Chapter Four Lacey
Chapter Four
Lacey
“Dad, breakfast is ready!” I yell from the kitchen Friday morning as I pack my snack for after school.
The smell of coffee wafts through the kitchen, and I breathe it in.
Maybe that’s weird considering I don’t even like coffee, but there’s something about the smell that makes mornings at home feel complete.
I’m finished packing my lunch and double-checking I have everything I need for the day in my backpack and cheer bag before Dad finally walks into the room.
He’s dressed for work, though I rarely see him out of work clothes, and carries a cardboard box against one hip, most likely filled with hardware or books from the office.
Some days the only reason I know he’s slept is because I can smell his fresh aftershave.
Our miniature schnauzer, Burt, stands and greets him with a wag of his tail.
“Morning,” Dad says, voice strained like he hasn’t used it in too long. He clears his throat and then says, “It smells good in here.”
“I made omelets. Yours is still in the pan.” I tip my head toward the stove where I left his breakfast. “Fresh coffee is in the pot.”
He pauses to give Burt a scratch behind one ear and then walks straight toward me. I hold still as I wait for his usual top-of-the-head kiss. The familiarity of our routine never stops having a calming effect on me.
Dad drops the box on the counter next to me, then heads over to the coffeepot to pour himself a cup.
“Busy day?” he asks after he’s taken a sip.
“Yes. I have a student council meeting this morning, and cheerleading practice will probably run late. We need to finalize our new routine before next week’s home football game, and it’s still looking rough.”
Dad smiles as I talk. I doubt he ever pictured himself as the dad of a cheerleader, especially the head cheerleader. He doesn’t play or watch sports and the one time I tried to teach him a cheer he pulled something in his lower back.
He used to follow a few of the Michigan teams, college and professional, but over the years he’s retreated into work, and that hasn’t left time for much else. Still, he never makes me feel like he’s just placating me when I babble on about school or cheer. He cares…if only because he loves me.
“It’ll all come together,” he promises.
“It better.” I push away the hint of anxiety that tries to creep in. I have too many other things to worry about today. Cheerleading will have to wait. “I may be home late, but there are leftovers in the fridge from last night. Don’t forget to eat.”
He gives me a sheepish grin. “Aren’t I supposed to be the one to remind you to do these things?”
I don’t bother answering him, since we both know he needs the reminder, and I do not.
“What’s in the box?” I ask. “Another big client?”
Dad is a computer research scientist. Most of his work is algorithms and analyzing data, but sometimes clients send boxes of hardware for him to use and test.
A few years ago, he went into business for himself, bidding on contracts instead of working for one company. He is really good at it, judging by the amount of work he gets, but it takes a lot of his time, and he has a tendency to get lost in his research for hours, sometimes days.
“No.” He takes another sip of coffee and then clears his throat. “Some things of your mother’s I found in my closet. I thought you might want to look through it.”
A rush of sadness and longing passes through me so quickly I don’t have time to prepare for it.
“What kinds of things?” I stare at the box with mixed emotions.
I miss her so much. I want to rip it open and examine every item for hours on end; that’s always what I do with any new item or piece of information I find about the mom I’ve never known, but having not been prepared for this, I’m tentative as I reach forward and lift the flaps open.
“News clippings from when she was on the honor roll and when her junior high volleyball team won Districts, yearbooks, art projects, that kind of stuff. I think that box is all from school. I vaguely remember your grandparents showing up at our tiny apartment with three big boxes of memorabilia she’d left behind at their house.
We didn’t have a lot of space, so she pared it down.
” Dad’s smile turns melancholy like he’s remembering that day.
I’d give anything to see the stories he tells me like a movie in my head.
What was her expression? What did she say? How did she feel?
They are things I could ask, and Dad would give it his best attempt to provide every answer, every detail he could recall, but it’s never enough. I want to see it, hear it, smell it.
“Oh shoot. Is that the time? I have a meeting in thirty minutes.” He sets his coffee down and gives me another kiss on the top of my head, while I’m still reeling with my thoughts; then he hurries out of the room.
