Tomorrow's Sun (Lost Sanctuary) - By Becky Melby Page 0,15
something in here that could camouflage the lump on his cheek.
When he found a tube labeled “concealer,” he had to work up the guts to pull the cap off. Just opening the drawer made the whole room smell like Mom.
He was reading a book on the brain and how memory works. The olfactory bulb is part of the brain’s limbic system…closely associated with memory and feeling…sometimes referred to as the “emotional brain.” He looked up at the clock that used to make bird sounds every hour and the birdhouse border surrounding the room. He’d laughed at Mom for stenciling it. “Looks like little outhouses,” he’d told her. The candle on the back of the toilet was covered with dust. Black crumbles of wick speckled the wax. It hadn’t been lit in almost a year. He picked it up and held it to his nose. Green apple. Smell has the power to call up memories and powerful responses almost instantaneously.
As he pulled the cap off, he breathed through his mouth. The olfactory bulb has intimate access to the amygdala, which processes emotion. Science had theories and rules to explain just about everything.
But sadness didn’t follow rules.
Running the tip of his finger over the rounded top of the tan concealer, he tried not to think that the last skin it had touched was his mother’s. Dabbing it under his eye, he winced at the sting, and at the kind of hurt that didn’t show up swollen and purple.
In movies, people talked about being afraid that the face of the person they loved wouldn’t stay in their memory. Maybe that would happen to him someday, but there wasn’t a night he didn’t see his mother’s smile—so clear that at times he actually reached out to hug her as he pulled up his own covers and tucked himself in bed.
He replaced the cap, closed the drawer and his eyes.
New smells filtered under the bathroom door. Eggs, toast, bacon.
He put his hand on the doorknob. Smells would not trigger memories, however, if it weren’t for conditioned responses. He walked out to the kitchen, where a miniature replica of his mother stood in front of the stove, one hand on her hip, the other stirring eggs in a pan. “Morning.” He took four pieces of toast out of the toaster and began buttering.
“Good morning.” Lexi waved a spatula at him. “Don’t do that,” she whispered. “I’ll get to it.”
Lexi was always protecting him. Adam’s mouth hadn’t learned how to stay shut like hers. “If I get in trouble for butter—”
“Get out!” The floor vibrated as Ben slogged into the kitchen. “You got time on your hands? Get started on the lawn.”
Adam’s fingers coiled around the knife. Lexi warned him with a look. He turned away from her, stared at the chunk of butter sliding off the knife and onto the bread. He’d promised Mom he’d take care of his sister, and standing back and watching her cook every meal and wash every dish wasn’t taking care of her. “I’ll get out after I eat.” He spread butter on the last piece of toast and reached into the cupboard for a plate.
Two heavy steps lumbered toward him. The floor groaned. The toast hit the floor. Adam’s back hit the refrigerator.
He didn’t care about the place on his arm that would match his cheek by the time he got to school.
He did care about the tears on Lexi’s face.
One arm wrapped around a bundle of two-by-fours, Jake descended the rickety cellar stairs. The cool was a welcome relief from the heat of the attic.
Working around two other jobs, he’d managed to rewire and insulate Emily’s third story in just over a week. Determined to convince her to put the wrecking ball away and stick her money into new fixtures and cabinets, he’d dedicated his few spare moments to drawing up plans.
Emily wanted to get involved, so he’d suggested she refinish the corner cupboard in the kitchen. The rest of the cabinets had been installed in the fifties or sixties. They had to go, but she’d grudgingly agreed to give this one original piece a second chance. She’d been on her knees, totally engrossed in sanding when he’d peeked in a moment ago. Whether or not she admitted it, she was enjoying the job.
The woman would learn to appreciate history if it killed him.
He dropped the boards and aimed his worklights at the shelves. He’d cut half a dozen braces when he heard halting steps behind him. Emily held