chapter twenty-four
The first thing I notice is the smell.
Like paint and wood, wild roses and coffee and this perfume Mum used to always wear called Isle—dewy and fresh and calm.
Home.
The scents knock me back like a punch. My own trunk, my clothes and books, don’t smell like this anymore. They smell like the road, like eight different rentals, eight different towns with no memories.
I take a deep breath, tears already gathering in the corners of my eyes, and look back into the trunk.
Paintings.
They take up most of the space, barely fitting. Peach’s is on top—all crimson and russet, golds and pinks and plums. That tiny green river. Tears spill over. I haven’t seen this painting in two years. I haven’t seen Mum in two years and that’s what this feels like. Seeing Mum. Not just remembering her, but seeing her. Her mind, her beauty, her humor and talent, her love.
I move Peach’s painting to the side and take out mine. I sit back on my heels, balancing the canvas on my legs.
The sea.
Me.
It’s all right there, everything Mum saw in me. Calm and wild, dark and light, mysteries and wonders. I run my fingers over the thick paint, the glossy blues, the way the waves seem to undulate just like in the real sea. I hug the painting to my chest and let myself cry, sure I’ll never be able to put it back.
Holding on to my painting, I peer into the depths of the trunk. My favorite book, Ultimate Oceanpedia, is in here. I remember giving it to Mama a few days after Mum’s memorial. Or rather, throwing it at her. Not angry with her, but angry with the ocean, at my love for it, telling Mama I never wanted to see the book or the sea again. I ripped all my posters off the walls too, left them in a shredded mess in a corner of my room until Mama took them away. She must’ve put my book in the trunk, figured I meant what I said, that I wanted to forget it all. I lift it up, heavy with glossy pages full of beauty and mystery. I don’t open it, though. I can’t. Instead, I just set it aside, carefully, like it might break, and look deeper into the trunk.
There are a few other smaller paintings that Mum did. One that hung in Mum and Mama’s room, all creams and browns and blush colors, two women curling around each other.
Mum and Mama.
Mama and Mum.
True loves.
There are some old art magazines that featured Mum’s work, a half-full bottle of Mum’s perfume, a lavender-scented candle that used to sit on Mum’s nightstand, a coffee cup with a picture of Mum’s face asleep on a pillow, her pale hair wild and her cheek creased from the sheets. Mama took the picture as a joke, but then I remember Mum had the photo put onto a mug and gave it to Mama the Valentine’s Day before she died. They always gave each other funny presents for that holiday, something to make each other laugh.
“What’s more romantic than my snooze face?” Mum said, and Mama roared with laughter, then drank out of that mug every day for the next month.
It’s our old life, opening up in front of me like a flower in spring.
At the very bottom, there’s a dark green photo album that I know holds all sorts of pictures of our family. I stare at it for a few seconds, my painting still in my arms, trying to ready my heart to see us, see how we used to be. Mama doesn’t keep any pictures around of Mum, not like Claire keeps ones of Immy all over their house. I’ve always assumed it was because we moved around too much. Framed pictures aren’t easy to travel with, glass and frames that could snap or break, but now, seeing the album hidden away like a secret, that’s exactly what it feels like.
Hiding.
Forgetting.
My fingers are touching the album, ready to pick it up, when I spot a tiny royal-blue velvet box next to it.
A ring box.
My stomach cramps, my throat suddenly dry, like my body knows what it is before my mind does. I pick it up, frowning at it for a split second before opening it, my mind catching up right before I see what’s inside.
There’s Mum’s wedding ring. Platinum with the hand-engraved pattern of flowers circling the whole thing, a tiny blue diamond inlaid in the middle.
And right behind it, nestled into the same slot, is Mama’s.
Mama’s wedding ring, pale green diamond sparkling at me.
Mama’s wedding ring, which as of our first night in Rose Harbor was still on her finger.
When did she take it off? And why? Because of Claire? Because… because she doesn’t… because Mum’s not…
I can’t finish my thoughts, tears blurring my brain as much as my eyes. These tears feel different, though. They feel hotter, flow faster, a kind of anger burning right in the center of my chest like a tiny flame. I take out my phone to text Lemon, to see what she thinks, but then I remember our fight, I remember how Kiko hates me and Lemon is rooting for our moms to get together, like some romance novel.
I remember the romance novels.
Mama’s new romance novel.
I bet it’s super romantic. I mean, it has to be, right?
That’s what Lemon said about it, right after Kiko asked her if her mom liked Mama.
No. No. No.
I try to breathe. Inhale. Exhale. Try, try, try.
“Hazel!” Mama calls from the living room.
The ring box falls out of my shaking hands, plonking onto the wooden floor. I carefully collect everything—the paintings, the mug, the candle—and place it back in the trunk. Snatching up the ring box, I stare at those rings—my parents’ wedding rings, the start of our whole family, both of them abandoned, forgotten—and then pull them from their tiny slot and slip them onto my forefinger.
I finally get a good breath.
“Hazel, sweetie, what do you want for lunch?” Mama calls again. “Peach, go check on her for me.”
I place the empty ring box in one corner, close the trunk quietly, and lock it back up. I put the key in Mama’s bedside drawer, right under the deck of cards, and slip the rings off my finger and into my pocket.
Then I head off in search of Mama’s laptop.