out and meet boys,” she said, “but a steady relationship – that seems a little too much.”
I tried to ignore her bizarre words . A vivid picture of Joshua’s face popped up before my eyes. What was he to me? Certainly not a boyfriend, although I was hoping that he had felt at least a microscopic part of the fever and captivation that I was feeling when I was near him. Was he a friend to me? Sure he was, but was our relationship dead-ended at friendship? Or is that where it started?
With thoughts like these, I went to bed. I was lying covered with my marigold blanket when a blurry picture started to become clearer under my closed eyelids. It was something flowery, old, and precious. “Of course!” I said to myself, “The trinket box!” The “S” on Mrs. Wheeler’s trinket box wasn’t for secrets – it was for Sarah, I realized. Or secrets relating to Sarah at least. I have inherited so little of my mother’s social perspicacity; otherwise I would have been better prepared before I went to Mrs. Wheeler’s home to dig around her things so shamelessly.
***
My hands were shaking as I inserted the key into Mrs. Wheeler’s door the next morning. Unlike the day before, I was sure I had the clue that would lead me to her daughter. The certainty strengthened my formerly loose decision to call Sarah. I tried to see the whole situation from Sarah’s point of view. Although it was difficult to be her even for a couple of moments, I knew that I wouldn’t want to be absent from my biological mother’s last days on Earth. So that was it – I was determined to find her phone number and call her.
Finding the trinket box was an easy task. It was hidden under Mrs. Wheeler’s bed, a place I hadn’t even thought of the night before. Who was she hiding it from, I wondered. Maybe herself. Finding the key to the padlock, however, was a bit harder, but I finally found it in the inside pocket of her white cashmere coat. I unlocked the trinket box feverishly. What I found there was heartbreaking: a soft lock of golden brown hair, a yellowish love letter signed by Thomas Slade, and a folded piece of paper with an Oklahoma address. I carefully put the precious piece of paper into the safety of my pocket, knowing that I was holding the whole history of one tragic romance in my hands.
Chapter Seven
Joshua’s living room door was slightly open.
“Who’s there?” I heard a weak, grainy voice.
“It’s just me, Mom. I’m here with my friend Ruby.”
Joshua’s mother invited us to come in. He shrugged his shoulders, giving me an apologetic look.
“Oh, look at that hair!” she said when we entered the room. “It looks just like the sunset.” She looked at me with an absent smile. There was a closed book in her lap. The radio was playing some old, sentimental tune. Despite the deep wrinkles around her eyes, she was giving off the impression of a vulnerable girl.
“Will you sit with me for a while, sweetheart?” she said, tilting her head to meet my eyes.
It wasn’t a question; it was a plea.
“Later, Mom, I promise,” Joshua said. “We have some important things to do now.”
“Oh, you and your screenplays,” she waved her hand and opened the book with her trembling fingers.
Joshua’s room was just as I imagined it. I felt at home the second I crossed the door sill. The green-painted walls were covered in movie and indie bands posters, and his shelves were crammed with CDs. An open book was lying face down on the bed: The Unbearable Lightness of Being by Milan Kundera.
“I found another address this morning,” I said, sitting on the bed, my hand smoothing the creases on the striped black-and-white bed cover.
“Will you call the others?” he asked, sitting beside me.
“Let’s call with this one first. Maybe she still lives there.”
“Okay, let’s try to find the phone number,” Joshua said, opening his laptop.
According to the White Pages, Gordon Chase from Oklahoma was still living at the
I tried to ignore her bizarre words . A vivid picture of Joshua’s face popped up before my eyes. What was he to me? Certainly not a boyfriend, although I was hoping that he had felt at least a microscopic part of the fever and captivation that I was feeling when I was near him. Was he a friend to me? Sure he was, but was our relationship dead-ended at friendship? Or is that where it started?
With thoughts like these, I went to bed. I was lying covered with my marigold blanket when a blurry picture started to become clearer under my closed eyelids. It was something flowery, old, and precious. “Of course!” I said to myself, “The trinket box!” The “S” on Mrs. Wheeler’s trinket box wasn’t for secrets – it was for Sarah, I realized. Or secrets relating to Sarah at least. I have inherited so little of my mother’s social perspicacity; otherwise I would have been better prepared before I went to Mrs. Wheeler’s home to dig around her things so shamelessly.
***
My hands were shaking as I inserted the key into Mrs. Wheeler’s door the next morning. Unlike the day before, I was sure I had the clue that would lead me to her daughter. The certainty strengthened my formerly loose decision to call Sarah. I tried to see the whole situation from Sarah’s point of view. Although it was difficult to be her even for a couple of moments, I knew that I wouldn’t want to be absent from my biological mother’s last days on Earth. So that was it – I was determined to find her phone number and call her.
Finding the trinket box was an easy task. It was hidden under Mrs. Wheeler’s bed, a place I hadn’t even thought of the night before. Who was she hiding it from, I wondered. Maybe herself. Finding the key to the padlock, however, was a bit harder, but I finally found it in the inside pocket of her white cashmere coat. I unlocked the trinket box feverishly. What I found there was heartbreaking: a soft lock of golden brown hair, a yellowish love letter signed by Thomas Slade, and a folded piece of paper with an Oklahoma address. I carefully put the precious piece of paper into the safety of my pocket, knowing that I was holding the whole history of one tragic romance in my hands.
Chapter Seven
Joshua’s living room door was slightly open.
“Who’s there?” I heard a weak, grainy voice.
“It’s just me, Mom. I’m here with my friend Ruby.”
Joshua’s mother invited us to come in. He shrugged his shoulders, giving me an apologetic look.
“Oh, look at that hair!” she said when we entered the room. “It looks just like the sunset.” She looked at me with an absent smile. There was a closed book in her lap. The radio was playing some old, sentimental tune. Despite the deep wrinkles around her eyes, she was giving off the impression of a vulnerable girl.
“Will you sit with me for a while, sweetheart?” she said, tilting her head to meet my eyes.
It wasn’t a question; it was a plea.
“Later, Mom, I promise,” Joshua said. “We have some important things to do now.”
“Oh, you and your screenplays,” she waved her hand and opened the book with her trembling fingers.
Joshua’s room was just as I imagined it. I felt at home the second I crossed the door sill. The green-painted walls were covered in movie and indie bands posters, and his shelves were crammed with CDs. An open book was lying face down on the bed: The Unbearable Lightness of Being by Milan Kundera.
“I found another address this morning,” I said, sitting on the bed, my hand smoothing the creases on the striped black-and-white bed cover.
“Will you call the others?” he asked, sitting beside me.
“Let’s call with this one first. Maybe she still lives there.”
“Okay, let’s try to find the phone number,” Joshua said, opening his laptop.
According to the White Pages, Gordon Chase from Oklahoma was still living at the
Similar Books
