Thirty-One
The boxes are right where she left them, stacked up like toy blocks across the living room floor.
Some open, some still sealed, many of them labeled in Birdie’s handwriting.
Baby years—Don’t Toss! Elementary—Art Projects!
Journals & Notebooks—Important! Reminders—some big, some small—of all the different people her daughter ever was.
After a long day of driving, Grace gives herself time to settle before she rushes back into anything. She makes a few trips out to the Jeep, careful not to lift too much at once, and sets her belongings just inside the front door.
Upstairs in her bedroom, she drops her duffel bag onto the bed and begins to unpack.
The last of the beach still clings to her clothing—grains of sand spilling onto the comforter and into the rug.
When everything’s sorted, she showers. For a long time, she stands under the water and inhales the steam.
She scrubs away the salt and peeling, sunburned skin, lets it all swirl down the drain.
When she’s finished, after she slips on some comfortable clothes, she sifts through the linen closet, takes out some medical supplies, and properly bandages her foot so the wound she’s carried with her all week can finally start to heal.
Back downstairs, she pulls some provisions from the pantry and makes herself something simple, but whole, to eat.
She carries her plate into the living room, turns on the TV.
For a moment, she clicks until she lands on her mother’s favorite station.
She watches it for a couple of minutes while she takes a few bites of her meal.
And then, finally, not wanting to put it off any longer, Grace begins.
Item by item, she puts it all away. One thing at a time.
The Magic 8 Ball. The folded-up notes from Jenny.
Her old retainer. The rolled-up posters.
The floppy disks. Every last thing: the remnants of a girl—girls—her mother once loved so fiercely she couldn’t bear to throw any part of her—not a single memory—away.
Before she closes the boxes, Grace adds a few additions of her own—all the small things she’s accumulated and saved herself these last few days: The sand dollar.
The arcade tickets. The paper bracelet. The highlighter.
The chunky necklace. The coupon for Madame Mermaid.
The two nearly identical silver rings. And then, finally, the gold nameplate.
The one she thought she had lost but that was always waiting for her, right there beneath the surface.
The moment she adds it in, Grace hears it.
A tapping. So soft at first that she assumes she must be imagining things. Grace reaches for the remote and mutes the television, though the sound remains, soft but present. She looks up and sees it. There, at the window, watching her pack up these final pieces of her past.
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Tap, tap, tap.
Its orange beak pecks the glass.
Grace stands and crosses the room slowly, careful not to startle it and scare it off. The bird doesn’t move, just remains perched on its branch, a beautiful burst of red set against a backdrop of green leaves.
Maybe it’s a sign. Maybe it’s just a bird. Either way, right now, Grace is glad it’s there.
Her elbows propped on the top of one of the teetering cardboard stacks, she stays and studies it until eventually, it flaps its wings and is gone.
Once it disappears into the sky, Grace turns back to the couch, her elbow accidentally knocking a pile of loose papers off one of the boxes in the process.
They flutter, then scatter onto the floor.
She kneels, gathering everything—an old high school talent-show flyer, a marked-up math test from junior year, a playbill from a small Bucks County theater production.
She’s halfway through the pile when her fingers land on the envelope, just another memory among many.
She nearly shuffles past it, tucks it in with everything else, until she turns it over and sees that it’s still sealed.
Back on the couch, Grace peels it open and discovers an old greeting card inside.
The front is faded, yet still bright, a swirl of colorful flowers framing a glittery number sixteen.
Somehow, despite the years that have passed, the paper carries a hint of her mother’s perfume.
With great care, she opens it and finds Birdie’s penmanship marking both sides.
A letter. Or a wish. One final note for her daughter before she officially moved into the new year ahead.
Cece,
Happy birthday, my beautiful girl! I’m writing this to you from a bench outside the pharmacy while you soak up a bit more sun at the beach. It’s hard to blame you—what a gorgeous week we’ve had down here this year!
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Sixteen. Can you believe it? Not quite a child anymore, but not quite a grown-up yet, either.
Just . . . you. Which, if you ask me, is the most perfect thing for you to be.
I hope that no matter what life hands you, my love, that you’ll always remember the happy, curious, endlessly empathetic, and intuitive person you are today and try as best you can to keep her close.
She’s someone special and worth knowing.
Someone who, even as you get older, is worth keeping around as a friend.
My wish for you this year is a simple one: that you always find a way to stay as happy as you are today. Not because life will always be kind to you (it won’t be), but because you can always be kind to yourself . . . even on the hard days.
I hope you like your gift. It’s small, nothing fancy. I had it made for you at that shop we love. You know the place, the one with all the shells and wind chimes. Just a little something for you to wear as a reminder of the individual you are today.
Happiest of birthdays, my girl. May all your dreams come true today, next year, and always.
My love forever,
Mom
Grace reads the letter a second and then a third time, letting the words echo in her mind until she’s nearly committed them to memory.
When she’s ready, instead of sliding it back into the envelope and putting it inside a box, she keeps it out, leaving it propped open on an end table, just like she would have if Birdie were here to give her a new birthday card this year.
She’s done enough for today. Grace picks up the remote and allows herself to sink deeper into the couch.
She clicks up the volume and then watches the movie, even though it’s already halfway through.
On the 279screen, two people kiss on a snowy street, the town twinkling, like the world dressed itself up just for them.
As always, Grace already knows the ending.
There’ll be a fight. A big obstacle. A crossroads.
A bakery or a town fundraiser or a Christmas tree farm in peril.
A necessary choice. Before the final credits roll onto the screen, they’ll figure out a way to make things work.
The whole plot will tie up neat and tidy.
The actors will all wear smiles on their faces in the final scene.
Grace laughs softly to herself as she watches it, not because the movie is any good, but because it’s familiar.
The music swells. There’s a big, dramatic moment.
Don’t worry. They’ll find their happily ever after, she can almost hear her mother say. Just wait and watch until the end.
And even though there’s no one else here in this house with her—at least, no one that she can see—for the first time in as long as she can remember, Grace is alone but not lonely.
She’s content just to sit in the quiet of it.