My fingertips graze something. I grab it, then twist to pull it free.
It’s an old cigar box. It used to be my mom’s. Sometimes she would look at the things inside while I played on the floor.
I sit back on my heels, cradling the box to my chest. Now I have two new memories of my mom. In the cemetery I remembered her reading to me, and now this.
My grandma never knew about the box, and after my mom died, I didn’t say anything. It was full of treasures and secrets, and she might have taken them away. On days when I was really sad, I would go into my mom’s old room, shut the door, take out the box, and slowly sift through the contents.
My grandma respected that closed door. Sometimes she went into my mom’s room herself, although I think she just lay on the bed and wept. Afterward, she would come out, her face still red and faintly damp, and give me a long hug.
I flip up the gold-colored clasp. Inside the lid, Victory is written in flowery red script. I spread the contents out on the floor. The things I liked as a kid don’t hold as much interest for me now. A dollar bill folded into a ring, a pink-and-white spiral shell, thirteen wheat pennies, a ticket stub from a concert. When I pick up a dried corsage, the petals crumble at my touch. At the sight of a lock of fine blond hair tied with a pink ribbon, I feel my eyes get wet. It must be mine.
But none of these things seem like clues. And what I need is for my mom to have left some kind of sign. Evidence. A hidden message. Because the detective didn’t think it could have been a stranger who stabbed her. Did my mom save a clue from the person who killed her and my dad?
I straighten out a piece of notebook paper that’s been folded and unfolded so many times it’s separating at the creases.
Please Naomi please just give me a chance to talk to you. Whenever you want. Just please say yes. Please.
It’s not signed. Written by my dad or someone else? Whoever it was, they sounded desperate.
Could my mom have been killed because she didn’t say yes?
Or because she did?
Underneath is an old valentine, the cheap kind kids give one another in grade school that come thirty to a pack. Penciled in tiny letters on the envelope is Made, enveloped, and licked in China next to a hand-drawn stamp. It’s addressed to Naomi “I Moan” Benson. The humor seems a little too adult for grade school, but then I realize I moan is Naomi spelled backward. On the back flap, someone has written, If your an infearior person to insults do not open this card. Misspellings and questionable word usage aside, the card makes me smile. Inside the envelope is a cartoon bird wearing a red hat. Printed on the brim is Valentine … and in a heart around the bird’s neck are the words Be mine.
On the back someone has written Happy Valentine’s Day. You cutie you. It’s signed, but not by my dad. I can only make out the first initial, but it’s a J. Jason, the guy who talked about my dad at the funeral, his best friend?
I look at the handwriting on the pleading note. I’m not sure, but I don’t think it’s from the same person. Of course, handwriting changes as people get older, and the card’s obviously from a kid, so I could be wrong. But all the Ts in the first note look almost like capital letter As, each with a tiny opening at the top where the pen went up and then went back down a fraction to the right before curling up at the end. The Ts on the valentine are straight up and down.
Did my mom keep this card because it was sweet and funny? Or because it was a link to a feeling she hadn’t left behind when she outgrew cheap paper valentines? Was there once something between my mom and the J person? Between her and Jason?
Maybe the next thing in the box holds the answer to that question. It’s a wedding invitation that’s been crumpled up and smoothed out, like she was going to throw it away and changed her mind. For Jason and Heather. My parents’ best friends. I remember seeing Heather glare at him at the funeral, so I don’t think they’re together anymore. They’d gotten married about six months before my parents died.
Even if my mom had been upset about the wedding, even if she had feelings for Jason, how could that have led to her and my dad being murdered in the forest? If Jason didn’t want to be with her, why would he kill her, let alone both of them?
His breathing had hitched when he talked about them. But maybe he wasn’t sorry they were dead. Maybe he was worried he would get caught.
At the very bottom of the box are two strips of black-and-white photo-booth photos, four photos to a strip.
The first shows my mom and dad and Jason, recognizable because of his Hawaiian shirt. The two guys are crowded in on either side of my mom. In the first photo, my mom just looks amazingly beautiful, lips pursed in a pout, eyes wide, dark eyebrows like wings. Her face is turned toward my dad, but she only has eyes for the camera. The two guys are facing the camera, sticking out their tongues. Jason’s eyes are closed.
The second photo is just a blur of motion. They must have been trying to change positions, but they didn’t make it in time. The only thing I can clearly make out is someone’s hand pressed against the curtain at the back of the booth.
In the third photo, everyone’s grinning and making their hands like claws.
In the fourth, my mom seems to be sitting on Jason’s lap while my dad leans in. They’re all laughing. If there was ever something between my mom and Jason, did my dad know?
The next strip shows only my mom and dad. They’re wearing different clothes, so it must have been a different day. Their foreheads are shiny, like maybe it was summer. My mom’s wearing a chunky necklace, and her hair is pulled back on one side with a silver barrette. My dad’s hair is messy, as if he hadn’t combed it since he rolled out of bed.
In the first photo, they look a little formal, like this is the photo that proves they’re a couple. In the second, he’s turned toward her, his eyes nearly closed, as if he’s getting ready to kiss her. She’s not looking at him, but rather up and away. Maybe she didn’t have enough time to purse her lips.
Or maybe she did.
In the third one, their funny faces make me smile. One of her eyes is closed, the other points toward her nose, and she’s hooked her lower lip with her upper teeth. He’s got one eyebrow raised, chin thrust forward, and his tongue so far out of his mouth that he looks like the weird logo for that old group the Rolling Stones.
I look down at the last photo in the strip and stop smiling.
My parents have put on terrorized looks, eyebrows raised, whites showing around their eyes, lips pulled back.
When these photos were taken, it was all just a game, no more real or serious than when they pretended to be monsters. Just having fun.
But this must be close to how my parents looked in the last few seconds of their lives.
What had it been like for my mom when the knife first cut her? The nineteenth time?
But now maybe she’s left me some clues. I need to find out more about what happened between her and Jason. What happened between the three of them.
Because it might have something to do with why only one of them is still alive.