soon as I get home I charge into the kitchen, drop my bag on the floor mid-flight, and open the connecting door into the garage. I say garage loosely. It’s huge, as in the size of a small aircraft hanger.
Ever since Lori gave me the invitation this morning I’ve been itching for a nose into Rosie’s boxes of clothes. We’re virtually the same size and build so there’s bound to be something really cool I can borrow. I vaguely recall last year seeing photos of her when she went to a rich guy’s party and wore a black clingy dress—very tasteful. It would be perfect, if I can find it.
Rosie’s things are stashed right at the back, which means clambering over years of accumulated trash before I can get to them. Whoever designed the garage as a place for keeping the car clearly doesn’t know our family. The only car in here is Rosie’s, an old mini so doesn’t take up much space, and the rest is family junk. You’d have thought moving might have encouraged us to pare down our belongings. But no. I come from a family of hoarders and unfortunately both Rosie and I inherited the hording gene.
Rosie’s boxes are all sealed with brown parcel tape. Luckily Mom labeled them so I can ignore the ones not containing clothes. Even so, that still leaves about ten for me to look through.
Trembling slightly, from excitement or anxiety I’m not exactly sure, I pull one toward me and begin to carefully pull back the tape. Suddenly I’m hit by a pang of guilt, and I freeze. Should I leave Rosie’s things alone? Mom put them here out of the way for a reason. If she’d wanted me to go through them she’d have said, wouldn’t she? Unless she was so upset at the time she didn’t think to say anything. She packed up all Rosie’s things only a couple of weeks after the accident. It bothered me at the time, it was as if Mom wanted to put Rosie in a box too. So we didn’t keep bumping into her, if you get what I mean. I wanted to say something, but couldn’t bring myself to. Then other events took over and Rosie’s clothes were the last thing on my mind.
If only Rosie could give me a sign. Let me know it’s okay. Maybe the fact Lori gave me the invitation is the sign. Because Rosie knows I’d straightaway come to look at her clothes. Yes, that’s definitely it.
I give the tape one more gentle pull and as the top begins to part the smell of Rosie hits me and I reel backward, scraping my arm down a treadmill keep fit machine Mom bought, and is determined not to give away because she will definitely use it one day, and landing awkwardly on the floor.
My head pounds and I close my eyes. Images of Rosie dance before me. Rosie as a girl, Miss Perfect I remember Dad calling her. Clothes always immaculate, food never daring attach itself to her cheeks, and nothing but a smile on her face. And she didn’t change as she got older. Teenage tantrums weren’t for her—though I more than made up for that. Whenever I’d done one of my famous stomps up the stairs declaring my hatred for everyone, she’d knock on my door, come in and placate me—not that I’ve had a tantrum since I was about fourteen. Well, maybe only the odd one every now and again, when it was something I felt strongly about—like the time Mom and Dad refused to let me go to an all night party held in an old warehouse one New Years Eve.
I clasp my legs and lean forward, resting my head on my knees. Why? What did she ever do—
“Suzy?” My head jerks upward at the sound of Mom’s voice. I must have been in here longer than I thought, she said she wouldn’t be home until after five.
“Over here. At the back” I stretch out my legs in front of me.
“What are you doing?” She sounds cross. A shiver runs down my spine. I can’t face an ear-bashing. Not now. Maybe I should pretend I was doing something else—what exactly I don’t know. Except she’ll see the open box. Unless I can quickly push it to one side before she gets here. I glance across at the box and notice all the other boxes are out of place.
“Suzy. Answer me.”
I guess I better tell