Chapter 21
CHAPTER 21
R omy climbed the narrow wooden stairs to the attic, the dim light filtering through the single, dusty window, casting long shadows on the floor. The air was warm and smelled faintly of cedar and time, stirring memories she'd kept locked away as surely as the door at the bottom of these stairs. She hadn't been up here in years, maybe not since Pamela had taken her in after her parents' plane crash. The attic was Pamela's space, the place where memories were kept but rarely revisited, and most everything was from her childhood home.
The sight of the boxes stacked haphazardly against the walls tugged at Romy's chest. She hesitated for a moment, her hand resting on the banister, before stepping fully into the space. Her fingers trailed across the tops of the boxes, brushing away layers of dust. In the stillness, she could hear the faint creak of the house settling around her, as if it were alive with its own memories.
One box in particular caught her eye, labeled in Pamela's neat handwriting: Romy.
She knelt down and carefully opened the flaps, her breath catching at the sight of what lay inside. The first thing she pulled out was a pink baby blanket, soft and faded with age. She pressed it to her cheek, hoping for some scent that would trigger a rush of memories: her mother's late-night humming, the way she'd wrap Romy tight like a cocoon when thunderstorms frightened her. The same way Pamela had tried to do after the accident, though it was never quite the same.
Beneath the blanket were photo albums, filled with pictures of her as a baby, a toddler, and a grinning child missing her front teeth. Her parents' faces were there, too, smiling wide and proud as they held her close. A photo of her and her father standing in front of his plane, his pilot's cap tilted rakishly on his head, her small hand clutching his leather jacket. The sun caught the silver wings pinned to his chest, the same wings that now lay in a velvet box in her bedroom drawer.
Romy's fingers trembled as she flipped through the pages, tears slipping down her cheeks. "Hi, Mom. Hi, Dad," she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. She had almost forgotten what it felt like to see their faces so vividly. Their laughter seemed to echo faintly in her ears, like a melody played from another room.
Digging deeper, she found more treasures: her first pair of ballet slippers, ribbon ends frayed from countless pirouettes; a stack of report cards with encouraging notes written in her mother's elegant script; and a framed drawing she had made in kindergarten of her family—her stick-figure parents holding hands with her between them, all wearing exaggerated smiles that stretched beyond their faces. The words "My Family" were scrawled across the top in bright crayon letters.
Among the report cards was a folded note, the kind passed between friends in high school hallways. Jenna's familiar handwriting peeked through the creases. Romy's hand jerked back as if burned, shoving the note deeper into the stack. Some memories weren't ready to be unpacked yet.
She held the drawing close, a bittersweet smile breaking through her tears. "You kept everything," she murmured, her voice tinged with both awe and heartbreak.
At the bottom of the box, she found a bundle of letters tied with a ribbon. Romy hesitated before untying it, the letters spilling into her lap. They were addressed to her parents from old friends and family members, congratulating them on milestones: her birth, her first steps, her first day of school. Reading them felt like stepping into a time capsule, a glimpse into the joy her family had shared before tragedy struck.
A smaller envelope slipped from within the bundle. Inside was a photo Romy had never seen, Pamela and her mother as teenagers, arms linked, wearing matching sundresses they'd clearly sewn themselves—slightly crooked but worn with proud smiles. The same smile Pamela had given Romy when she'd tried to teach her to sew, both of them laughing at the uneven stitches.
There was a notebook filled with her mother's writings. She'd kept track of every event in Romy's life as well as her feelings about motherhood and how much she wished she'd had more children. "Today Romy took her first steps," one entry read, "straight into my arms, laughing the whole way. I've never felt more complete than in this moment." So many things her mother had never shared with her.
Romy sat back, surrounded by the pieces of her past, letting herself cry fully for the first time in years. The grief she had buried so deeply bubbled to the surface, but it was mixed with gratitude. Gratitude for the life her parents had given her, for the memories that Pamela had so lovingly preserved when Romy couldn't bear to.
But she couldn't erase the guilt she felt about their plane crash. She'd told no one how much she believed it was her fault. Her aunt was the only person who would understand, and Romy had never shared her feelings with her. Now, with Pamela's health failing, it was too late. She would have to carry that weight on her own.
After a long moment, she wiped her cheeks and looked around the attic with new eyes. She spotted another box marked Family Photos and Keepsakes. The thought struck her: Why hide these things away? Why not let them be part of her life again?
She stood, determination replacing her earlier hesitation. She began pulling boxes from the corners of the attic, her mind already racing with ideas. She could display some of the photos on the mantel in the living room, frame a few for Pamela's room at Harbor Haven. Even if Pamela couldn't always remember the faces, Romy hoped the warmth of the memories might bring her comfort in some small way.
As she worked, a small smile tugged at her lips. She wasn't just rediscovering her past; she was reclaiming it. The pain of losing her parents would never fully fade, but for the first time, she felt ready to honor their memory, to let them be part of her home and her life once more.
By the time she was finished, the attic felt less like a shadowy archive and more like a treasure trove. Boxes lined the hallway downstairs, waiting to be unpacked. Romy sat at the top of the stairs, holding the pink baby blanket in her lap. She imagined her mother wrapping her in it, her father's voice softly singing her to sleep.
She stood and carefully folded the blanket, tucking it under her arm as she headed downstairs. Tomorrow, she would frame the family photos for Pamela's room. Today, she would start making her house a home. For the first time in a long time, the ache in her chest felt bearable. The memories no longer felt like ghosts haunting her—they were pieces of her heart, of her family, that she could carry with her always.
She was at the foot of the stairs when she changed her mind and climbed them again. Retrieving Jenna’s note, she slipped it into her pocket before sealing the box completely.
When she returned to the living room, she sat on the sofa and pulled out the note —written by Jenna years ago after an altercation in the high school cafeteria. The words were still clear despite the paper being wrinkled from time and constant touching:
Why do you have to be so mean? One of these days, your going to pay for the things you do and say.
Romy noticed as she had the first time she read it, the missing apostrophe in "you're." Even back then, she'd found a small satisfaction in Jenna's grammatical mistake, using it to feel superior when the words themselves had stung.
The weight of the note reminded her of Lucy Adams. Lucy and her sisters were the only ones left who knew the truth about those days. She'd been running from that truth for so long it was second nature, like avoiding old hometown streets that held too many memories.
But now, with everything else coming into light, living in darkness felt harder than facing what happened. This one puzzle piece needed to find its place, even if fitting it into place meant reopening old wounds. There would be pain, yes, but she could finally see the promise of light on the other side.