Chapter 38

Between a billboard hastily designed by Julia and Wreath and word of mouth, the store exploded with customers. Students, best friends, and moms from all over the region oohed and aahed over dresses, sipped punch, and nibbled on cookies while declaring they had to watch their diets. They bought dresses by the shopping sack full, gearing up for proms at every high school in the area.

Grandmothers began to tag along, too, putting their feet up and sipping Faye’s new blend of tea, often leaving with a custom-ordered designer pillow or one of the pricey candles that she had ordered wholesale.

Faye paid off a line of credit Billy had carried for years and opened a savings account in which she deposited regular amounts for tuition without telling Wreath.

Through all the busyness, she and Wreath bought leftover belongings from others, needing more and more merchandise to keep up with the demand, visiting house after house in Landry’s old neighborhoods. They had started getting phone calls from people with merchandise to sell, and Faye recruited Julia to watch the store in late afternoons so they could check out potential goods.

“These people heard about us from a neighbor,” Faye told Wreath one afternoon as they drove to a worn neighborhood to look over the contents of a house. “The owner is moving to an independent living center and wants to get rid of a lot of furniture. “I do believe we’re developing a bit of a reputation as junk lovers.”

“We’re called pickers,” Wreath said matter-of-factly. “I looked it up at school.”

“I suppose I’ve been called worse,” Faye said and punched the gas on the old car. “Although technically I believe pickers are people you hire to do the dirty work for you.”

Wreath cast a sideways glance.

“I keep telling you that I’m doing my research, too,” Faye said with a smile and turned the big car onto the street where the house sat. She even drove differently these days, faster, with more confidence. She had begun to imagine herself in a sports car instead of the gigantic model.

When they pulled up next to the curb, Wreath visibly stiffened, and Faye’s lighthearted mood shifted. “You’re awfully quiet all of a sudden. You’re not having a relapse, are you?” Ever since Wreath had gotten sick, Faye hovered over her. She regularly served her fruit juice and lectured her about getting enough rest.

“I’m all right,” Wreath said, “but I think I’ll wait in the car.”

“You’re sick again, aren’t you?” Faye touched her forehead. “You’re clammy. I’m taking you home. I can reschedule this anytime.”

Wreath drew a deep breath. “I’m not sick, but I can’t decide if I want to go in this house or not.” She paused long enough for Faye to look puzzled. “It’s where my mother grew up.”

“Oh, Wreath, this must be so hard for you,” Faye said. “Why don’t I take you to my house, and I’ll come back.”

But Wreath was already climbing out of the car. “Maybe seeing it can help me learn more about Frankie and my grandmother. Besides, I don’t trust you to buy the right pieces from the owners.” She offered a small smile and reached for Faye’s hand. “Let’s get this over with.”

While Faye dealt with the owner and the owner’s daughter, Wreath wandered through the rooms, touching the walls and trying to sense her mother’s presence. She had intended to come over here since arriving in Landry, but every time she started by, her heart got that heavy sick feeling. She’d turned back at least five times before deciding she didn’t need the grief.

“I miss you, Frankie,” she whispered when she walked into the bedroom that she guessed would have been where her mother slept.

From where she stood, she could hear the elderly owner’s daughter apologizing to Faye for the clutter. “People say your store has cute things,” the daughter said. “I hope this isn’t too junky for you. There’s even a box or two left from the former owners on the closet shelf in that bedroom.”

“You don’t mean it,” Faye said in what Wreath thought of as her bargaining voice. “We’ll take a look at all you’ve got.”

“Those boxes were up in the attic when Mother moved in, and she stuck them in the closet, thinking the people would come back,” the daughter said. “Apparently those folks left town in a hurry.”

“You never know what you’ll find lying around,” Faye said. Wreath felt like she was about to crawl out of her skin as she listened to their conversation, and she couldn’t keep her eyes from darting to the closet.

“Let me know if you have any questions,” the woman said. “I’ll be with my mother in the living room.”

Faye entered the bedroom at about the same time that Wreath pulled the first of the boxes down. “Don’t get your hopes too high,” she said quietly. She touched the small of Wreath’s back, as Frankie had done sometimes at night. “We don’t know if someone else lived here between your mother and the current owner.”

But Wreath was already opening the box. It contained one dingy pillowcase, a set of unfamiliar chipped grocery-store dishes, and a set of ragged pillow towels. She sighed, despising the musty smell.

“You’re right, Faye. I should have known Grandma wouldn’t have left anything here.”

Before Faye could reply, the owner of the house walked into the room. Her cane thumped on the hardwood floor.

“Don’t like what you see?” the old woman asked, her eyes moving from Faye’s face to Wreath’s.

“We’ll purchase the kitchen items and most of the furniture,” Faye said quickly. “I believe I’ll come back tomorrow and go through the rest, if that works for you.”

The woman nodded but spoke to Wreath. “Would you mind getting that other box down?” she asked. “I’ve lived in this house for nearly eighteen years, and I’ve never even looked in there. I reckon it’ll have to go out on the street.”

Wreath stretched on her tiptoes and finagled the box from the back corner. As she placed it on the floor, she saw it was labeled MY STUFF. She turned to Faye. “Should I look at it?” she whispered.

“I doubt you’ll be able to sleep tonight if you don’t,” Faye said. Her face reflected Wreath’s anxiety.

“Do whatever you want with it,” the home owner said and headed for the door. “I’m just glad to have that closet empty. All this stuff has to go.”

Settling onto the floor, her legs crossed, Wreath peeled brittle masking tape off the top. Faye sat on the edge of the bed. Layer by layer, Wreath pulled artifacts from the box: a Landry High yearbook with an unfamiliar name inside the cover and a few silly handwritten messages in the front and back, a stuffed animal whose fur reminded Wreath of the carpet in the Tiger Van, and a school picture of a boy. “I wonder who he was?” she murmured.

Finally, Wreath pulled out a dried corsage, the flower’s odor stale and sweet. She held it briefly against her cheek, squeezing her eyes shut. “I wanted this to be something of Frankie’s,” she said. “But it’s not.”

“I suppose it could be,” Faye said.

“No,” Wreath said firmly and pulled out the small card that had been wedged in the corner of the box. She held it up like an exhibit in a courtroom. “This is not my mother’s name. Not my grandma’s, either.”

“I’m sorry, Wreath.” Faye stood as she spoke. She wore a solemn expression.

“How stupid was I to think this could be Frankie’s stuff,” Wreath said, kicking the box. “This is just anonymous junk, the kinds of things we buy every day for the store. They mean nothing! Nothing!”

“I know it hurts,” Faye said, once more putting her hand gently on Wreath’s back. There was a long quiet moment, the only sound the television from another room. “I should have insisted you stay outside. I hoped coming inside might … well, settle some things in your mind.”

Wreath looked at Faye, trying to get her bearings.

“I guess I had to come sooner or later,” Wreath said. “This house is one of the main reasons I came to Landry.” She threw her hands up. “This! Like I was somehow going to find Mama in this place.”

Faye remained silent and continued to rub Wreath’s back.

“I loved her so much,” Wreath said.

“I know you did,” Faye said.

“She’d really have liked you,” Wreath said and followed Faye out of the room.