Kallie stood on the cracked sidewalk outside the Dollar Basket.
She had convinced Grandpa Jess she needed to return to the shop for paint—which was the truth. Of course, he had offered to go with her, but Kallie claimed it would be much faster, not to mention healthier, if she rode her bike. He seemed genuinely excited she was taking more interest in physical activity as of late.
“I won’t be long. And I’ll come straight home,” she’d reassured him. “It won’t be dark for a while yet, and I’m ready for more responsibility. Just like Dad said.”
Grandpa Jess had reluctantly agreed. He’d even dug into his pocket and handed her a ten-dollar bill. Kallie had refused at first, but he had insisted.
Kallie paced the sidewalk, staring at the basket of woven dollar signs over the store. She should hurry, but she hesitated. Questions whirled around inside her head. And yet, a part of her wasn’t quite sure it wanted the answers.
She opened the door and entered the store. Disappointment mingled with relief when she saw a young woman at the cash register.
“What can I do for you?”
“Paint,” muttered Kallie, scanning the space as though she didn’t know where to find it.
“Aisle four,” said the young clerk.
The woman Kallie had been looking for was nowhere to be seen. She took a deep breath and then headed toward the aisle with the dusty containers. She located a tub of black and a tub of white, plus a small brush. It was all she needed to make her cave look realistic.
“You’re in luck,” said the young woman as Kallie placed the items on the counter. “Two-for-one sale on paint today.”
Kallie forced a smile as she handed the woman the ten-dollar bill. She took her change and her bag and turned to leave.
“I’d hoped you’d return,” said a soft voice.
Kallie spun to see the older woman in purple Crocs staring at her.
Part of Kallie wanted to take her paint and leave, but something held her feet steady. There was an awkward moment of silence, and then the woman took a few paces toward her.
“She loved that maroon sweater, you know. The one you wore the other day.”
Kallie could feel her hands trembling and her cheeks getting warm. She nearly dropped the bag of paint. The store around her began to swim.
The narrow aisles that were filled with anything and everything you could think of, the dusty shelves, this woman … They had known her. They had known her mother and she, her only child, had not.
“How…” was the only word Kallie managed. It came out soft and strangled and full of so many conflicting emotions that Kallie wasn’t sure the woman would understand. But she did.
“She worked here,” said the woman, her eyes crinkling in a sorrowful smile. “Right before…”
“She drowned.”
The woman bristled at Kallie’s abruptness. She stared long and hard, as though she wanted to say something but couldn’t quite find the right words.
“She was a good writer,” she said finally. “Sometimes, when there were no customers, she’d read things to me.”
Anger flared up inside Kallie, though she didn’t know exactly why. Was it because this woman—this stranger—knew her mother better than she did? Or was it the writing again—that part of her mother she’d been trained to loathe. “What things?”
“Oh. Mostly poems. Some stories. She had a wonderful imagination. And a way with words.” She smiled. “I’ve kept them. I’d be happy to dig them up for you.”
Kallie backed away as though the woman were offering her a poisoned apple. There was so much more she wanted to ask. About how her mother had come to work in this shop. About the days leading up to her drowning.
Kallie glanced at her watch. She’d been in the shop longer than she’d promised Grandpa Jess. He would worry.
“I have to go,” she said, clutching the plastic bag tightly. She turned to leave but then stopped suddenly and added, “Maybe. If you find them…”
The woman smiled and nodded. “I’ll have a look.”
Kallie found Grandpa Jess in the kitchen making bacon-and-cheddar biscuits for what he called his lazy-day dinner.
“Did you get everything you need?” he asked, slipping the baking sheet into the oven and placing the bowl into the sink. He turned and saw the bag she carried with the Dollar Basket logo and the look in her eyes. He sunk into a seat at the table as though the weight of the world had forced him down.
Needles weren’t half as sharp as Kallie’s glare. She plunked herself beside him. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Grandpa wrung his hands. Bits of dried dough crusted off. “Tell you what?”
“That she worked at the Dollar Basket.”
“Well, what was there to say?”
“I don’t know,” said Kallie. “But at least I’d know something about her.”
“Those weren’t good days. Your mother didn’t like working there. In fact, she hated it. Your father thought it would be good for her, though. To have some structure to her days. To help out financially.”
“He forced her?”
“Forced is such a harsh word, Kallie.”
“But she was unhappy.”
“It’s complicated. Life isn’t as neat and tidy as you’d like it to be. It’s not black and white. More like shades of gray.”
Grandpa Jess stood and went to the sink. He turned on the faucet and began washing his hands. “They were going to see a lawyer. In Plattsburgh.”
A lawyer, thought Kallie. It was all he needed to say. It could mean only one thing. Divorce. Her parents were going to divorce. And divorce usually meant a fight—a costly fight over property. Over money. Over children. But then her mother drowned. And a divorce was no longer necessary.
“I smell biscuits,” said Victor Jones, stepping into the kitchen. He put his arm around Kallie and gave her a squeeze. “Delicious, but loaded with fat.”
“Haven’t you heard?” said Kallie. “Fat is now the sixteenth food group.”