Total pages in book: 108
Estimated words: 100853 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 504(@200wpm)___ 403(@250wpm)___ 336(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100853 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 504(@200wpm)___ 403(@250wpm)___ 336(@300wpm)
There was a bin of Christmas decorations that hadn’t been hung in my lifetime. Another contained my mother’s wedding dress. I stopped on that for a moment, unfolding it, trying to envision her as a bride—glowing and filled with joy. I couldn’t see it. In my memories, her face was twisted into a scowl, her lips pursed so hard they’d been deeply grooved with wrinkles long before her hair had begun to gray.
I folded the wedding dress back up and dropped it through the hole to land with the other items I was donating. Maybe some bride could give it a new life with new love. But she wouldn’t be me.
I’d cleared half of the space, a tinge of relief lightening my heart as I looked around and saw progress. I picked up the pace, carrying down boxes of books to donate. I didn’t know whose they’d been. Maybe my father’s. I didn’t think I’d ever seen my mother read anything but the Bible or prayer books.
A few hours later, I was down to the last third of the attic. Most of it was straight-up trash. A broken lamp. A cracked aquarium. And behind everything, an old trunk shoved in the corner, WILLIAMS stenciled on the side.
Williams. I didn’t know a Williams. We were McKennas. Why would my mother have a trunk belonging to a Williams?
The trunk was secured with a padlock. I didn’t have the key. Based on the dust and the pile of crap around it, I guessed that if there had ever been a key, it was long gone.
I grabbed one of the handles on the side and dragged it out of the corner. I couldn’t get through the lock, but the hinges on the back—those were a different matter. Curiosity gave me a burst of energy. I grabbed the broken lamp, lowered it in front of me, and then climbed down the ladder to the second floor. Picking my way through the piles of stuff I’d tossed down, I jogged to the garage for a crowbar and a drill. Between the two, I’d force my way into that trunk.
I wanted to know who Williams was, and why their trunk was in our attic.
I couldn’t get enough leverage with the crowbar, but the drill did the job. I slapped a bit on and drilled hole after hole around the hinges. When I thought I’d done enough, I grabbed the crowbar and swung. A few good thwacks later, the hinges fell off the trunk. I opened the top, flipping it back, where it hung loosely by the padlock that had tried to keep me out.
Here was a treasure trove. A neatly folded US Army uniform, a file on top—discharge papers. Paul Williams. I sat in shock. I knew that face. Paul Williams was my father. The black-and-white snapshot of the young man in dress uniform looked like me—same eyes, same hair. I’d thought his name was McKenna. She told me we had his name, but clearly she’d lied. Because here he was, Paul Williams, who’d served in the army. Another thing I hadn’t known.
Carefully, I set aside the uniform and the file folder. I found their marriage certificate on top of the suit I imagined he might have worn at their wedding. A small collection of fishing lures that looked hand-tied. A baseball with signatures. Here was a life that looked well-lived, right up until the moment it stopped because Paul had chosen to continue that life with another woman. Had he created a new family with her? I didn’t know. He’d disappeared completely. He’d never reached out. Never checked in. He’d known Harriet was pregnant—at least, I thought he had—but he’d never come back.
It used to make me sad that he’d abandoned me that way, abandoned us. Now, so many years later, it was down to a dull ache. And always, questions. Why had he cared about me so little? Why hadn’t I mattered?
I sighed, pushed the feelings down, and moved farther into the trunk.
I found books: Rudyard Kipling, Salinger, Fitzgerald. Was this where I’d gotten my love of reading? It felt like there were answers here, if only I knew how to interpret them.
And then, underneath an old Cincinnati Reds baseball cap, was a manila envelope. No label, address, or postage; the top flap sealed by metal prongs folded flat. I worked them open with my fingernail and tipped the envelope down. A half circle of metal fell into my hand, gleaming gold. Setting the envelope aside, I held it up to the light. It was a pendant, gold and missing its chain, designed as half of a heart. The kind of thing you’d split with a best friend. Or a lover. There was no engraving or other sign of who might hold the other half. I picked up the envelope and reached inside. It was stuffed with letters, handwritten, in a curly, feminine script. I wasn’t surprised to see a woman’s signature at the bottom. Sarah.