Chapter 1
CHAPTER 1
HEATH
I approached my childhood home and squinted at the Oregon late-summer sunshine glinting off Mom’s mosaic bird bath. A mob of bushtits hung from one of numerous bird feeders dotting the front yard of my childhood home. Weathered gnomes cluttered the ground in varied silly poses between rose bushes and hydrangeas. As I approached the front door, I couldn’t help but notice the ranch-style house could use a fresh coat of paint. Guilt gnawed at me as I added that to a mental to-do list for next summer.
I knocked on the front door as I let myself in. “Hey, Mom.”
Mom bustled into the living room in a vanilla-scented cloud. She’d been wearing the same perfume for as long as I could remember.
“Heath, honey. You made it!” She tugged me down into a hug.
“I had to before you dragged me over here by my ear.” She was strong enough to do it, thanks to her Pilates classes.
There wasn’t an ounce of remorse on her face. “Renovations start next week, and I need to clean some crap out of here.” She patted my cheek. “Not that your stuff is crap, sweetheart.”
I chuckled as I followed her into the dining room. We passed walls cluttered with mismatched frames and shelves full of tchotchkes. All familiar, though I couldn’t place the origin of most.
Mom gestured to the plastic tubs and boxes stacked high on the dining room table. “Ta-da!”
It’d been over two years since Dad passed, and Mom had been reluctant to change anything since. The house had always been a shrine to our lives, but after he died, it started to feel more like a mausoleum. It was a big step that she was ready to purge.
I didn’t blame her for wanting to keep things the same, but I took the upcoming remodel as a sign that she was healing as much as she could with such loss. It was a cruel twist of fate that Dad’s life insurance payout was the only way she’d been able to afford the renovations they’d been saving for when he was alive.
“It probably is crap. Otherwise, I would’ve taken it with me to college years ago.” I’d never been one to hold on to things for sentimentality.
Mom opened the first box and removed yearbooks, fantasy novels I’d read countless times, and middle school reports. I sat and prepared to spend the day strolling down memory lane. She laughed when she pulled out a terrible attempt I’d made at drawing a superhero in elementary school. I’d happily put off grading Introduction to Environmental Science midterms if it meant more of her laughter.
Over the next couple of hours, she paraded things before me that I didn’t even remember owning and wasn’t interested in keeping now.
“Aww, remember Bearbert Einstein?” She pulled out a beige teddy bear wearing a gray sweater and slacks. It had wild white hair and a bushy mustache to match. “When you were little, you wouldn’t sleep unless you had Bearbert in your arms.” She smiled warmly at the bear as she attempted to smooth its hair.
I groaned. “Bearbert? Really?”
She booped my nose with a bright-pink fingernail. “That was all your creativity. He doesn’t match your minimalist decor, but he’s cute. Want to take him home?”
“I don’t have minimalist décor.”
She arched an eyebrow. “What’s one level above minimalism?”
“Tidy.”
Mom scoffed.
I took the bear from her and waited for a pang of sentimentality to hit. It didn’t. The bear was covered in dust and seemed to have mouse nibbles in its clothes and an ear. “He’s dirty and too damaged to donate.” I tossed it into the nearly full trash bag.
Mom was used to my ruthless attitude by now, but that one made her wince. She kept everything . Too many times throughout my childhood, she’d rescued things I didn’t want, like the most mundane homework. I took after Dad. He’d always said memories mattered more than souvenirs.
She rummaged in another tub. “After your grandmother threw out my Beatles trading cards when I was a kid, I vowed I’d never do that to you.”
I’d heard the story numerous times over the years. Her childhood had made her keep everything, while mine had made me allergic to clutter. Enough that despite the stack of boxes we’d gone through, the amount of stuff I’d decided to keep could fit in one hand. The best find so far was a framed photo of Dad and me hiking in the Columbia Gorge.
I offered a small smile. “I appreciate that. Are there more boxes?”
