GUMBOTTOM

I CRACK OPEN ANOTHER JOURNAL BEFORE BED. THIS one is from 1956, and Constance is still loving Santa Barbara. I’m about to close it for the evening when I turn the page in the middle of the March entries and find a black-and-white photograph.

I gasp. Edie found the last picture, and I didn’t expect to come across another one. I’m even more surprised to see it’s a picture of a woman who’s not Constance. This one was taken from far away, and it’s of a tall, dark-skinned woman standing next to a pickup truck. I’ve only seen trucks like this in super-old pictures, just like this one. The woman is squinting into the sun, her hand resting on the side of the truck. Instead of a big smile, like Constance, her lips are pressed into a thin, straight line.

I wish I could see her face better, but it’s blurry, even when I hold it close to my eyes. I turn it over, where it says Juanita McCrimmons, Gumbottom, 1954. The same year as the photo of Constance. Hers seemed like a professional picture, but this one looks like a shot taken by someone the woman knows.

I grab my phone to text Edie, but before I can pull up her name, someone knocks on my door. I quickly slide the picture and journal under the pillow behind me. They’re not a secret, exactly, but it still feels like maybe Edie and I should have told someone we have these.

“Come in!”

Dad sticks his head in. “Almost time for lights out, sweetheart.”

“I know. I’m just texting Edie.”

He smiles. “You’ve become fast friends, huh?”

“Yeah.… Hey, Dad? Do you know anything about Edie’s father?”

He twists his mouth to the side, thinking. “Probably not much more than you do. He works in music, and Calliope said it keeps him busy. Why?”

“Edie thinks she’s never going to see him again.”

“What? Oh, Alberta, I’m sure that’s an exaggeration.”

I scoop my knees up to my chest. “He was supposed to come visit this weekend, and now he’s not.”

“Well, sometimes plans change.” Dad sighs. “We don’t know what he has going on.”

I want to say that’s not fair, especially when someone is counting on you. He didn’t see Edie when her mother told her. I don’t think anyone has ever looked so sad.

“But I’m sorry for Edie,” Dad says, making his way across the room to kiss the top of my head. “I know she’s had to deal with a lot of change lately.”

She’s not the only one. But I just nod at my dad, give him a hug, and say good night. I’m sorry for Edie, too. And I hope she’ll feel better in the morning, just like Dad and Elliott always say I will when I’m upset about something.

I slip the picture into my bag the next morning, making sure I tuck it between the pages of my notebook so it doesn’t get creased or torn. I decided not to text Edie about it after all. I figured she might cheer up a little when she sees it.

But when I go to the B&B after breakfast, Ms. Whitman opens the door with an apologetic smile. “Good morning, Alberta. I’m sorry, but Edie isn’t feeling well today, so she’s staying home.”

I don’t think Ms. Whitman is lying, but I’m pretty sure Edie not feeling well has everything to do with her dad and nothing to do with a cold or fever.

“Do you need a ride?” she asks, running a hand over her bandana. It’s pink today.

“No, thank you. I’ll ride my bike. Tell Edie I hope she feels better soon.”

“I will, honey. She’ll appreciate it. Have a good day, okay?”

I planned to wait for Edie before I looked up Juanita from the picture, but I have a feeling she doesn’t care much about Constance’s life right now. And maybe I can really cheer her up if I find out something about Juanita while she’s home sick today.

“Where are you going?” Oliver asks when he passes me in the hallway before lunch. I’m walking in the opposite direction of the cafeteria, toward the library.

“I have to do some work for a class,” I say, shifting impatiently.

He frowns. “During lunch?”

“I just… yeah. It’s kind of important.”

“All right, well, see you later,” he says, waving his lunch sack in the air.

I slide into a seat behind the computer farthest from the library entrance and pull the picture from my notebook. I stare at it again and make a silent wish that there’s something out there about Juanita McCrimmons. I have her first and last name. And what is Gumbottom? The name of a town?

I take a deep breath as I type in her name. A lot of hits come up in the search, but it’s mostly random entries with all the individual words I typed in. Like someone named Lorna McCrimmons on Gumbottom Road. I scroll through the first page until I get to the bottom and—

“Oh my god!” I say out loud. So loud that the librarian looks over. And she’s not as friendly as Mrs. Palmer. I shrink down in my seat as I click on the link. It’s an online directory, with a few Juanita McCrimmonses, listed by location.

One lives in Alaska, and another one is in Massachusetts. There’s a Juanita McCrimmons who’s in her fifties in Chicago, and another in her sixties who lives in Missouri. I do the math, and I’m pretty sure they’re all too young to be the woman in the picture. I sigh and keep scrolling until—

I clap my hand over my mouth this time. Because there, right in front of me, is exactly who I think I’m looking for. A woman named Juanita McCrimmons. In Gumbottom, Alabama. But I deflate almost immediately. She died over ten years ago. And when I open a new tab and search for an obituary, nothing comes up.

I quickly scan the names under hers for people who might be related. Not all the last names match, but maybe they’ll know something about this woman. Something about Constance. I scribble them down.

My stomach grumbles. I could take a break and still have time for lunch, but I want to finish what I started, so I begin looking up the new names. It’s a short list, and not much comes up. More of the same online directory entries, and a few family-tree sites that don’t lead to anything.

It seems like I’ve only been here a few minutes, but the next time I look at the clock, I have five minutes until lunch is over. Which is perfect timing, because I have one more name left. I type in Rosemary McCrimmons… and she has a website!

Okay, so it’s a link to a real estate agent’s website, but it’s still something. I click on it and press my palms against my knees as I wait for the page to load. A picture of a light-skinned Black woman with short black hair pops up, followed by a bunch of boring stuff about houses.

But there’s an e-mail address. And a phone number. And she’s Black, which means maybe she’s related to Constance, too. I send the link to my e-mail and copy down her name and information in my notebook. I log out and stand up from the computer just as the bell rings, hugging the notebook to my chest.