On the drive back, I mentally perfected the first question I was going to ask my grandmother about our family. I was going for the kill: a direct accusation. I wanted to shake some emotion, and some information, out of her.
As we were putting away the groceries, I attacked.
“So,” I said casually, “what exactly did you guys hate about my mom?” I stared at them, ready to catalog any sign of discomfort.
“Don’t be silly,” my grandmother said, scooping coffee grounds into the machine. “Your mother was a lovely woman.”
“But you didn’t want her to marry my dad,” I challenged. “You objected to the whole thing.”
My grandfather practically climbed into the refrigerator, so I had no chance of seeing his face, but my grandmother continued, nonchalant.
“Oh, rubbish.” She sang, tapping the plastic spoon to free the last of the grounds. “Your father was a grown man. He did as he pleased since he was a teenager. We were happy if he was happy. We were happy he found love, happy he had you, and now, of course, we’re happy to have you here.”
I got flustered. She was making it seem like there was never a problem, like she and my grandfather had always been part of my life. I knew I hadn’t imagined it, but now that I tried to think of the specifics, of anything my mom had said about my grandparents, I drew a blank.
“Maren,” my grandmother continued, “an airmail package arrived while you were out. I left it in your room. I believe it must be a box of your mother’s belongings.”
I tried to process what she was saying. A box of my mom’s stuff? What stuff? I’d already let the Salvation Army take most of my mom’s clothes; they were hopelessly out-of-date anyway. And since she owed more on our house than it was worth, the bank repossessed all of our furniture and appliances, right down to the dented toaster. I couldn’t imagine what was left.
“Um, okay,” I sputtered. I pulled the candy bars and small crossword puzzle book I’d found at Tesco out of a bag, grabbed a bottle of fizzy orange soda, and went to face the unexpected package.
As I trudged up the stairs, I imagined thick glass forming around me, separating me from my emotions, shielding me again from the grief that threatened to strangle me. I wanted to feel something again, but not that.
The only way I’d been coping at all was by lying to myself, pretending that my mom wasn’t really dead, that she was just on an extended business trip. She traveled a lot for her job, so I was used to not having her around for periods of time. This time, she would be gone for a few months, I told myself, so I needed to stay with my grandparents. Probably not the healthiest fantasy, but I didn’t care.
A battered box sat in the middle of my room. It might as well have had teeth, because I knew opening it was going to hurt me.
I took a deep breath and sat down beside it. What are the chances that there is anything good inside? Considering my life, none. I steeled myself for the worst, slit the packing tape with my fingernail, and dove in, but all the box held was paper. Lots and lots of paper. Like someone had just emptied my mom’s desk into a single box and mailed it to me. A neon green sticky note from our realtor confirmed exactly that.
“Thought you might want the stuff from your mom’s office,” it read. Not really . . .
I sifted through it: old utility bills, receipts for dry cleaning, crumpled, unused envelopes. I found a couple stamps, a handful of colored paperclips, some half-chewed pens. Why bother mailing this crap 5,000 miles?
I was ready to throw the box away, relieved that it didn’t hold anything sentimental, when my hand hit something hard on the bottom. I pulled out a rectangular block of wood about the size of a large book. It was heavy and completely smooth, with no latches or hinges; just four interlocking Celtic heart designs carved into the top. I shook it and felt something moving inside. So it was hollow, which meant there had to be a way to open it.
I contemplated smashing it open, but that might ruin whatever it was holding. I ran my fingers over the edges, searching for a clue.
A clue. I smiled to myself. My mother loved clues. Every Easter, she couldn’t just hide my basket, she had to send me on an elaborate hunt with clues that took hours to complete. They got harder every year, until I was getting clues in Morse code, and Japanese characters that needed to be read backward in a mirror.
My mom’s job was to analyze computer programs, or something, for a foreign company—the same company where she’d met my dad—but I always thought she should have been a history teacher. She had a passion for ancient forms of communication, especially coded messages. Every Sunday, after I made my famous milk chocolate chip pancakes, we’d race to solve all the puzzles in the newspaper: the crossword, the word jumble, the Sudoku, the cryptograms. I was able to beat her by the third grade, a fact that seemed to thrill her. She had tons of little puzzles lying around her office: magic rings, golf tee checkerboards, Rubik’s Cubes. They weren’t personal—she’d pick them up at airport gift shops or roadside restaurants—so I didn’t save any. This particular box, though, with its engraved, endless hearts on the front, was prettier and bigger than most, and I didn’t remember ever seeing it. Why does it seem so familiar then?
I had to get it open. I squeezed it, twisted it, tried to pry it open. Nothing. What could it possibly hold? Obviously, something my mother had wanted to keep secret, but why?
