Keira got out of the car without paying much attention to the flora around her and automatically slid her car keys into the pocket of her jeans. How could this house appear so normal when normal would never come again? Someone had been out and weeded the flower bed that circled the house. Guilt stabbed in her heart region. Weeding the flower beds had been more delight than chore when she and her mother had done it together. Bjorn had even offered to help her weed, but she couldn’t force herself to come out and do it. Swallowing the pain and the tears that threatened, Keira pushed open the peaked picket gate and stopped at the fading daffodils that bordered the concrete walk. She should have picked a bouquet and put the flowers on her parents’ graves. Her mother had loved daffodils, a sure sign that spring had arrived. A path circled around to the front of the house and another led to the three stairs up to porch level. The door was locked. The door had never been locked in all the years her parents had lived in this house. She dug in her purse for the keys and finally handed them to Leah to open the door. Tears made inserting the key in the lock impossible.
“I thought I was done with this,” she whispered as they finally stepped inside the kitchen. She tried not to inhale the musty smell, the this-house-is-not-lived-in odor, but finally gave up, knowing she had to breathe.
“I’m not sure we are ever done with the tears of grieving. Sometimes they just get put on hold until such a time as this.” Leah set her purse on the white drop-leaf table in front of the window and turned to hug Keira. “She loved you very much.”
“And I her.”
“I know.” Ever practical, Leah crossed back and reopened the door. “We need to air this place out and let the sunshine in to freshen it up. Then you can show me where I might find the old pictures and I’ll let you search for those birth certificates. Then maybe we can spend an hour tossing, starting in the pantry. Have you thought of having a rummage sale?”
“No, but it might be a good idea.” Keira pulled a tissue out of the box on the counter, blew her nose, and poured herself a glass of water. “Ugh, the pipes are rusty.” She dumped the glass and let the faucet run until the water ran clear, refilled the glass, and drank it all down in one gulp.
“Where do you think the pictures are?”
“Hmm. Let’s start with the closet in Mother’s original bedroom.”
The two friends climbed the dark walnut stairs, which divided the living room in half, and entered the front bedroom on the right. “Remember the year we added a bathroom up here? Even though it took up such a large part of her bedroom, Dagmar was so happy to not have to go downstairs all the time.”
“And then we had to move her downstairs into the room behind the kitchen when she grew too weak to climb the stairs.” Keira shook her head at the memory. “And she sure fought that.” Walking over to the closet, which was stuffed with old clothes, round hatboxes, and stacks of cardboard boxes, she reached in and took out one of the boxes. She peeled back the tape and opened it. “I thought so.” She held up an album. “The last few years, Mother put a lot of her pictures into albums. I sure hope she labeled them. Here you go.” She was aware that Leah knew all this too, but for some reason she kept babbling.
Several times during the past few years, Dagmar had asked her and Marcus to come out and go through the pictures with her so she could identify the people in the photos for them, especially the older ones. But with two busy lives, they’d never taken the time to do this simple thing that would have made their mother so happy.
Lord, I want out of here. Please, can’t I just leave and not come back? Her common sense chided her. After all, it had been a year since Mother went home to the Lord. A whole year. Both the longest and the shortest year of her life. Remember Norway. Remember Norway.
“You sure you wouldn’t rather help me at first? Working together can sometimes beat the doldrums.” Leah turned from opening one of the double-sashed windows.
“No, I’ll start searching the rolltop desk again. Maybe I just missed the birth certificates before. Besides I need to locate some labels in case we find anything we think the family would like.” Keira blew out a breath and blinked away the tears. “I know I got all the business papers out of there but I didn’t have the heart to sort through all the correspondence Mother saved. I think she saved every card any of us ever sent her. If you find a box like that, just put it aside for me.”
“Will do.” Leah flipped through one of the albums and set it aside. “Too recent.” She paused. “You know the birth certificates could be in one of the envelopes.”
“I don’t think so. I remember flipping through them enough to see if there were any that were official looking.”
“Keep in mind, they may not be in anything official. They could be in a plain envelope or just loose. Once I go through the boxes, I’ll take the pictures off the walls, okay?”
“Whatever you need to do.” Keira made her way back down the stairs, trailing her hand along the rail worn silky smooth by all the years of use. Her father’s rolltop desk, inherited from his father, reigned in what they had come to call the television room. She had cleaned out the file drawers when working on the estate business, but had never attacked the cubbyholes and the upper drawers. The shallow center drawer held pens, pencils, stamps, and other odds and ends. She felt like finding a box and just dumping things into it and sorting them at home, but her fingers continued to shuffle through, discarding, saving, and bringing order to the clutter. The desk was to go to Marcus, as the remaining son. In the divided drawer that held cards and stationery she flipped through the envelopes to make sure there were no letters or official documents mixed in.
She paused and glanced at the ceiling when she heard a thump from the floor above. Should she go see if Leah was all right? Instead she raised her voice.
“You all right up there?”
“Yes, just dropped a box. All is well.”
