new when they renovated this apartment in the 1940s, and it snicks satisfactorily when I turn it inside the closet door’s lock.
The door creaks open. Scents of must and mothballs float out.
I turn on the overhead light by pulling a string. The closet is packed to the gills. A fur coat that nearly gives me a heart attack because it looks like an animal cowering in the corner. A couple of dresses zipped up in plastic. Stacks of boxes that are all labeled in my grandmother’s cursive handwriting. Documents. Paystubs. Nothing interesting, really … A lockbox certainly doesn’t seem boring, but I don’t have the combination. I put it aside and look through the boxes on the top shelf until I find what I’m looking for.
A box labeled Winnie.
No one calls my mom that. No one but Grandma.
I dig out the box, sit on the floor with it between my knees, and open up the flaps that are folded over one another. There’s not much inside. A baby blanket and a silver rattle with my mother’s initials engraved on it. A tiny photo album—baby pictures, mostly. A few of my mom as an adorable toddler, laughing at the camera on a strange man’s shoulders—my grandfather. So weird to see a man I never met.
At the bottom of the box, under a pile of birthday cards and school records, I find some things from my mom’s teen years. A worn felt high school pennant with a big Breakers wave design on it. A photo of my mother when she was voted Best Dressed. And there. The coveted prize.
Beauty High School Yearbook.
My mom’s senior year.
Pulse racing, I crack it open and have to pry the endpapers apart—there’s an old strawberry candy wrapper here, one that still faintly holds the sweet scent, and its sugar has crystalized on the paper.
My eyes scan over the signatures and scribbled notes from classmates. Rainbows and hearts. Love yous. Go Breakers! Have a great summer. It’s finally over! And sillier things—Party hard ? People said that? So weird.
I look through the pages of the yearbook and find my mom’s class photo. God, she was pretty. So strange to see her without her glasses. Stranger still to see her in casual shots around campus. But when I flip to the endpapers at the back of the book, I find a couple more handwritten notes that catch my attention.
Note one: We’ve been through it all together, Winn. From the top of the pyramid to the boys next door. Here’s to getting out of this place. —Chloe
Top of the pyramid: a cheerleading reference, perhaps. My mom is no cheerleader, that’s for sure. Who are the “boys next door,” though? Is that a metaphor, or the actual boys next door?
Note two: It’s finally over. Only palm trees and white, sandy beaches on the horizon now. Our future is bright and sunny, and I can’t wait for the two of us to start it together. —Drew
I sit with the yearbook open on my lap, stunned.
Palm trees and white, sandy beaches? I’ve heard this exact phrase a hundred times out of my mother’s mouth. It’s her dream. Florida. The reason she agreed to come back to Beauty and save up money—so we could finally get out of New England and move where it’s warm and sunny.
Now I’m convinced this “Drew” is the mystery man I’ve been looking for.
The navy man that Evie’s mom said came back into town.
In the yearbook, he’s talking about starting a future together with my mom. I wonder if that’s just another saccharine yearbook salutation, or if he meant it literally. If he did mean it, obviously it didn’t happen. She didn’t start any kind of future with someone named Drew from high school.
She went to art school. Met my dad. Got pregnant. Dropped out of college. Moved back in with my grandma and had me. Lived here until I was twelve, then the time bomb exploded with Mom and Grandma.
End of story. At least, that’s what I always thought.
What really happened to my mom in Beauty?
PREVENT BOAT THEFT—LOCK YOUR CABIN: Sign posted on an unnamed boating pier between historic district and South Harbor. Though Beauty prides itself on a low crime rate, boat theft remains a problem. (Personal photo/Josephine Saint-Martin)
Chapter 17
“Air. I need … fresh air,” Lucky says as we exit my apartment and step onto the rickety back stairs, closing the door behind us. Moths flutter around a bulb that shines a spotlight of yellow on the steps