32. Daisy
Chapter 32
Daisy
T he attic was musty and dim, dust motes floating in the air, illuminated in the column of light shining from the small rectangular window near the peak of the roof. It cast the massive attic in shadows, making the stacks of bins and boxes look creepy and ominous. If I’d been in a horror movie, I’d be called too stupid to live for coming up here alone.
But this was no movie, and one thing I’d learned over the past few months was that the biggest horrors of all weren’t usually the ones you expected. Not demons, ghosts, or boogeymen but the secrets lying in wait from your own past.
Those were the boogeymen that would bring you to your knees, make you question everything you thought you knew about yourself and your life.
I hunted around for something to provide more light and found some old lamps, but there were no electrical sockets — none that I could find anyway — so I used the flashlight on my phone to scan the boxes and bins on one side of the attic.
It was slow going since I only had one free hand, and I passed over an assortment of neatly printed labels (Joan loved her label printer): CHINA - CIRQUE CHINOIS; CHINA - LE JARDIN DE PYTHAGORE; STERLING - MERCER; BLAKE - BABY; DAISY - BABY; RUTH - BABY; CHRISTMAS DECOR - INTERIOR (ten of those); CHRISTMAS DECOR - EXTERIOR (sixteen of those), and on and on it went.
Specialty crates leaned against the walls. I recognized them as the kind of custom, careful packing that was done to protect fine art, but I couldn’t see what was inside.
I was surprised to see so many things labeled MERCER, my mom’s maiden name. I’d assumed all the Mercer family heirlooms had been kept in the house at the top of the falls, but clearly some of them had been appropriated and brought here.
Had it been my mom, hoping to use it in the mansion my dad had built to convince himself he was rich enough? Or had it been my dad pilfering valuables from the Mercer estate, trying to convince himself he was old money because he’d married one of them?
Another question, another secret.
I finally found what I was looking for in an antique trunk stuffed behind all the modern bins and boxes. Its label was simple: ELEANOR.
My heart started pounding again and I propped up my phone so I could use the light to drag the trunk out into the open.
It wasn’t locked, just latched, and I lifted the heavy lid and sat on the floor in front of it. At first I just scanned the contents, trying to process what I was seeing.
There was a stack of clothing on one side. The garment on top looked to be wool. A sweater maybe. Photo albums seemed to be stacked on the other side, and in the middle, cardboard containers made to store photographs.
I pulled out the sweater first and lifted it to my face, then closed my eyes when the scent of my mom hit my nose. It activated a gut punch of memory: my mom laughing outside as she threw autumn leaves at me and Ruth, her hair brushing against my cheek as she held me after a fall, her face up close when she leaned in to get my attention.
I blinked back tears and set the sweater aside to take home with me. I still had the one I’d chosen after her death, but it didn’t smell like her anymore. This one still carried the scent of her favorite perfume, Roja Haute Luxe, and her shampoo, which had smelled like green apple.
There were more clothes under the sweater — a couple evening gowns, a fur cape, a coat. I set those aside. I wouldn’t take them without talking to Ruth. She probably had no idea this stuff was up here.
I tackled the photo albums next. Most of them were old, Mercer family photos from when my mom was little, and three whole albums filled with pictures of her parents and grandparents, some of them in black-and-white, yellowing with age.
Under the photo albums was a Mercer family bible. That took me by surprise — as far as I knew, my mom hadn’t attended church — but when I opened the cover I saw that it was also a family record of sorts, birth and death dates marching next to a series of names, some of which I recognized and others of which I didn’t.
My mom’s name was recorded in elegant black handwriting. Then Blake, me, and Ruth.
It made me sad to see Ruth’s name as the final one at the bottom. Had my mom hoped there would be more names to record in the bible? Grandchildren whose names she would record in the same careful, slanted handwriting in which she’d recorded ours?
Would there even be any Mercer/Hammond grandchildren? Blake was dead and it was impossible to imagine Ruth as a mom someday, although that could always change.
