He’s got warning signs written all over him.
Why can’t she see that?
I don’t know what to do about it. Talk to her, I guess. Maybe it’s time to talk to my mom—which is a weird thing to think about. We’re such terrific communicators and fine examples of piety. Ugh.
When I’m pretty sure he’s not sticking around, I glance at thecloset door in Mom’s room. Grandma’s old closet. Locked. Personal stuff that she didn’t want to move into storage when she left for Nepal.
Maybe old family stuff.
Maybe old photos.
Secrets.
Ever since Lucky and I had that talk about my mom, when he took me out for my first swimming lesson, I haven’t been able to get the navy guy out of my mind. I also haven’t been able to ask her about it, despite Lucky suggesting I do so. My mom doesn’t handle confrontation well. Especially not about her past. Our biggest fights have been about Henry and Grandma—and questions that I’ve asked. About why she never wanted to try to be a family with Henry. About why she doesn’t get along with Grandma.
Asking those things got me nothing but tears. We don’t talk about stuff in the past.
So if I want to know about my mom and the mystery navy guy, then I need to either ask my grandmother—who isn’t here to ask—or try the next best thing.
Snoop in my grandmother’s things.
I know.
I know.
But maybe I can just peek inside and see if there’s anything I can skim without being too invasive.
Maybe?
I dare to jump a few times to reach the top of the closet door,and I’m rewarded with the sight of tarnished metal falling with a ping onto the floorboards.
Well. Bingo. If nothing else, this will get my mind off Adrian’s stupid blond head inside my cousin’s bed. One less secret in the Saint-Martin household …
The key I’ve found is old-fashioned, one that was probably new when they renovated this apartment in the 1940s, and it snicks satisfactorily when I turn it inside the closet door’s lock.
The door creaks open. Scents of must and mothballs float out.
I turn on the overhead light by pulling a string. The closet is packed to the gills. A fur coat that nearly gives me a heart attack because it looks like an animal cowering in the corner. A couple of dresses zipped up in plastic. Stacks of boxes that are all labeled in my grandmother’s cursive handwriting. Documents. Paystubs. Nothing interesting, really … A lockbox certainly doesn’t seem boring, but I don’t have the combination. I put it aside and look through the boxes on the top shelf until I find what I’m looking for.
A box labeledWinnie.
No one calls my mom that. No one but Grandma.
I dig out the box, sit on the floor with it between my knees, and open up the flaps that are folded over one another. There’s not much inside. A baby blanket and a silver rattle with my mother’s initials engraved on it. A tiny photo album—baby pictures, mostly. A few of my mom as an adorable toddler, laughing at the camera on a strange man’s shoulders—my grandfather. So weird to see a man I never met.
At the bottom of the box, under a pile of birthday cards and school records, I find some things from my mom’s teen years. A worn felt high school pennant with a big Breakers wave design on it. A photo of my mother when she was voted Best Dressed. And there. The coveted prize.
Beauty High School Yearbook.
My mom’s senior year.
Pulse racing, I crack it open and have to pry the endpapers apart—there’s an old strawberry candy wrapper here, one that still faintly holds the sweet scent, and its sugar has crystalized on the paper.
My eyes scan over the signatures and scribbled notes from classmates. Rainbows and hearts.Love yous.Go Breakers! Have a great summer. It’s finally over!And sillier things—Party hard?? People said that? So weird.
I look through the pages of the yearbook and find my mom’s class photo. God, she was pretty. So strange to see her without her glasses. Stranger still to see her in casual shots around campus. But when I flip to the endpapers at the back of the book, I find a couple more handwritten notes that catch my attention.
Note one:We’ve been through it all together, Winn. From the top of the pyramid to the boys next door. Here’s to getting out of this place. —Chloe