Keira pulled a larger envelope from the stack she’d collected and sat down in the oak chair mounted on casters. The photograph inside needed to go in Leah’s pile. Her father, Kenneth Sorenson, smiled back at her. His dark hair had gone pearly white, including his eyebrows. Thick hair so like her own. People had always said she not only looked like her father but also had many of his mannerisms too, like the way his smile lit up his eyes or the way he’d cock his head slightly to the side when listening intently. Something he did so well was listening. He’d sit her on his knee and listen to her stories; always asking her questions, oftentimes questions that made her laugh. “Oh, Dad, hard as it was to lose Mother, your death so young was even harder to bear.” She shook her head. “Life’s just not fair.” Rolling her lips together did nothing to stem the drips from her eyes. She held the photograph away from her face so her tears wouldn’t mark it. Slipping it back in the envelope, she set it on Leah’s stack and wrote herself a sticky note. “Blow this one up and frame.”
“Help! I need more hands.”
Keira jerked herself back to the farmhouse. “Coming! Are you all right?” She charged up the stairs and burst into the bedroom just in time to catch the box that the tips of Leah’s outstretched fingers kept from crashing down.
“Oh, thank you. I didn’t really want that on my head or on the floor either.”
“You ever think of a step stool?” Keira lowered the heavy box to the floor.
Leah threw her best friend a grin, turned back to the box, and paused before sending a questioning look over her shoulder. “Okay, what happened?”
“Nothing. We kept the box from killing or at least maiming you.” Keira glanced around at the open boxes scattered on every flat surface in the room, including the floor. “My word, but you’ve been busy.”
“If you say so.” Leah turned her head slightly to the side, narrowed eyes studying her accomplice in sorting. “What did you find?”
“A picture of Dad, one of the last ones taken before he died. The memories about drowned me.” She sniffed and dug out a tissue to blow her nose. “Anything el
se you want taken down?”
“Just that box on the back of the shelf, and that’s the last of it for this room. Your mom must have the older pictures stashed somewhere else.” She pointed to the boxes. “I’ve been labeling them with a marker so we know the time periods of each box. Your mother did a good job of putting a year or so of them in each box. She sure loved photographs.”
Keira glanced around the room again. “I thought for sure all the pictures were in here. Have you looked anywhere else yet?”
“Just here. What kinds of things did she keep up in the attic?”
Keira stared at her friend. “I don’t know if she stored anything up there. After Dad… Dad put in the pull-down stairway, at her insistence, I don’t remember her ever mentioning it again. Funny. I mean a strange kind of funny, don’t you think?” So why had her mother been so insistent about the ladder? “I’ll check the closet in the sewing room while you go look in Marcus’s old room.”
“Should I put all of this away first?” She waved her hand at the cardboard boxes strewn around the room.
“Why? No one else will come out here to help unless we do some real arm twisting.”
“Or hint at buried treasure,” Leah replied.
The two crossed the hall, each going to a different door and pushing it open. Keira entered her favorite room in the house. It used to be her bedroom, but after she was married, Mother had painted the walls sunburst yellow and stained the old wood floor a dark cinnamon. A sewing cabinet sat in front of one of the double-hung windows with a view of the garden and the barn beyond it.
Blindsided by memories, Keira felt an ache begin behind her eyes and sank down in the armless rocker in front of the corner window.
“I didn’t find any more pictures.” Leah paused in the doorway. “Are you all right?”
Keira shook her head. “Just a headache, I think.”
Leah crossed the room and laid the back of her hand against Keira’s forehead. “You sure? You never get headaches. Anything else?”
“Queasy stomach.”
“You feel up to doing more here?”
“Of course.” Keira heaved herself to her feet, wishing the rocker had arms to propel her upward. She turned to the row of louvered bi-fold doors and pushed them open. Boxes and plastic crates lined the shelves, each one labeled RED, GREEN, YELLOW, NEUTRAL, and so on; all of the quilting fabrics categorized by color to make piecing easier. One shelf held batting, another held quilting books, while a box of patterns sat on another. Her mother loved quilting, piecing many tops for the church women to make quilts for the less fortunate. Each of her children and grandchildren had a quilt from Dagmar, all with memories sewn into them.
Keira knelt in front of the daybed and pulled out the tray on rollers that filled the place that used to house the trundle bed. Her mother and father had given her that bed when she was ten and wanted to have girlfriends spend the night. Four girls had a slumber party to celebrate the new bed and giggled the night away. Yarns of all colors, styles, and weights filled the tray. One section held three-ply yarn in soft pastels for baby afghans. “How many babies around here have slept under afghans Mother knitted or crocheted for them?”
“No idea, but lots.” Leah turned from inspecting the shelves of boxes on the other wall. “No pictures here.”
“I know. What did you find in Marcus’s old closet?”
“Old woolen coats, suits, and stuff like that. Not sure what they’re used for.”
“For rugs. Remember how Mother rolled strips for braiding rugs even when her fingers were so weak she could no longer braid them? I wonder who might want it all now.”
“Not me. I have enough projects for the next ten years.” Leah shook her head. “You’re looking like the proverbial ghost.”
“I think I have a marching band in my head.” Keira shoved the tray back in place and stood. The change in altitude made her flinch.
