keep the smallest sound muffled. When I looked up, I realized there was no light, so I had to go back down the ladder to a cabinet under the sink and get the flashlight. The batteries were dead. Everything in this house seemed to be conspiring against me, trying to prevent me from finding any trace of my own past. Fortunately, Geraldine's obsessive attention to household inventory paid off because there was a supply of fresh batteries in the drawers assigned to tools and hardware. I quickly got the flashlight working and returned to the ladder, practically tiptoeing my way up.
The beam of light revealed a wall of cobwebs on every side of the opening. The dust was so thick that it looked like a second layer of wood. But there, to my right, were several cartons tied up with thick string. None of them were labeled. Once again, I descended the ladder, this time to get a utility knife to cut the strings around the cartons. I went back up and, completely disregarding the cobwebs and dust, pulled myself into the crawl space and, on my hands and knees, approached the cartons.
I sat there for a moment, my whole body trembling, and listened once more to be sure I had not been discovered. It was very quiet. Even the creaking in the house seemed to have stopped as if the house itself was now holding its breath I brought the knife to the nearest carton and cut the strings. Then I opened the carton and directed the flashlight's beam into it.
Neatly packaged, each item wrapped in cellophane, were old toys, toys for a little girl: small dolls, doll's clothing, teacups and dishes, toy furniture and a dollhouse that had been carefully taken apart. I lifted each thing out of the carton carefully and inspected it. Someone had painted tears on the cheeks of some of the doll's faces. I could tell they were painted because the tears were un- even. The face of one doll was smashed in as though someone had taken a hammer to it.
Were these dolls once mine? None of them looked familiar. Were they Geraldine's? Why were they hidden away like this? It was as if someone's childhood was to be kept secret or buried forever.
I went to the carton on my right and cut the strings, again slowly opening it and shining the light down again to see items wrapped in cellophane, only this time, the box was full of clothing. I took one article out of its packaging and held it up. It was a light yellow dress for a toddler. I went to the next garment and the next, taking each out and inspecting it to discover the same thing: clothing for a very small child. They all looked new, never worn. Whose clothes were these? Mine? Geraldine's? Why were they all stored up here instead of being given away or even thrown away, which was what Geraldine usually did with old discarded things?
I turned and slid over to my left to open the next carton, cutting the strings faster and pulling up the lids. Here I found what I would call mementoes: snippets of pretty ribbons, jeweled combs, charm bracelets for a very tiny wrist, a pair of bronzed baby shoes, a cigar box full of old pictures, and a handpainted jewelry box that was also a music box. It didn't play anything when I opened it because it needed to be wound. I was happy about that. The music might have woken Geraldine. Everything was neatly wrapped in cellophane as well. Whose things were these?
With even more trepidation now, I turned to the last carton. I undid the strings and opened it slowly. On top was a baby's crib blanket with a scented soap placed on it. I took it out carefully and laid it aside. Underneath was a small stack of envelopes tied with thick rubber bands and nothing else. The rubber bands practically fell apart before I slipped them off. There was no address on the front of any of the envelopes, no name. They were originally pink, but time had faded them so they were a light cream color. All of them had been opened.
I took out the letter in the top envelope and unfolded it.
Dear Cathy, it began, and I
The beam of light revealed a wall of cobwebs on every side of the opening. The dust was so thick that it looked like a second layer of wood. But there, to my right, were several cartons tied up with thick string. None of them were labeled. Once again, I descended the ladder, this time to get a utility knife to cut the strings around the cartons. I went back up and, completely disregarding the cobwebs and dust, pulled myself into the crawl space and, on my hands and knees, approached the cartons.
I sat there for a moment, my whole body trembling, and listened once more to be sure I had not been discovered. It was very quiet. Even the creaking in the house seemed to have stopped as if the house itself was now holding its breath I brought the knife to the nearest carton and cut the strings. Then I opened the carton and directed the flashlight's beam into it.
Neatly packaged, each item wrapped in cellophane, were old toys, toys for a little girl: small dolls, doll's clothing, teacups and dishes, toy furniture and a dollhouse that had been carefully taken apart. I lifted each thing out of the carton carefully and inspected it. Someone had painted tears on the cheeks of some of the doll's faces. I could tell they were painted because the tears were un- even. The face of one doll was smashed in as though someone had taken a hammer to it.
Were these dolls once mine? None of them looked familiar. Were they Geraldine's? Why were they hidden away like this? It was as if someone's childhood was to be kept secret or buried forever.
I went to the carton on my right and cut the strings, again slowly opening it and shining the light down again to see items wrapped in cellophane, only this time, the box was full of clothing. I took one article out of its packaging and held it up. It was a light yellow dress for a toddler. I went to the next garment and the next, taking each out and inspecting it to discover the same thing: clothing for a very small child. They all looked new, never worn. Whose clothes were these? Mine? Geraldine's? Why were they all stored up here instead of being given away or even thrown away, which was what Geraldine usually did with old discarded things?
I turned and slid over to my left to open the next carton, cutting the strings faster and pulling up the lids. Here I found what I would call mementoes: snippets of pretty ribbons, jeweled combs, charm bracelets for a very tiny wrist, a pair of bronzed baby shoes, a cigar box full of old pictures, and a handpainted jewelry box that was also a music box. It didn't play anything when I opened it because it needed to be wound. I was happy about that. The music might have woken Geraldine. Everything was neatly wrapped in cellophane as well. Whose things were these?
With even more trepidation now, I turned to the last carton. I undid the strings and opened it slowly. On top was a baby's crib blanket with a scented soap placed on it. I took it out carefully and laid it aside. Underneath was a small stack of envelopes tied with thick rubber bands and nothing else. The rubber bands practically fell apart before I slipped them off. There was no address on the front of any of the envelopes, no name. They were originally pink, but time had faded them so they were a light cream color. All of them had been opened.
I took out the letter in the top envelope and unfolded it.
Dear Cathy, it began, and I
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