And what about me? Would I have children someday? A boy with Otis’ mind or a little girl with Jace’s green eyes? A child with Wolf’s glossy dark hair?
I shook my head. I was being stupid. I didn’t even know if the Beasts would stick around once we figured out who was kidnapping girls. Plus, what was I going to do, keep sleeping with them all forever like we were part of some weird polygamous cult?
I thought about Willa and the Kings, ready to have their first baby. They weren’t weird. I mean, Neo was a little scary, but otherwise they seemed perfectly normal and happy together.
I pushed the thought aside. Now was not the time to think about my future with the Beasts.
The pictures in the photo albums seemed to stop when my mom was in middle school. I set them aside to take them home. They didn’t belong in a trunk in the attic of my dad’s gaudy mansion. They belonged to the Mercer family, in the Mercer family home at the top of the falls.
I moved to the baby books next, flipping through Blake’s and smiling at his toothy baby grin, the mischievous light in his eyes that had turned into something more like malevolence as he’d grown. Then I relived Ruth’s babyhood, a blur of memory since I’d only been two when she’d been born.
Still, I recognized her light brown baby curls, remembered how excited I’d been when her chubby hands had closed around my finger. For a while she’d been like a living doll, and I’d adored being her big sister.
My baby book was next. I had a vague memory of some of the images, like maybe my mom had let me look through it when I’d been a kid. Other things were new, like the little notes my mom had written under FIRST STEP ( 11 months old, outside on the grass ) and FIRST WORD ( Blake/“Bake” ).
But it wasn’t until I got to the last page that I was met with a surprise, a folded sheet of paper, burned around the edges and stuffed into the back of my baby book.
I lifted it to my nose. The smell of fire and smoke lingered on the paper.
I opened it and started reading.
Nory,
I told you I wouldn’t say goodbye until I knew you were done with me, and I think this time, it might be real.
I’ve spent half my life waiting for you, half my life loving you, but I can’t wait anymore. Not after everything that’s happened. You’ve made your choice and I’m going to be a man and respect it.
I can’t give you what you want, even if I think I can give you what you need, so I’m setting you free once and for all. It’s killing me but I would never do anything to hurt you or the life you’ve built for yourself and your family.
I hope it’s everything you want it to be. I hope someday, you’ll tell the truth.
Mac
I felt sick, my face flushed and head buzzing like I might pass out.
I looked at the date at the top of the paper — February, the year I was born — then
reread the letter three times, my gaze snagging on certain words and phrases.
I think this time, it might be real. Was this the last time she’d left him? The last time she’d gone back to my dad?
Not after everything that’s happened. What was Mac talking about? Did my mom know she was pregnant with me? Was he upset that she’d gotten pregnant by my dad? Another baby that would be Charles Hammond’s even though my mom obviously loved Mac?
Or had Mac gotten my mom pregnant? Did she tell him she wanted to raise me as a Hammond?
And then: I hope someday, you’ll tell the truth.
The words echoed through my mind like an alarm. Was Mac referring to the way she felt about him? That he hoped someday she’d tell the truth about loving him? Or was he talking about me? About telling me the truth that I was his daughter?
Was it true? And if so, had she intended to tell me when I got older?
And why were the edges of the paper scorched? Had my mom tried to burn it? Had it been the last of many letters, the one she couldn’t bear to set aflame?
I could almost see her standing over the elaborate hearth in the formal living room downstairs, feeding pages to the fire, plucking this one from the flames at the last minute.
And then what? Had she ever seen Mac again? Or had she gone on with her life, pretending to be Eleanor Mercer Hammond, the upstanding wife of Charles Hammond, instead of Nory, the girl who ran wild with Mac, wearing cutoff shorts and throwing water balloons, sitting in his lap and feeling like he was all she needed in the world?
I felt closer to her than I ever had since her death, like I could reach out my hand and touch her through the paper in my hands.
Like she was sending me a message from beyond the grave. Except I couldn't decipher the message, and even if I could, I had no idea what to do with it.