“You take anything for the headache?” They often teased Leah about kicking into nurse mode. She had worked two or three nights a week at a local convalescent center for years.
“No.”
“I’ll be right back.”
Keira followed her friend down the stairs. There was no other place to look for photographs upstairs, so she’d best try the closets below.
“Here.” Leah handed her a couple of tablets and a glass of water. “This might help.”
“Thanks.” The cold water felt good on her desert-dry throat but hit her stomach, making it groan.
“Why don’t we head home? I can come back to search for the pictures later.”
“Let’s check down here first.” But none of the boxes on the shelves or closet floors on the main floor contained pictures or photo albums, so they put the boxes all back and closed them up. “The attic. They’ve got to be in the attic.” Keira closed her eyes. The marching now included drums. Might this be what a migraine was like? She’d never had one, but she’d never felt quite like this before either.
“Let me drive you home. I don’t like the looks of you at all.”
Sometimes having a medical professional in the family was helpful. At the moment Keira didn’t want to drive either. What might be more advantageous, bed, hot bath, or hit the kitchen? Her stomach lurched and twisted. She picked up her purse and handed her keys to Leah. “Be my guest.”
Once in the car, Keira tipped her head back and closed her eyes. But the words flashing in neon on the backs of her eyes made her groan. Birth certificate. Where’s my birth certificate? Why was she getting in such a stew about this? After all, this was the first real day of searching. Surely that picture of her father had not brought this headache on.
“I’ll send Marcus over with a plate for Bjorn. He’s bringing take-out home tonight.”
“We have plenty of leftovers in the fridge.”
“And I know how much he likes fixing his own supper. You want anything?”
“No, but thanks.”
“If there is anything I can do, you would tell me?”
“Of course.” With the car now parked in front of the Johnstons’ garage, both women climbed out. Leah handed Keira’s keys back and then gathered the bags of pictures she had found. “Call me.”
“Will do.” Instead of going through the garage, Keira crossed the grass that needed mowing to the wide concrete steps. The steps were edged with pots of tulips, just showing their brilliant red coloring but still tightly clenched. Usually Keira stopped to admire her flowers, but today she marched right on into the house, purposely ignoring the yellow pansies so similar to those Mother had always planted at the farmhouse. Upstairs, she stopped by the bathroom to start the water flowing in the bathtub before continuing to her closet to get undressed. She eyed the bed. Maybe sleep was the answer to this agony in her head. No, a bath was necessary after working in the dust all day. Dithering like this was not like her either. What was going on? Sorting through her mother’s things should not bring on something like this.
After dumping her clothes in a pile, as if she were walking in her sleep, Keira entered the now steaming bathroom, turned off the water, and slid into the warmth. She pushed the button for the jets and stared at the rising bubbles. Settling a rolled towel behind her neck, she closed her eyes. Surely she would feel better in a while.
Finished with her last class of the day, Kirsten followed the river of students back to her locker and leaned her head against the shelf inside. Tired didn’t begin to describe how she felt, and if her stomach didn’t calm down pretty soon… Maybe something worse was wrong, like an ulcer or something. Her mother would insist she see the doctor any day now, but she didn’t have time to be sick.
She sensed his presence before he said a word.
José Flores, her best friend and confidant, and also the love of her life, laid a hand on her shoulder. “You all right?”
“I will be.”
“You want to go for ice cream or get something to eat before I take you home?”
“Aren’t
you working?”
“Later. I have a couple of hours before my shift.”
“Oh, that sounds perfect. We have a meeting about the graduation decorations, but it’s not until five. Just the two of us?” Lockers banged closed around them and people called out to each other. Just the typical end of a school day, but for the seniors, the true end was coming as fast as the finish line of a NASCAR race.
“Unless you want to invite someone else. I’d rather it just be us.”
José always considered her wishes, but still she knew what he really wanted. “Good. I don’t feel like a group right now.”
“Call me when you get home,” Lindsey said from right behind her. “Or are you walking?” Lindsey Weaver had been her best female friend since before kindergarten.
“I will. José and I have an errand to run.”
“Okay. Later.”
Kirsten answered other greetings as she pulled papers and books out of her locker and stuffed them all in her backpack. Cleaning out her locker wasn’t a disaster, like it was for some of the students. She never could tolerate a mess and had often been teased about her compulsion for neatness. She dug a lip gloss out of the pocket where she kept her makeup, applied it, and rubbed her lips together. Seeing his face in the mirror, she caught José’s gaze. “What?”
“I just like to watch you do that.”
“Right.” She checked her face and hair in the mirror, decided she was presentable, and shut the door with a click, not slamming it like others did. “Let’s go. I feel better already.” They strolled out to the car hand in hand, the top of her head a little higher than his shoulder. Tall as she was, she was grateful he was taller. She liked looking up to him in many ways, not just in stature. He opened the car door for her, something that most guys didn’t do for their girlfriends. His grandmother had taught him good manners, one of those things her parents appreciated too. No honking the horn and waiting for her in the car. He always came to the door and rang the bell.
Reunion: A Novel Page 2