I traced the intricate hearts with my fingertip, and noticed one of the loops move slightly. I pushed on it again, and again it wiggled. I flattened my finger and put more pressure on the carving, twisting it to the right. The bottom of one of the hearts swung toward the middle of the box with a distinctive click.
I quickly rotated the bottom of the other hearts: click, click, click! As soon as I turned the last one, the box fell onto my lap, with a gaping hole where the carving had been. I scooped the box up, held my breath, and reached inside. Out came a necklace, a vellum envelope, and a journal bound with dark brown leather.
The necklace caught my eye first. On the end of a rustic silver chain hung a thick, sculpted flower charm: a white, dimpled blossom in the center of a red rose surrounded by shiny green leaves. The colorful petals reflected the light like stained glass. I didn’t wear jewelry very often—I tended to lose it or break it—but the necklace reminded me of the dogwood tree outside my bedroom window back home. I slipped it over my head.
I picked up the envelope. It was sealed shut, and marked on the outside in my mom’s small, precise handwriting: “Le Mont-Saint-Michel, Normandy, France.” Obviously, it was French, but I had no idea what it meant since I’d opted for the Spanish route in school. I slid my finger along the edge to open it and left a streak of blood behind. Typical, I thought. I can crack coded boxes, but I can’t open a simple envelope without getting a giant paper cut.
I removed a letter and thrust my now-throbbing finger into my mouth. In the top right corner, my mother had written the date: two days before her death. The rest of the page was blank. What was my mother going to write? And if she didn’t finish the letter, why seal it? Her familiar handwriting coupled with the date so close to her death toppled my peace like dominoes. I quickly folded the letter and stuffed it back into the envelope.
The journal was the only discovery left. A ragged cord looped around a translucent blue bead on the soft leather cover held the book closed. As I opened it, tiny golden flakes fell from the page edges and left a glittery trail on my jeans. On the first page, my mother had drawn a calligraphic pair of letters: AD. Underneath, she’d spelled out Arcēs Daemonium. Great, Latin. I sighed, completely regretting my foreign language laziness.
I turned the delicate pages and found blueprints and elaborate architectural plans sketched inside. My mom’s detailed notes, addendums, and plenty of exclamation points cluttered the margins, but didn’t make any sense to me. Was it for her job? It was possible, since I didn’t really understand what she did.
I flipped through the book, past dozens of buildings, none of which I recognized, but again seemed somehow familiar. They were interspersed with a few odd drawings of body parts—a hand with extremely long fingernails, an angry face that seemed to growl through scribbles. I doodled in the corners of every notebook I’d ever owned, especially in school, and especially during the more boring classes, but these didn’t seem like they were drawn out of boredom. They were creepy, almost ominous, and they made me uncomfortable.
The last two pages were stuck together. I slipped them apart with my forefinger, careful not to smear any of my blood on the book.
The final sticky corner gave way, and instead of more drawings, I found my name.
My Dearest Maren,
It breaks my heart to write this, because I know if you ever have to read it, that means I’m dead and, worse, you’re in grave danger. I’m so sorry I couldn’t protect you, my darling girl, but remember you are not alone. You will never be alone. All of heaven will be with you, watching you and guiding you. I can’t tell you much more here in case this journal falls into the wrong hands, but know that the longer you possess it, the more danger you are in. Deliver it quickly. Be careful whom you trust. Things and people aren’t always what they seem.
All My Love,
Mom
The letter from my mother shattered my carefully constructed walls. Tears that seemed to come up from my heart spilled down my cheeks as I tried to keep my sobbing as inaudible as possible. I couldn’t stop a giant teardrop from escaping, though, and it fell onto the page, near the word Love. Without thinking, I brushed it away. The ink smeared, and I cried out, sick to have ruined something so precious, one of the last words from my mother.
My bedroom door rattled under a sharp knock, and I lurched, slamming my elbow against the corner of the armoire. “Maren?” my grandmother called out. “Are you all right?”
I slammed the journal shut and dropped it back into the box. I pushed the package under my bed and jumped up. I didn’t want my grandmother to see me crying or try to comfort me. I didn’t trust her yet, and according to my mother, I wasn’t supposed to trust just anyone. Was her warning meant to apply to grandparents I’d only just met? Maybe.
“Just a minute,” I called. I checked the mirror and wiped my cheeks with my sleeve, thankful I hadn’t been wearing mascara.
I opened the door, a fake smile plastered on my face.
“Your grandfather wanted to show you my old golf clubs,” my grandmother said, peeking over my shoulder to see if anything was amiss. “See if they’d suit you.”
“Great,” I replied, leaving the room to prove I was fine. I wasn’t, of course. I didn’t know if I’d ever be “fine” again. Especially not in Scotland. But I’d become great at pretending.