The Summer of Lost Things Read online

  Mom’s eyes light up. “Oh, that would be fun! We should make it a girls’ night! They always have fun activities on the Fourth around here. We haven’t had a girls’ night in forever.”

  I stare at her, not really wanting to crush her dreams of a girls’ night, but I really don’t want to hang out with my mom on the Fourth of July. I’d like to maybe hang out with my new friends. I sigh and nod anyway. “Yeah, that does sound fun. I love fireworks.” Maybe they’ll have a live band. I could cross that off my list. “So, what do we need to work on today?”

  She sets her laptop next to her. “Oh, everything. I’ve had lots of client emails I’ve had to answer and catch up on, so it’s been a work-in-pajamas kind of day. I really need to get started on the house. If you would have been here when you said you were going to be here, we could have gotten more done.” She shoots me a glare.

  “Sorry. Again.”

  “Lucy, I’m glad you’ve found some friends, but I still need you around here, okay? And I don’t want you running off and not telling me where you’re going.”

  “Okay.”

  She sighs. “Look. Why don’t you start taking down the wallpaper in your room?”

  “Sounds exciting.” I smile, making sure she knows I’m joking.

  “Hey, working isn’t supposed to be fun all the time. At least start on it. I got paint for the bathroom down here, so I’ll start on that.”

  “Do you have a spray bottle?”

  She points to a box on the counter. “You may want a wet rag, too, just to soak the wallpaper so it comes off easier.”

  “Wallpaper’s the worst, Mom. Ugh.”

  “It’ll be good for you to work. And while the wallpaper is soaking, take out the stuff you don’t want in your room, like all the pink that you love so much,” she grins. “Then we can get new window coverings, fix up those bookshelves, whatever, this weekend maybe. You can take those baby ballet pictures off the walls too.”

  “Yeah . . . already done that. Almost the first thing I did, actually.”

  She rolls her eyes. “Of course you did.”

  “Hey, I’m seventeen. Not seven.”

  “Noted. Oh, and dinner will be ready in about an hour. I was a little late getting things in the slowcooker.”

  “Sounds good. Thanks, Mom.” I head upstairs, spray bottle and wet rag in hand.

  As soon as I open the door, I freeze, my fingers wrapped around the doorknob. My stomach drops and I let out the breath I’m holding.

  Dad’s letter.

  It’s sitting on my desk.

  That’s why she wanted me to come upstairs.

  It’s interesting what a simple piece of paper can do to your brain. Even without reading it, a simple letter causes so many emotions to stir. This time, though, it’s anger that presents itself. As it does whenever I think of him lately.

  I storm over to the desk, grab the letter, open my desk drawer, and shove it inside, then hesitate. There’s another letter in there. It’s addressed to me in flowing handwriting and has been there for months. I can barely look at it; it’s from the family of the daughter whose life Dad took. Hers and her new husband’s.

  Alexis and Kevin Walker.

  I’ll never forget those names.

  Mom got a letter from Alexis’s mother too and said it was worth a read, but I can’t bring myself to read it. I don’t know why I keep it, knowing I’ll only read words of hurt, sorrow, and blame for ruining her family’s life. I can’t handle it. I can’t think about it. My eyes well with tears and I slam the drawer shut.

  I’m sure the slam could be heard downstairs. I don’t hear Mom at all, though, and don’t want to confront her about Dad’s letter right now. All I want is to be left alone. No more letters. I swallow. No more lies either. Especially coming from my own mouth.

  I still can’t believe I did that. Lied to Jack and Mira and told them Dad had died. I guess I panicked, but still. What was I thinking? Which brings me to the reason I lied in the first place.

  Him.

  If he would have cleaned up his life, I wouldn’t have had to lie about him. If he would have cared about his family more than his drugs, he’d be here now, teaching me how to paint, looking at my drawings. Loving me.

  We did so much together. He’d come to my art shows when I was in middle school, take me to grab a burger when I’d have bad days and Mom was working. Then once day he stopped coming to my shows. Stopped taking me to do things. Started yelling and snapping over the tiniest things. He finally just stopped caring. He didn’t want me anymore. He didn’t care about anything but himself.

