Shattered by Teri Terry Page B

wrong.
    But her memories should be my memories. I hold up a small dress, sized for perhaps a nine or ten-year-old. It is pink and ruffled, really cute; way too cute, in fact—
    I hated dresses. Especially pink ones .
    I almost stagger, put the dress down on the bed.
    She made me wear it .
    My head is spinning; I feel ill. I don’t want to see any more. I fold them back up in the tissue paper, as careful as I can with shaking hands. This isn’t what I was looking for.
    Dad. I want photos of Dad.
    I put the bundle back where it was. The lower shelves just contain more tissue-wrapped bundles of what feels like clothing. More memories preserved and locked away. I stand back.
    There is a top shelf, too high for me to easily reach, and I drag the desk chair across the floor and stand on it. There is a plastic box, pushed back so I didn’t see it from below. I pull it off the shelf, put it on the desk, and take off the lid: bingo . Framed photos, ones she has put away, out of sight. There has to be one in here.
    But instead there are photos of a woman, one I don’t recognise. The ones on top look old, going by the clothes worn, the hairstyles. Further down is one of the same woman with a little girl, one hand on her shoulder; another with the girl a few years older. I gasp as I realise: the girl is a dark-haired young version of Stella. The woman must be her mother: my grandmother. The one who is a Lorder JCO?
    I peer closer at her face, but don’t see it in her, the Lorder stare. There are more recent ones; she is older, hair swept up and silvery grey, but she looks good for whatever age she must be. Sixty-something at least? She is thin, dressed well in clothes that look expensive but not showy. A kind smile on her face. I hold up a portrait of her, and stare at her eyes: for no reason I can identify, I shiver, and hurriedly put it back down.
    I continue through the box. At the bottom is one last frame, and I draw it out.
    A group shot from a wedding: happy couple in the middle, a couple next to the groom that are probably his parents, and next to the bride, my grandmother.
    It is hard to recognise the bride as Stella. Not so much from the unwinding of years or the white dress, but the youthful joy of her smile. And next to her in some version of a suit is Dad. Younger than my dreams, my memories, but there is no mistaking him. I reach out a shaking hand to the frame, to touch him. But he isn’t looking at the camera: he is gazing at Stella, with so much love on his face that it is hard to even look at him.
    What happened to them?
    I pack the photos back away as they were, put the box back on the shelf. Lock the wardrobe and switch off the light. There are more boxes up there, and another locked wardrobe next to the first, but that is enough for one night.
    In bed, suddenly aware how cold I have become, I pull the covers up and cuddle Pounce. She stays, warm and purring, and reminds me of Sebastian. I feel a pang of homesickness, for Mum and Amy.
    Stella I can’t think of as Mum , or even as Mother . At least, not yet.
    The only photo of Dad I’ve found so far in wardrobe number one is the wedding photo. Did Stella destroy them all, but couldn’t bring herself to get rid of that one?
    And Stella hides all sign of her mother away in a plastic box in a locked wardrobe. Why?
    I suppose her being a Lorder is a good enough reason.
    We sneak to the back door.
    Daddy grins, holds up one finger to his lips. ‘Quiet now, Lucy; we’re spies.’
    ‘On a secret mission?’ I whisper, pulling my coat on when he holds it out.
    He nods and winks, and we slip under the windows along the back of the house.
    He looks back at me following. ‘Hmmm…wait here a second,’ he says. He retraces our steps and moments later comes back, holding my wellies in one hand.
    I roll my eyes.
    ‘Put them on, Lucy. One less thing to get yelled at over.’ He winks again. I struggle out of my hated pink shoes, already a bit dirty from the great garden