“The cookies are for Venus,” he warns her, though it still sounds nice somehow.
“Richard, I’m sorry for the trouble I’ve caused Venus and your family,” she says, resting her hand over his on the tray.“I hope you’ll forgive me one day.”
“Hmm,” Dad says, glancing from her to me and back again, unsurely.“Well, that’s up to Venus.”
“Thanks for the tea.Will you join us?I, um… You should see this, too,” Maggie says, motioning to her box.
I offer him a reassuring nod, and he says, “I shall fetch another cup then.”
Maggie sifts through the nondescript brown box, first handing me a clunky file folder.“Henry wanted me to pass that along.He’s been busy.”
I flip through the pages of calendars, dates, flight schedules, and miscellaneous information ranging from New Zealand food costs to interesting tourist destinations.
Dad returns with his cup and serves the tea.The scents of ginger and lemon fill the air, instantly comforting me as I take in the information.
“What is this, exactly?”I finally ask.
Maggie grins.“Henry’s worked it out with Carly.Should you go to New Zealand, Henry and Olly will be there, too, as much as they can be, anyway.If you’ll have them...”
“I-I…” Words fail me.
“He wants you to know that he’ll do whatever it takes to make it work,” she adds softly.
Tears crest my eyelids, falling onto Olly’s school schedule, as I imagine the three of us traveling together, not just to New Zealand, but everywhere.My mind maps out milestones in Olly’s education—me teaching him Spanish, French, and Latin; currencies and customs; the scientific method; art and music; and advising him on his first experiment.And Henry… kissing him under waterfalls, on trains, in museums, in the rain.I’m overrun with so many fantastical dreams that the tea splashes in my trembling hand.
“Here’s what I wanted to show you,” Maggie says after a long pause.On top of Henry’s plans, she sets a green scrapbook with worn corners and flips to the first page.It features Henry in kindergarten—his school portrait, class picture, report cards, and samples of his school work.It’s striking how much Olly resembles him.
She turns the page, revealing more of the same, and I smile over his clumsy handwriting and oversized grin.His first-grade year is featured next.But when the page flips to second grade, I gasp.
It’s me—my school portrait—right next to Henry’s.A copy of my report card is posted beside his with a message from my teacher requesting a parent-teacher conference.I vaguely remember running home through the woods with Henry on report card day, and him proudly handing it over to her in expectation of treats for his good grades.Her voice echoes in my thoughts,“Venus, your turn.Let’s see it.”She’d read it over, brow raised, before saying,“You’re brilliant enough to do better, but it’s a good effort,”and handing me treats, too.She must’ve made a copy while Henry and I gorged on cupcakes or chocolate cookies.
Page after page, I’m showcased almost as much as Henry.Pictures of us playing are wedged between drawings I gave her and homework she saved.The elementary school essays we wrote every fall on what we did during summer vacation mirror each other both on the page and in the narratives.
This summer, Venus and I….
This summer, Henry and I…
Tears slip from my eyes over our history, collected and preserved, and how desperately I want more.More pictures.More momentos.More Henry and me.
“Hmm, this is… lovely, Maggie,” Dad says, scratching his head.“I was never much of a scrapbooker.”
She shrugs, eyes fixed on me and my ceaseless tears.“Well, I’m a librarian.Documentation and collecting make me happy.You and Henry were inseparable back then.It wouldn’t behisscrapbook without you.”
Third-grade me had wild hair, but the following year, it was braided.Maggie taught me how.By fourth grade, I wore scarves and bandanas and clunky costume jewelry that she gave me to“Give my hands something to do.”
The icy numbness I’ve been trying to achieve to accept New Zealand and plan my departure thaws as warmth spreads through me.Maggiemustlove me.And like me, she struggles with big feelings, too.
“I kept them through high school.”She lifts the other albums from the box—there are five more, thick, with pages peeking from their edges.“You should keep them… take your time.There’s a lot to see.”
My brow cocks as I look up at her.“You’ll leave them with me?Here?”
“Of course,” she says.“I brought Olly’s scrapbook, too.I thought you might want to?—”
Her voice stops at the screech of my chair as I stand.She’s handing me the best moments of my childhood—memories she saved and cherished.And Olly’s, too?Overwhelmed by these beautiful books and her trust in letting me hold onto them, I fist my hands, energy surging.They stare at me, wide-eyed and stilled, like I might explode.
It feels like that.
I race inside.The door slams behind me.I climb the stairs, taking two at a time, and rummage through my open and overstuffed backpack.When I have what I need, I thump down the steps and bang through the door.
