“Where are you going?”
“To the store.”
“Can I come?”
“No! People would see you. What don’t you get about that? You’repink! People aren’t supposed to be pink, not like that. People aren’t supposed to have horns and tails—even when he cut them off, there’s still a stump.” Sarah’s shrill voice dies abruptly, softening. “It’s not your fault, but there’s nothing you can do about it, Imogene. That’s why I told your father there was no harm in letting you go to those classes. At least it’s something to do.”
“But... Where is my mother? Where is my real father?” I always believed my mother died. That’s what Father said, but now I don’t know if it’s true.
“Oh, she and your real father left you as a punishment for Barton.” Her lips thin. “Your father was a demon. A demon who put men to shame.”
“Demons? Are real?”
Sarah licks her lips, like she’s not sure if she believes that or not. Doesn’t matter. I don't thinkIbelieve it. But then again... fairy tales and myths have to come from somewhere, and the books I have are all children’s tales, with lots of things like fairies and goblins.
But that doesn’t matter. My mother and father left me with Fath— with Barton.
To me, that’s horrible. Didn’t they know Barton hated me? Or would probably hate me, since he hated them?
Sarah grabs her coat and hurries outside, unplugging the car from something—I think I’ve heard them call it a block heater. I stand in the cold and watch her fearful, jerky movements, watch her careen away into an empty white landscape. In the far distance, there are small spirals of smoke in the sky.
That means people. But how many miles is it between me and those little black signs of life?
Hm.
Sarah’s gone, running in fear from questions she can’t answer. Barton is gone, away for two weeks, then home for one, and on and on it goes.
It’s time for me to search the forbidden places for clues to the world around me and the life I should have had. I guess I have to start in my own house.
SARAH KEEPS THE HOUSEneat. I think she likes it when Father is away. She listens to music and bakes pies, and there’s a peace around her. A peace she doesn't let me share. I can watch her in the kitchen, but never help. I can listen to the music, as long as she doesn’t realize it or hear me sing along.
That is not what a mother is, I tell myself, and today, I hold the words tight.
I search in closets and boxes, even in the crawl space attic that’s freezing inside.
That’s where I find an old green metal trunk, sealed with a brass lock.
I hold the lock and think about all the times I cried for someone to hug me and no one came, and—the lock is in two pieces in my hands, and I don’t know how.
But it’s easy to tell that what’s inside the trunk isn’t Barton’s or Sarah’s.
The dresses are short and colorful, and they still smell faintly of perfume. There are soft things and things that shimmer—all women’s.
This is nothing like what Sarah wears. She wears pants and sweaters, heavy, bulky things in faded colors. I wear the same sort of things, too big in the shoulders and too short for my long legs, handed down from Sarah, and worn, shapeless slip-ons to hide my deformed feet.
Could these things be my mother’s?
I keep digging. Shoes. Chunky boots that aren’t meant for snow, sandals that would never fit my feet, silver and gold strappy things that would never survive an Alaskan winter.
Digging deeper.
White purse with painted gold clasp—the paint is old and rubbed off. I open it, my chest tight. I pause and listen for sounds of a returning car or sudden footsteps.
Hearing none, I lift out each item as if it’s precious. A hair clip in rusted brown and blonde. A tube of lipstick, welded shut by time. A tube of something called foundation in a pale beige color. A faded photograph with bent corners and deep creases showing a beautiful blonde woman in one of the silky short dresses that I just unearthed.
She’s standing next to my father—Barton, I remind myself—but not the man I know. Not the gray-haired, scowling, stooping man. It’s still the same long, lean face and lanky body, but back then, his hair was light brown.
Back then... I peer at the picture and get a clue from the banner over the Christmas decor in the background. Happy New Year reads one banner, with glittery numbers hanging under it. 2003.
