically, I’ll pass out the second my head hits the pillow.

  I climb down off the ladder, nudging a box of multisized Styrofoam balls painted to look like planets out of my path. I got an A on that project and had it hung in one of the showcases at school. Gram made me Cherry Chip cupcakes in celebration.

  Things were so much simpler then.

  The scent of something baking drifts through the circular attic window from the kitchen below. My grandmother’s up, but we haven’t spoken. She’s been clattering around making breakfast. But I’m too mad to talk and too nauseated to eat, so I keep working.

  Another hour passes. If I squint I can almost see progress up here. Almost. I heft a couple boxes, cautiously picking my way through the maze I’ve created. But caution only gets you so far in an attic packed with mementos that better serve as booby traps.

  I trip. The precariously stacked boxes tumble from my arms. “Ow!” I rub my stubbed toe. Wiping the sweat from my forehead, I glare at the sheet-covered rectangular object responsible for my klutz attack.

  Irritated, I give the cotton material a forceful tug. Dust immediately kicks up, forming a cloud in the air around me. I cough and fan my face. And just as the allergen particles settle—I see it.

  Gram’s old cedar chest.

  My gosh…I haven’t seen this trunk in ages! Not since I was little and she kept it at the foot of her bed. She was always shooing me away from it.

  But wait a sec. Didn’t she tell me she got rid of it?

  Then why is it still here?

  Dropping to my knees, I run my hands along the surface of the chest, the smell of the pungent wood beckoning me. How many times had I sat as a child, wondering about the treasures…or secrets locked inside this mysterious trunk?

  And now here it is, having magically appeared in the attic.

  I frown, wrestling with my conscience. Breaking into the chest would be a total invasion of her privacy. And yet according to Gram, this chest shouldn’t even be here. Which makes it somewhat fair game, doesn’t it?

  Well, that settles it.

  I find a box containing old hardware, screws, and random tools, and set about jimmying the lock. My heart slams harder as I work to spring the old padlock, inserting one metal object after another to no avail. I try jiggling a bent nail in the keyhole, shifting it this way and that. “Come on,” I hiss through gritted teeth. And then…the unmistakable click, and the lock drops open.

  I blow out a breath, rubbing my hands back and forth on my paint-spattered overalls before easing back to sit on my heels.

  This is it. The moment of truth…

  I open the lid and peer inside. Carefully I sift through the contents, mindful of their original placement. I take out stacks of old letters—many from my grandfather, who died before I was born. The envelopes have begun to yellow and the ink bleeds. I find a copy of the Old Testament, a locket with a stern and weathered face I don’t recognize, and a handkerchief with the initials AEC stitched in blue. And there are photos—lots and lots of photos—depicting a past Gram rarely revisits.

  I dig and dig and dig until I am near the bottom of the chest. And so far, I have found exactly what you’d expect in an old trunk—precious keepsakes. Family heirlooms. Nothing more, nothing less.

  I pinch the bridge of my nose to stave off a looming headache.

  What am I doing? There’s no mystery in this chest. Here I am picking locks and pawing through Gram’s personal effects, and for what? To satisfy some silly childhood obsession?

  Well, mission accomplished, and I still feel like crap.

  Folded at the bottom of the trunk, I find the peach-colored blanket Mama and I used to lie on when we watched the sky. I pull it out, holding it under my nose, breathing in the sharp cedar scent. Of course there’s no lingering trace of my mother in the fabric. But I try to find it anyhow. Try to catch even the faintest whiff of that soft floral fragrance that used to perfume her hair and skin.

  Nothing. I feel a pang of emptiness. It would be unbearable if not for the stars. Because at least they tether my mother and me in a sacred bond. A bond that transcends even death.

  I lower the blanket, glimpsing the last remaining item in the chest—an old hatbox. Pulling it out, I sit cross-legged on the attic floor and lift the lid. I expect more letters from my grandpa.

  I don’t expect to see stacks of letters addressed to me. I blink in disbelief, fingering through the colorful envelopes interspersed with official-looking bank letters.

  What? Why would Gram have kept these from me? Why would she bury them at the bottom of her trunk? Why would—?

  I shake my head. There’s only one way to make sense of this.

  I pull a pink envelope randomly from the pile. There’s an Arizona return address and my name scrawled in sloppy writing on the front. I tear into the paper. My stomach clenches at the sound, a cold sweat cropping up at my hairline.

  It’s a birthday card decorated with bursts of metallic stars. A twenty-dollar bill floats to the floor as I open it.

  Happy Birthday, Mena!

  I don’t know if this card will ever reach you, but I continue to send them in the Hopes that one day they will. My birthday wish for you is the same as it always is—I wish for your happiness.

  I smile as I imagine you blowing out those birthday candles and wonder what you’re wishing for. Do you have a favorite cake? A favorite ice cream? You must be such a big girl by now. And every bit as beautiful as your mama was.

  There’s so much I wish I could tell you. There’s so much I wish I knew.

  Maybe someday I’ll have that precious chance.

