29. Lucie
Lucie stood at the bottom of the attic stairs, her father’s rough voice still ringing in her ears. “Get those extra sweatshirts from the attic. You’re not good for much else since you can’t help down here with your disgusting face. Store’s closed early. I’m heading out.”
Her hands gripped the splintering wooden railing. She didn’t argue. He had taken her beauty as well as her voice. There was no point. He’d always win. It was easier this way.
Her father could never look her straight in the face now, disgusted, as if he couldn’t bear to look at her. She couldn’t either.
Lucie pulled the turtleneck up.
Face scars usually healed fast, but his cut was deep, and to her ever-living shame, it would permanently scar. A reminder her father was in charge.
Even if she left, she wouldn’t be able to hide this part of herself. No, everyone would know how weak she was at a time when she needed the most to be strong.
Her fingers moved to the left side of her face, gently brushing the scar that ran down her cheek. It was healing; she had made sure of that.
With a heavy heart, she started climbing the creaking wooden steps, each one groaning under her weight as if echoing her own weariness.
When was the last time anybody was up here?
She had to play a game of hopscotch through the haphazardly placed drooping cardboard boxes and stolen plastic crates from a gas station where her father used to work.
Light filtered through the small, dirty window.
Dust tickled her nose. Humidity hung heavy in the air along with the scent of old wood and forgotten memories.
She hated being up here—it was like stepping into a graveyard.
She sighed, walking over to the corner where her father kept extra supplies for the store.
Soon, four boxes of the sweatshirts were stacked by the door.
Lucie’s hand hovered over the light switch when something caught her eye.
In a long-forgotten corner of the attic, half-hidden behind a pile of beach chairs, was a small, weathered chest. It didn’t look like the rest of the junk scattered around up here. Recognition lit up inside her. But what was it? Where had she seen this before?
As if guided, she walked to the chest, knelt beside it, and wiped the dust off the faded painted flowers.
It was safe. Cozy.
But nothing was ever cozy in her prison. She reached forward, pressing the mechanism to unlock the chest, curiosity piqued.
The initials A.E.N. were painted on the lid.
Lucie’s hands rushed to cover her gasp.
Those were her mother’s initials.
Annie Everett Nightingale.
The paint for the “N” looked newer than the “A” and the “E,” as if her mother happily brushed on the new initial after her marriage.
The box even smelled faintly of her perfume—rosy and sweet.
Lucie hesitated, glancing at the attic stairs.
By this time, her father was long gone. She had the time.
Tenderly opening the box after her tears subsided, she carefully lifted the lid.
Inside were dried roses, crayon drawings, and an old cheerleading outfit. As she dug, she began to understand her mother, not as a figure but as a real person with dreams and aspirations.
Hands shaking, she pulled out dozens of letters, neatly tied with a pale blue ribbon. Each one was labeled in her mother’s elegant handwriting. One by one, she read some of the carefully written inscriptions:
Lucie opened the last one, her breath catching as she unfolded the delicate paper. The ink was faded but still legible.
Lucie bit her lip to stifle her sob and continued.
Lucie’s tears fell in earnest now. Her chest was tight with emotion. She lay down beside the chest, cradled the box, and breathed in her mother’s rose scent.
She cried for who she was. Who she had become. What she had lost. Selfishly, she wished her mother were there to protect her, but she was grateful she hadn’t lived long enough to see the monster her husband had become.
She wiped her tears, carefully placing the letters back into the box even though she wanted to rip every letter open and greedily consume every word left by her mother. Her mother had loved her. She’d wanted more for herself in this life.
And Lucie was determined to honor that.