Carefully, I look inside the box, uncertain what I’ll find or even what I want to find. Because there’s always some expectations with things left over from my mom. Without really meaning to, every new piece of information or item that belonged to her gets assigned a value to me.
The first thing I see is a red notebook, faded and torn around the edges.
I pull it out and open it to Mom’s handwriting.
It’s something I’ve seen before, and I’ve memorized her neat, loopy penmanship.
Still, seeing it fills my chest with longing.
I flip through it, scanning the pages quickly.
It looks to be minutes for the art club.
She was the secretary her junior year, then president the next.
These are facts I’ve memorized about her, along with many others.
Her notes are very thorough. Each meeting is outlined with the date and time, plus attendees at the top, and bullet points for each item discussed, like a fundraiser for new art supplies.
I put it aside and more eagerly pull out the next items. Art projects, senior photos. I have my favorite one framed in my room. She was so beautiful.
As I dig through the contents, I try to imagine why she wanted to save certain items and what she’d say now if I were to ask her about them.
Her junior year yearbook fills me with a particular sadness.
I wish so badly that she were standing here with me so we could talk about the difference between her junior year and mine.
Dad does that with me sometimes. When I was about to start high school, he told me stories about how he spent most of that year eating lunch by himself because he was too shy to sit with the other kids. Or how that was the year he met his best friend, the guy I affectionately call Uncle Pete.
I’m flipping through the yearbook when a folded piece of paper falls onto the countertop.
The alarm on my phone chimes. I silence it, then reach for the paper.
My brows knit as I unfold it. The paper is worn and soft like it’s been handled a lot.
I scan the paper completely, taking in the many colorful markers used and the cute doodles in addition to the bulleted list, before my brain begins to read properly.
“High School Bucket List.” I read the title aloud with a mix of confusion and amusement.
Underneath the title there are fourteen items. They range from going to the homecoming dance to getting a piercing.
I’m smiling as I read each one once and then start over.
It’s like an insight into her hopes and dreams when she was my age.
Next to the ones she’s checked off, she put the date next to it, so I know she made this her junior year.
Fourteen things she thought were important to accomplish. Fourteen because it was her lucky number.
It’s incredible to see all the things she did, others she wanted and didn’t. This is personal, her heart’s desires. My throat is thick with emotion as I read the list a second time.
High School Bucket List
Make a high school memory box ?
Go apple picking at Annie’s Farm ?
Get a piercing
Watch the sunrise from the football field ?
Learn the “Thriller” dance!
Go on a double date ?
Stay up all night ?
Volunteer ?
Travel internationally
Kiss someone under the stars
Do something scary ?
Go to the homecoming dance with a date ?
Go ice-skating ?
Have a photo shoot with friends ?
It’s only when my phone pings again, this time with a text from Claire, that I realize I’m late.
I quickly put everything back in the box, except the list, which I tuck into my backpack, and I head out the door.
As soon as I get to school, I find Claire next to our lockers. She and Austin are holding hands, talking and smiling at each other, but when I approach, she aims that smile at me.
“Hey. You’re late. I was starting to worry,” she says, looking me over like she might find evidence of the reason I’m running behind today.
“I’m fine. Dad brought out a box of my mom’s things, and I got sidetracked.”
“What kinds of things?” she asks. She knows, perhaps better than anyone else, how I’ve spent so much of my life looking for more pieces of the mother I didn’t get to know.
Before I can answer, Rowan walks up, and he and Austin fall into conversation while Claire and I move off to one side.
“School papers, club minutes, pictures, yearbook, and this.” Unable to contain my excitement, I pull my mother’s high school bucket list from my backpack.
Claire takes it from me, looking it over with as much awe as I hoped.
“Oh my gosh,” she says, smiling as she stares down at the paper. “Her bucket list?”
“Mm-hmm.” I move over to read over her shoulder.
For several more seconds, Claire looks it over. When she glances up at me, she looks as impressed as I feel. “I always forget how creative and artsy your mom was. Also, you definitely got your love of glitter from her.”
She pulls her hand away and rubs her fingers together to get rid of the excess glitter that’s transferred onto her hands from the paper.
“This is really cool.” Claire hands the paper back to me.