  But no matter what, I will always love you, Mena.

  Daddy

  The attic swirls around me; the high ceiling presses down. I close the birthday card Gram never intended for my eyes and, with trembling hands, reach for another.

  It’s more of the same. Wishes of happiness and second chances and wanting to be here in some big or small way.

  I rip through more envelopes, devouring every word.

  Year after year of birthdays and holidays blur together. Lost years. Lost wishes.

  Lost.

  And I find myself gravitating to one card more than all the others, like the magnetic needle of a compass pointing due north. I pick it up again; the glitter sticks to my sweaty fingers. It’s the card where my father tells me how pretty I looked with the purple ribbons in my hair.

  Except…we’ve never met. So then, when would he have seen me? And when was the last time I wore purple ribbons in my hair? Not since I was little. Not since…It hits me and the card drops from my hand.

  I wore purple ribbons to Mama’s funeral.

  And just as I sprang the lock on the chest, so springs a sudden memory buried so deep I nearly forgot…

  Gram holds me in her arms, sobbing over Mama’s grave sprinkled with
sunflowers. I feel so small and helpless, and the world feels big and confusing.

  I kiss Gram’s wet cheeks and tell her it will be okay. I tell her Mama promised on the necklace she will never, ever leave. I’m so sure she will come back. So sure. I can’t understand why this makes Gram cry harder.

  Then the cemetery is almost empty. Except for a tall man in a dark suit. He wears a tie the color of sunshine—Mama’s favorite color. And his eyes are large and full of tears.

  When he approaches, Gram sets me down, pulling me behind her. I cling to her leg, trying to peer around at the man as he weeps and begs for forgiveness. But Gram curses him. Says all sorts of forbidden words. I’ve never seen her so angry.

  “Come on, Wilamena,” our neighbor Mrs. Rowan says, scooping me into her arms. She usually smells like cheese. Today she smells of fake roses. “Let’s get you a ginger ale. You like that, don’t you, sweetheart?”

  The man with sad eyes watches. Watches the distance between us growing wider.

  And I never see him again.

  All these years Gram has known the truth. Known my father—whatever his crimes—has been desperately reaching out. Through his unopened letters and deposits to a savings account opened in my name that I knew nothing about.

  Gram has kept it all locked in a trunk, wedged in the attic, and hidden beneath a sheet—never to be discovered.

  Gram refills her coffee mug. Like any other day on any other morning—except it isn’t. Because I know all the other days were steeped in lies.

  I sway in the doorway, clutching one of the cards from my dad.

  “Heard you up early. Biscuits are still warm in the oven. There’s quiche, too. You should eat something before…” She turns. “Mena? Child, you look positively ill. And you’ve been crying up a storm…”

  She knows this is more than the grounding. Much more. Hustling over, she puts her hands on either side of my face. “Honey, what happened?” I can’t find my voice. “Now you’re scaring me, Mena, what is it?”

  I swallow. “How could you?” I seethe, pushing away her hands and taking a backward step. “How could you purposely hide the truth from me?”

  Gram knows. She knows I mean my father. She turns to peel off her apron, but not before I witness the fear flicker in her eyes. It takes only that second to confirm the truth.

  “You knew! You knew my dad was out there! I thought he didn’t care, that he abandoned me! But he did try; he reached out. And you took all those letters—letters addressed to me—and you hid them! Why?” The rage in my voice blisters and pops in the air between us. “Well?” I pound my fist on the fridge. “Say something!”

  Gram flinches. Her face is ashy and she rubs a hand over her stomach. Taking a dish towel from the counter, she pats it to her forehead. “M-Mena, I was going to talk to you about your father. I was going to give you those letters, along with the others I’ve saved for you in my room. But…when you were old enough to hear the whole story, to try and understand. You have no idea how difficult things were.”

  My nostrils flare. “You’re right, I don’t. Because you”—I jab a hostile finger in the air—“never told me. So? Am I old enough now?”

  “I was going to tell you. I was…”

  I wait for more. I wait for something. Some rational explanation why Gram saw fit to barricade my father from my life. How she justified her bold-faced lies.

  I am hurt, betrayed—but of the myriad of emotions, I cling most fiercely to anger. Because anger keeps me standing. Anger’s what pulled me up from the attic floor when I wanted to curl up and die. Anger will deliver me the entire truth.

  I slap the card on the island between us. “You owe me an explanation.”

  Gram’s jaw clenches as she dabs the towel again at her forehead. Her tearing eyes fasten on the hypnotic paper.

  “Yeah,” I sniff. “I’d be sweating too if all my deepest, darkest secrets were staring me in the face.” I plant my hands on either side of the card. Leaning across the counter, close enough to smell her cinnamon-infused skin, I whisper, “This isn’t over, Gram. You say I broke your trust, but all those cards and letters…they broke us.” I storm from the kitchen.

  I don’t turn to see how the pain sets the crow’s-feet deeper at her eyes, or how the faint lines at the corner of her mouth extend lower.

  I don’t need to.

