get a hazy impression of her features. Still, our resemblance is unmistakable.
“That must be Mom,” I say. “When she was a girl.”
“She looks like you.”
“Yeah,” I say, an odd wariness drifting over me. Returning to the tubes, I open another one.
Wyatt studies the picture and says, “That must be you when you were a baby.”
“I guess.” In the drawing, my parents and I are standing on a dock that juts out across a lake. Dad is holding my hand.
“Your parents look so young. Where were you?” asks Wyatt.
“I don’t know,” I say, trying not to cry. I don’t understand why the sketches make me feel so emotional.
The next sketch we open is of a colonial-style house on a wide stretch of lawn that’s bordered by flower gardens. The last one is a city scene—cobblestone streets and sidewalk cafés in a place unfamiliar to me.
As we’re returning the artwork to the tubes, Wyatt says, “At least we know now she wasn’t lying. She really has been sketching out here.”
“She might’ve done these a long time ago. They could be old,” I point out.
“Yeah, I guess.”
We carry the tubes to the storage closet and I put them back on the top shelf. Climbing down from the stepladder, I say, “There’s more to all this than I’ve told you, Wyatt.” As I gather up the clothes we found in the toolbox, I explain about the conversation I overheard between my parents on the morning of my birthday.
Wyatt blinks at me, as if trying to make sense of it all. “That’s movie-of-the-week stuff, Lil. What do you think they were talking about?”
“I was hoping you’d have an idea.”
“I wish I did.”
Realizing how little I know about my parents’ pasts, I walk to the worktable and pick up the silver jewelry box. Wyatt comes over and stands beside me as I open the lid. A ballerina pops up and colored jewels wink at me. A ring with a pale green stone lies next to a pair of big silver earrings. I run my fingertips across a turquoise bracelet and a heart locket on a delicate chain. Moving all of the jewelry aside, I find a folded scrap of notebook paper at the very bottom of the box. I set the box down, take the paper out, and unfold it.
“Listen to this,” I say to Wyatt, then read aloud the words scribbled in blue ink. “‘Good luck, babe. I know you’ll do great. Hurry back. I’ll miss you like crazy. Love, Jake.’”
Jake. Iris sighs wistfully, then in an urgent whisper adds, We have to find him.
Why? I ask. Do you know who is he?
No . . . maybe . . . not sure. His name . . . I feel something. She must have known him when we were small. Maybe we did, too. . . .
Understanding that the “she” Iris is referring to is Mom, I try to recall if I’ve ever heard her or Dad mention someone named Jake. I search my memory for an image of anyone by that name that we knew when I was younger, but don’t come up with anything.
“So your mom had a boyfriend before your dad,” Wyatt says in a matter-of-fact way.
“Not necessarily.”
He frowns at the note. “Sounds like a boyfriend to me.”
If Jake was Mom’s boyfriend before Dad, Iris wouldn’t have any memory of him, vague or otherwise. But I refuse to consider that Mom might’ve been seeing someone after she and Dad married. I don’t believe it.
Find him, Iris demands.
I refold the note and tuck it inside the box again. I have no idea how to start to find the guy. I’m not even sure I want to.
I twist the switch inside the jewelry box, and the ballerina twirls. A melody that Iris used to hum begins to play—the lullaby she sang me to sleep with at night when I was younger.
A wave of dizziness rocks me, and a vision appears. A guy about my age, his face blurred and flickering like an old movie. A flash of teary blue eyes, a shock of black hair falling over his forehead. He reaches out to me, his mouth moving, but I can’t hear what he’s saying. The guy’s face crumples as I lean closer, wanting to comfort him.
“Lily?” Wyatt breathes.
I blink, and the vision disappears. Wyatt and I are nose to nose, so near to each other that his breath feathers my face.
I stumble backward and glance down at the jewelry box. The music has stopped. The