  So why doesn’t anyone get it? Why can’t Mom leave me alone about it? I don’t want to know how he’s doing. I don’t want to know what he has to say. I don’t want to read his letter.

  I. Don’t. Care.

  Because he doesn’t care about me.

  Still stewing, I pull out my summer list and study it instead, trying to block out the negative emotions fighting to get out.

  Meet someone new.

  I think of my new friends. Hoping they won’t ditch me because I’m weird or awkward. Because they could, once they really get to know me. I try to think positively though and smile as I put pencil to paper and draw a line over the words. Besides, it’s always so satisfying crossing things off a list.

  I scan the rest, wondering what things I can work on next. Maybe learn a new skill? Or look for challenging hikes? I’m sure there are a lot in this area.

  I loved hiking in Wyoming. Ashley and I went all the time with our group of friends. When Dad was normal, we went as a family a lot and took picnics with us. The more challenging the hike, the better. It was always so fulfilling when we’d reach the waterfall or the top of the hill and see what we’d accomplished.

  There’s Dad creeping in again.

  I put the list down and settle on reading instead to take my mind off things. Working on reading twenty-five books is doable at the moment. I pick up my copy of Jane Eyre. It’s a little thick, but like that will deter me. I can get through it in a day or two. I set it on the bed and look around my room, wondering if I should get started on reorganizing and making things better. Like I just told Mom I’d do.

  My eyes fall on the pink window coverings. I walk over and start taking them down, just to make Mom happy. And me, as well. They’re hideous. Not as bad as the yellow wallpaper downstairs, though. Nothing will ever top that monstrosity.

  The room is brighter once I’m finished, since the sunlight can actually shine through from outside and light up the room. Satisfied, I grab the spray bottle and start on the pink wallpaper.

  Hopefully it will distract me for a while.

  CHAPTER 9

  “But remember that the pain of parting from friends will be felt by everybody at times, whatever be their education or state. Know your own happiness. You want nothing but patience; or give it a more fascinating name: call it hope.”

  —Jane Austen, Sense and Sensibility

  Sundays are always good for my soul. I wake up to church music floating upstairs from the living room and a peace fills my heart as I slide out of bed.

  I thought a lot about things last night when I couldn’t sleep and ended up staring at the ceiling for hours. I’m tired of feeling this way. I need to let my anger go. I need to tell Jack and Mira the truth. There are worse things than having a dad in prison. I still have so many things to be thankful for. It may take a while, but I’m determined to let this go. I don’t want to keep feeling like I did last night. So angry.

  I kneel down next to my bed and say my morning prayers. Once I’m done, I put on my slippers and go downstairs for some breakfast. I can smell . . . waffles, maybe?

  My arms hurt from ripping off wallpaper and rubbing the glue off the wall with the rag last night. Hopefully we can paint tomorrow. I roll my shoulders and stretch out my muscles as I reach the bottom of the stairs.

  Mom’s already in a dress and ready for church when I reach the kitchen. She’s hummin
g along with a beautiful hymn as she sets pancakes out on the table for me.

  “What’s this for?” I ask, pulling up a seat and sitting at the counter.

  Mom’s not really one to make a hot breakfast.

  “It’s a new day and we’re gonna make the best of it.” She pushes the bottle of maple syrup toward me and I pour it on my pancakes.

  “Thanks, Mom,” I say between bites. “You’re the best.”

  “I know.” She grins and puts a few dishes in the dishwasher. “Church starts at eleven, so hurry up and get ready.”

  I look at the clock. “It’s only nine.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Mom, you take way longer than me to get ready. You know this.”

  “Lies,” she says. Then she shrugs. “Yeah, you’re probably right.”

  She’s wearing a long dress covered in bright colors and flowers. Her hair is up on her head in a cute bun. She even has makeup on; since the divorce, she hasn’t really worn any. “Mom, you look really nice today.”

  “Thanks,” she says. “Now, go get ready.”