  The shower washes away the attic grime, yet I still don’t feel clean. I go through the motions of setting my hair into waves. I put on a dress without registering the color or if my shoes match. I’m putting on my Parisian Pout and then stop, dropping the tube without recapping it.

  As I gaze at my reflection, my mother’s blue eyes gaze back. My hair is the same as hers, too—dark, wavy. Is there any of my father in my features? I don’t know. And if Gram had her way, I would probably never find out.

  And that, that is what makes me angriest of all.

  Gram instilled the value of honesty and trust when she raised me. But apparently, those virtues were bendable. For her. The hypocrisy is mind-blowing.

  My thoughts are a jumble as I descend the stairs, the questions compounding with my footsteps. However, I’m clear on two things. Gram owes me—answers and apologies—and I won’t let her timetable dictate when those come.

  I shove open the kitchen door, prepared to wage a war that would put Ares to shame.

  But the second I see her curled on the floor…my rage disappears.

  “Gram!” I scream, falling to my knees. “Gram!” My hands are trembling as I push aside the silvery hair pasted to her forehead. I shake her. Her eyes are rolled back and vacant. I start to cry as I shake her again. “Wake up! You have to wake up!” My tears are dripping all over the shirt with itty-bitty daisies. “Please, Gram,” I whimper, “come back to me.”

  I press my ear to her unmoving chest, but it’s hard to hear anything over my panicked sobs. Gram is my sun and my moon and my stars. If anything happens to her, then…my world will collapse into darkness. Emptiness. A black and hollow hole.

  I stumble to the phone and dial 911.

  The woman on the line is walking me through CPR and I do my best to follow. I perform compressions on her chest soaked with my tears. I would give her my heart—my life—if I could. Because my life doesn’t have meaning without her. She can’t leave me and not know that.

  And she can’t leave thinking…thinking we are broken. Beyond repair.

  I don’t know how long we’re on the kitchen floor before the paramedics arrive with their gadgets and machines.

  I bury my face in my hands as Miss Laveau’s words rasp in my mind. An end…possibly a death. The outcome is so fixed…

  But this is more than I can bear. It’s asking too much of my soul to carry.

  I will shatter without her.

  We are in the ambulance now, and I refuse to let go of Gram’s cold hand all the way to the hospital. People are asking me questions and I must be answering. But I don’t know what I’ve said. There are only whirling lights and horns honking, and an IV, and an oxygen bag being rhythmically squeezed over her nose and mouth.

  The siren screams, and I want nothing more than to join it. To scream as loud and as far as my cry will carry.

  “Honey”—one of the female paramedics pats my hand that holds on to Gram’s—“is there someone we can call? Your mom or dad…another relative?”

  The reality punches through me with the force of a wrecking ball. I may have a biological father, but he isn’t my family. He’s a stranger.

  My mouth quivers and I shake my head. “She’s all I’ve got. Please”—the tears that stopped come back full force—“you have to fix her.” I struggle to draw my breath. “You have to bring her back.”

  The woman squeezes our clasped hands. “We’re gonna do all we can to make that happen. But, Wilamena?”

  My sight’s completely blurred by my tears. I wipe them and the paramedic comes into focus. The woman’s eyes are concerned and kind.

  “I need
you to be strong,” she says. “Hold together, all right?”

  “I’ll try,” I whisper.

  One hour. That’s how long I’ve been at Gram’s bedside. Although the duration of time she spent in the cath lab makes it feel like an entire lifetime has come and gone.

  Gram’s condition has been stabilized, but she’s as pale as the linens on her stark hospital bed. The intermittent beeps serve as a reminder that she’s still alive.

  I pull the chair up to the bed so I can hold her, and when that isn’t enough, I climb into bed with her.

  I tell her how sorry I am for lying, for the terrible things I said when I was angry and hurting. I’ll make it up to her. She can ground me for eternity if she wants—I don’t really care. I’ll do manual labor. I’ll pull out every dandelion in the whole damn state if it’ll bring her back. And that’s a shitload of dandelions.

  It’s not right—the things Gram kept from me. But I know she loves me. Would do anything, including laying down her own life for me, just as I would for her. So we’ll find a way through this. We have to.

  Gram has beautiful eyelashes. They are long and dark even though the rest of her hair’s gone all salt-and-peppery. I tell her so. I tell her she’s beautiful, eyelashes and all.

  “Wil?”

  I sit up to find Irina standing at the door. She draws her hand to her mouth, bracing her other hand on the doorframe. “Is she…is she?” Her eyes well up.

  “She’s stable. They have her heavily sedated because they had to…” I can’t even say the word intubate without crumbling again. “We were fighting and then I left her. I could tell she didn’t feel well but…” I look down at Gram again. “But I didn’t know she was having a heart attack. No”—I shake my head, recalling fragments of the doctor’s explanation—“worse than a regular heart attack. It was called a STEMI, I think. Iri, her heart muscle was actually dying. I didn’t know. I didn’t realize. Until I found her on the floor and—” My words are cut off by another sob.