I nodded as I undid the ribbon and opened the wrapped box. In it lay a silver, ornate frame that surrounded a photograph of my parents from when they were much younger, probably when they first met. My mother, long blonde hair curling at the ends, stood with my father at her side, his ginger curls and beard striking against the Connecticut seaside. Seeing the photo overwhelmed me for a moment.
“Thank you,” I muttered, my fingers clutching the frame tightly. “This means so much.”
“Well,” Dan cleared his throat, “it really wasn’t much. Tiffany picked out the frame.”
“Iris helped,” Tiffany beamed. Iris looked at me, gray eyes glistening with warmth.
I nodded, standing with my eyes still on the photo of my parents. “Do you mind if I go to my room? I’m really tired.”
“Of course, dear,” Tiffany replied. “Sleep well.”
I found my room and fell into my bed, holding the picture to my chest. I began to cry again, but this time I didn’t feel as hopeless or alone. Placing the picture frame on my bedside table, I realized that home was a possibility again. It wouldn’t be easy to find or achieve, but home could be mine again. If I looked hard enough.
I woke up the next morning, smothered in silk sheets and a bed so big I thought I was being swallowed whole. I sat up in a panic, unsure of my surroundings until Iremembered Nana’s funeral, packing boxes, and the airplane ride to New York. I fell back into the pillows, trying to drown out the shaky sound of my sobs.
I wanted to go home.
There was a light tap at my door, so faint I almost didn’t hear it, my gaze fixed on the silver picture frame that held the laughing faces of the dead parents I never even knew.
“Mari?” Tiffany glanced into the room, hiding her body behind the bedroom door. “Are you awake?”
I wiped the tears roughly from my eyes, peeping my head over the covers.
“Yes.”
“I was thinking that after breakfast we could go shopping for your school uniform and other school supplies. So that way you are all set for Monday.”
Her chipper voice held such hope, I’d feel guilty if I tried to say no and that she could go without me. All I wanted to do was lie in this giant bed and drown.
“Um,” I stammered. “Sure. Just give me a few minutes to get ready.”
“No rush!” She couldn’t hide her excitement as she began closing the door. “I’ll let Iris know you are ready for breakfast. We’re having chicken and waffles!”
I tried not to roll my eyes as my feet hit the floor. Not everyone in or from the South eats that stuff.
I got ready quickly, throwing on whatever I could find in my suitcase that would be even sort of warm enough forthe frigid November weather of New York. A pair of ragged jeans, work boots, a button-up flannel with my oversized sweater I wore the day before. It was all I had.
I walked down the wooden hallway gingerly, afraid my presence would cause something irreplaceable to break. The apartment was furnished with beautiful artwork and artifacts from—I don’t know how long ago. It felt more like a museum than someone’s house. I settled myself in front of a painting that hung above the fireplace in the main living area. Its colors were warm and vibrant, a contrast to the gloomy and windy day that awaited me as soon as I left this apartment building. It was a portrait of a woman’s face, eyes closed, tears cascading. Her lips held the small crease of a smile, as if she were remembering something precious. The tears cascading down her face were liquid gold, shimmering under the lights.
She looked sad, but oddly hopeful. Like maybe there was a purpose behind her pain.
“It’s a Gustav Klimt.” Tiffany’s voice interrupted my reprieve. “Freya’s Tears of Gold. Your uncle bought it for me for our one-year anniversary. Isn’t it breathtaking?”
I felt awkward, hugging my sweater around my body, unsure of what to say. “Yeah.”
“It’s Austrian,” she continued. “From the early 20thcentury.”
“Oh,” was all Icould manage.
Tiffany cleared her throat as her fingers fiddled delicately with her string of pearls. “Well, breakfast is ready.”
Breakfast was a long affair, with Iris doting on me and Tiffany sitting uncomfortably at the head of the table as I nibbled on what I could. I didn’t really care for fried chicken so early in the morning. I ate as much as I could, but the knots in my stomach had not subsided since the day before when I was first dropped off at the airport in Atlanta.
After breakfast, I wandered back into Uncle Dan’s library while I waited for Tiffany to get ready for shopping. Apparently, her morning ensemble was not appropriate for shopping, even though she looked good enough to me.
My fingers grazed the spines of the old law books, the spines cracking after years of use. I inhaled the smell of the old pages deeply, feeling for a moment that I was back at the local library in Appling, a place I volunteered part-time during the summers. On slow days, which were most days, I simply walked along the aisles of the stacks of books, my fingers rustling against the spines and wondering what new worlds these pages would take me to if I only picked one up and began to read.
While I have only ever lived in Appling, I had been to countless countries and worlds within the confines of my mind. Reading was my escape from the small-mindedness that seemed to pervade every crevice and corner of my small town. Besides the modest home I shared with Nana, the library was the only other place I felt truly safe. Therewas a quiet stillness that seemed to be a salve to my overwrought and anxious mind. Reading kept me grounded. It kept me sane.