“A few in the garage.”
I followed her to a room that used to be alive with dusty power tools, partially finished woodworking projects, and piles of dirty rags. The projects were shelved, but evidence of Dad’s love for organization remained. The storage units he’d built lined one wall, floor to ceiling.
Mom gestured to purple tubs on the top shelf. “I haven’t gone through those yet. They might be yours. Can you reach them?”
I pulled the step ladder off the wall hook and climbed to the second step. Fortunately, the tubs were lightweight, and I easily passed them to Mom.
She carried them over to the workbench and opened one. She removed a plastic grocery bag tied at the top. It bulged with something that looked soft.
“Oh wow.” The words were full of emotion as Mom carefully untied the plastic.
“What is it?”
“One of your uncle’s crochet projects.” Tears filled her eyes.
I wrapped my arm around her shoulders and squeezed as I examined the balls of white, red, blue, orange, and purple yarn. Memories flashed of yarn tucked in every nook and cranny of Uncle Rick’s small house and unfinished projects piled on his coffee table.
I’d forgotten about his love of crocheting. Frankly, I’d forgotten a lot about Uncle Rick. His face had faded in my mind to vague features of a wide smile and trimmed black beard. I’d been young when he died, but one thing I remembered clearly was how excited I’d been every time I got to visit him. Uncle Rick had been my hero.
It wasn’t until I was a teenager struggling with my own coming out that I comprehended his loss in a new way. When I’d learned about HIV and AIDS in high school health class, I’d grieved even more.
Decades later, I still missed the hell out of him.
“Your uncle always had yarn in his hand.” She chuckled. “He was great at starting projects but not so much at finishing them.”
“Like Dad’s woodworking projects.” We shared a smile.
I pulled a stack of crocheted squares from the bag. As I traced the top one, I recalled a memory of Uncle Rick telling me he wanted to make me a special blanket. I’d asked for Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle colors and sat beside him on the couch as he showed me how he made the squares. I remembered thinking he was magic with how fast his fingers worked the yarn.
Mom grabbed a square. “This was his last project. I remember him saying he wanted to make something for you before he?—”
I wrapped my arm around her shoulders and pulled her close. “Can I keep it?”
She craned her neck and studied me. “Of course you can, honey. You can take whatever you like. Rick would love to know you have it.” She frowned. “I always wanted to learn to crochet to finish what he’d started.”
“Uncle Rick never would’ve expected you to finish them. He couldn’t, so why would you?”
Mom laughed and rubbed my back. “Thanks, sweetheart.”
Later that evening, I sat on my couch in my not minimalist but sparsely decorated home and tried to focus on midterm grading. Instead, my attention wandered to the bag containing Uncle Rick’s unfinished project. Well, gift. It would probably live in the corner of my closet, but I had an urge to hold on to it. Somehow, I knew I’d regret it if I didn’t.
Worst case, I could get rid of the stuff after having more time to think about it. I almost laughed. The same logic Mom used that had resulted in a house full of crap.
After rereading the same paragraph of a student’s essay for the fourth time, I set the grading aside. The students deserved my full attention. There was always tomorrow.
I grabbed my phone from the coffee table and launched Google. After a few attempts at describing the crocheted tiles, I learned they were called granny squares. Search iterations led me through a rabbit warren of tangents and ultimately landed on something that left me staring at my phone in surprise. My gut warmed like it had when I’d decided to keep the materials.
I scanned through a website for an organization called Patchwork Projects, which paired unfinished handmade craft projects started by deceased loved ones or people with disabilities with others who could finish them. I would’ve never guessed such an organization existed.
I hovered over the Submit a Project button. The warmth in my stomach continued to spread. The yarn colors and granny square pattern weren’t really my style, but I liked the idea of having something of Uncle Rick’s in my home. Something he’d intended for me to have, even if it lived in my linen cupboard.
I clicked the button, and as I filled out a form, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something big was about to happen.