  I groan and slide off my chair, but I smile at how happy Mom seems. She’s always pretending to be happy, but she looks genuinely happy today. She does love going to church, though. That may be why.

  Our first week at church is actually quite nice. Everyone is so kind and welcoming. After the first hour of services is over and the speakers have returned to their seats, we sing a hymn before the closing prayer. I glance around, surprised to see Jack at the back of the congregation, sitting by the door of the chapel. He meets my eyes and smiles. I smile back.

  I had no idea he went to our church. That makes me happy. I see Mira, as well, right next to him. As usual. I wish Oakley lived closer. I miss having my cousin with me all the time.

  After the prayer, everyone starts going to their Sunday School classes. A group of people are gathered around Mom talking, telling her how happy they are to see her again. A lot of them know her from when she was a teenager.

  At first, it looks like she’s totally fine and happy to see people. But when I get a closer look, I can see she’s shaking.

  I make my way through the crowd toward her. “Mom?” I ask, touching her shoulder. “You okay?”

  The crowd then swarms me, telling me how much I look like Mom and asking why we moved back to Oregon, where’s Mom’s husband, etc. I spot Jack coming toward me with what looks like his parents, Mira, and two other men. One of them is their Uncle Mike. Mom glances over at the same time I do and freezes.

  Mike looks up, meets Mom’s eyes, and stops in his tracks.

  Mom’s hand wraps around my arm and she pulls me out of the pew and down the aisle. “You ready?” she asks, her smile tight. “I think we’re gonna head home. It’s been a long morning.”

  “We’re not going to class?”

  “No. Is that okay?”

  “Uh . . . yeah, I guess.” I wanted to go talk to Jack and Mira, but she’s pretty much pushing me toward the door.

  I give him and Mira a shrug of my shoulders and wave.

  They wave back.

  Mike’s still staring at Mom.

  Mom’s still freaking out and opens the door to go outside to the parking lot. She pulls me along with her, her hand digging into my arm, and we get to the car. Once we’re inside, she pulls out of the parking lot faster than she probably should have.

  She’s breathing hard, sweat pooled on her forehead.

  “Are you okay?” I ask.

  She jerks when I speak, like I’ve scared her.

  “I’m fine. I just . . . need to go home.”

  I stare at her, her knuckles turning white as she grips the steering wheel. Is she having a panic attack? “Are you sure you’re—”

  “I’m fine,” she snaps.

  She doesn’t apologize or even look at me. Just drives, her hands still clenched tight around the steering wheel.

  I sit back in my seat and wait out the silence of our drive home.

  I don’t ask her if she’s okay again.

  CHAPTER 10

  “A wonderful fact to reflect upon, that every human creature is constituted to be that profound secret and mystery to every other.”

  —Charles Dickens, A Tale of Two Cities

  The doorbell rings bright and early the next morning. I’m in my room, dressed in old paint clothes with the furniture all pulled the center of the floor. Books are scattered all over my bed and floor. The wooden floor isn’t covered with plastic or anything since Mom wants to replace it or restore it or something, but basically the room’s a disaster.

  Mom and I have been painting for an hour already, since I woke up early after having a really restless night. Three walls are covered in one coat of light blue paint so far. We’ll have to do a few more coats to make it look nice.

  The no-sleep thing was rough. I couldn’t stop thinking about Mom’s freak-out at church. When she saw Mike . . . He told me he knew her, but how well? They acted like they were seeing ghosts or something. I’m wondering if they dated. Yes, that’s the only logical explanation. They dated and had a bad breakup or something. Maybe? Why would she still be weird around him after all this time, though? They both have different lives now. Wouldn’t they be regular, mature adults about things now? I’m afraid to ask her, seeing how she reacted yesterday. I’ll have to wait for the right time. Whenever that may be.

  “Luce, it’s for you!”

  Mom’s voice echoes from the front door. We haven’t really talked this morning. She hasn’t been ignoring me or anything, but she’s been quieter than normal. At least she let me turn some music on to drown out the silence.

