Valerian for sleep.
Lavender for stress.
Chamomile for the belly.
St. John’s Wort for sadness.
Marigold for infections.
Yarrow to stop bleeding.
She said it to me often, as if she wanted me to memorize it. And I guess in the end I did. She made the most mundane things feel special, and that will forever be her legacy for me.
Passing the shelves, I move on to the boxes sitting in the back corner of the room. To call them boxes at this point is generous. As soon as I touch the cardboard, they deteriorate under my fingers, damp clumps falling to the dirt.
I wonder if Mom knows this is down here. Would she want any of it?
I pick up a white onesie, stained brown across the front. It might’ve belonged to Mom once, which is strange to think about.
I’ve never seen any of Mom’s baby clothes, nor much from her childhood. From what she’s told me and what I remember, Grandma was incredibly frugal. She used to take all the old bars of soap that had been worn down to slivers and put them in her soap dispenser, mixing them with water to make a concoction that could be used as liquid soap.
Shirts were torn to make rags, and jars were reused again and again for one thing or another. She made everything last, only bought what she couldn’t make herself, and donated anything she didn’t need.
That’s why it feels odd to find this box of things they clearly meant to keep. Under the first layer of old clothes, I spot a stack of old photographs. They’re covered in a film of dust, but once I dust it off, I’m surprised to see the first one is of me as a child.
I’m…maybe three or four here. Dressed in a strawberry dress and matching bonnet. In the next photo, I’m a little older. Or, at least, my hair is a little longer, tied back in pigtails. I’m standing in front of the cabin with my arms around a child I don’t recognize. A baby. She’s around a year old, maybe two, with hair so stark blonde it’s almost invisible in the bright sun.
I bring the photo closer to my face, trying to discern who this baby might be. She’s not anyone I recognize. Maybe a cousin. I believe there are a few on my great-aunt Marie’s side, but it seems unlikely there would be any photos of us together. Grandma’s sister died before I was born, and as far as I know, her kids didn’t stay in touch. So who is this baby standing next to me, and why don’t I remember her?
I place the photo to the side, digging through the rest of the stack quickly. There are a few more photos of the two of us,all around the same time and age before I reach the bottom of the stack. The rest of the box contains an old wooden dog that must’ve been a toy at some point, a soft-bristled baby’s hairbrush, an empty trinket box, and more clothes. Standing up, I brush off my knees and the seat of my pants and cross the cellar again. There’s nothing else down here—just shadows and dust.
Still, I take one of the photos of the young girl and me.
I climb the steps out of the cellar slowly, easing my weight onto each one before I commit. Once I’m out, I suck in a deep breath of the fresh air and study the photo again. I wait for the memory to come back to me, for me to recall who this baby is. A friend of the family, perhaps. A child Grandma babysat.
I pull my phone from my pocket, already knowing she won’t answer, but I have to try. Maybe if the police have reached out, she’ll finally speak to me.
To my surprise, after a few rings, the line connects.
“Hello?” It’s not my mom’s voice that answers, though.
“I need to speak to my mom.”
EJ’s pretentious tone is like nails on a chalkboard. He thinks he’s better than me, that he’s more important to my mom than I am. The problem is, he’s not wrong about that part, and I hate him for it. “Sorry, Rin. She doesn’t want to talk to you.”
His use of the nickname I’ve never liked and certainly never gave him permission to use sets my chest on fire. “I didn’t ask that. I need to speak with her.”
“She’s unavailable,” he says, his voice calm and casual.
I hate him, I hate him, I hate him.“I know she’s mad at me.”
“She just needs some time. You really hurt her.”
I want to scream, to yell, to lash out, to grab him through the phone and throttle him, but I don’t. “EJ, can you please put her on the phone?”
In the background, I hear her voice, though I can’t make out what she’s saying.
“Sorry. She says she’ll have to call you back.”