  I turn my music off and go downstairs, aware of the paint smudges on my arms and possibly on my face.

  Mira’s standing in the entryway, chatting away with Mom. I glance around but don’t see Jack. Part of me is a tiny bit disappointed. I liked walking home with him on Saturday. And I really wanted to talk to him yesterday.

  If Mom wouldn’t have freaked out.

  “Thanks for taking Lucy around on Saturday. She needs a good friend. We left Wyoming pretty quick, and—”

  “Mom . . .” I say, interrupting her. Partly because I want her to stop making friends with my friend and partly because I don’t want her to mention anything about Dad. If she does, Mira will know I lied to her.

  “What?” she asks. “It’s lonely moving to a new place where you don’t know anyone.” She gives me a small smile to make me feel better, but I can see she’s just as lonely as I am.

  How did I not notice before? Of course she’s lonely. She lost Dad to drugs and Gran died right after. She’s probably hurting more than I am, and I’ve been so angry about everything and haven’t made it easy for her.

  Like she’s told me so many times: there are worse things.

  I need to stop being so angry.

  “You okay?” Mom asks, her expression filled with concern.

  “Yeah.” I frown at her. “Are you?”

  “I’m fine.”

  She has speckles of blue paint in her hair. I probably do, too. “Okay.” I turn toward Mira. “What’s up?”

  “I thought you’d like to come shopping with me. Jack never comes with me, and I don’t have a sister, so it gets boring by myself.”

  “Sure. Let me change my clothes and grab my shoes.” I glance at Mom. “Can I go?”

  She hesitates a moment. I can see the way she’s conflicted about me leaving again, but finally she nods. “Don’t be gone long.”

  “Okay!” I run upstairs, change my clothes and slip on my shoes, then take a quick look in the mirror.

  Ugh.

  I wash a few dots of paint off my face and arms, comb through my ratted hair, and dab some concealer on my face to cover the small forest of zits that popped up on my chin overnight. I put a little mascara on, as well.

  After pulling my hair into a ponytail, I hurry downstairs.

  “Ready,” I say, slinging my purse over my shoulder an
d sticking my phone inside.

  “Great! See you, Mrs. N.!”

  I laugh at that. “Bye, Mom!”

  “Bye. Text me.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” I mutter as I shut the door.

  Once we’re in Mira’s car, I let out a breath. “Thanks for saving me from boredom today.”

  “No problem. I figured you didn’t have anything to do. Besides work on your house, I guess.”

  “Nope. No plans at all. Ever, actually. I do need to help her out more, but she knows how to do everything and I don’t. She’s a pretty good handy-woman. I’m not.”

  “I wish I could just build things out of scratch. I tried to build a birdhouse once, but it looked more like a broken-down cabin in the woods instead. The birds left it alone.” She frowns. “The spiders didn’t, though.”

  I make a face. Not a fan of spiders. “Did you burn it to the ground?”

  “Of course.”

  “A girl after my own heart.”

  We both laugh.

  Mira adjusts her rearview mirror a little, then focuses on the road again. I glance out the window, smiling at the cute houses and trees lining the roads. This really is a charming city.

  “I saw you at church yesterday,” Mira starts. “But everything was so crazy that I didn’t get a chance to talk to you. Why didn’t you come to class?”

  “I don’t know. My mom wanted to leave after sacrament meeting. She wasn’t feeling very good for some reason.”

  “Next week then.”

  “Of course.”

  It feels good to have someone to talk to who isn’t related to me. Not that I don’t love talking to Mom, but sometimes you just need someone else who will listen. I know I could call Ashley, but it’s different talking on a phone rather than in person.

  “Glad I could help then. Just curious, what were you planning on doing all summer before you met me?”

  I glance out the window. “Not sure.”

  Mira laughs. “You were just going to sit around?”

  “My mom wants me to get a job, but we haven’t gotten that far yet, so yeah. Sitting around sounds about right, until then.” I think of my list and hesitate a moment, wondering if I should tell her about it. We’re friends. I think. So, I go for it. “There is one thing I was going to do, I guess.”